Adventure Mom

Finding Home 2 Moving In The Boyfriend, Pete, suggested shortly after I began my housing search that we move in together. "We could share expenses and I could help with the kids. We'd have more time with each other." He had me on that last point. After all, we don't know how long we'll remain in the same place. Both of us have a complicated set of financial circumstances tethering us to our home countries. One party will likely make an extreme sacrifice if we're to stay together. So The Boyfriend and I, while leaving all doors open for a joint future, are mindful of our imperative: Savor the here and now. If I could find a rental suitable for the four of us – Fiona, Finley, Pete and me, we'd live together. I looked at eight properties, which were either too grotty, too pricey, too small or got snapped up in a hurry by someone else. The Mount is a tight rental market. Take it now, or it's gone. I tour Property Number Nine on a Saturday morning. I f...

Finding Home Part One – The Hunt I have just started "shacking up" with The Boyfriend, Pete. This might not be a huge deal, except for the fact I'm not the only one sharing space with my beloved. My first loves and numero uno priorities, Fiona and Finley, are, by necessity, shacking, too. This detour is a deviation from plan - a shifting of traffic cones and guard rails in life's construction zone. I started second-guessing our world tour schedule two weeks after the kids started primary school. "What if we stay in New Zealand a bit longer?" I thought. "What if the kids got to finish the school year here?" Be careful with "what ifs." What-plus-if can roll you down roads you failed to notice on your map. They're small, squiggly secondary streets marked in a thin black line. Roads only locals travel. During the time I was busy "what-iffing" rather than packing and boarding a plane back to Spokane, two major events colli...

Not-So-Hot Yoga Get me Outta Here Beads of sweat emerge on my big toe. Sweat is not supposed to bead on your big toe, is it? It's so hot and muggy in here, I can't think. Left foot on right thigh? Right arm in front, or behind the left? Fingers laced, or not? This is most excruciating game of Twister I've never played. I'm sweating and moaning at the Mount Yoga Center. I'm here with my is-she-still-a-yes-I think-so friend, Louise. Louise is 27, blond and South African. She looks like a younger, smoother version of Cameron Diaz. She claims to be addicted to Bikram (hot) yoga and had asked me to join her several times. "It's amazing," Louise says. "You feel so good after, and it's good for you." I've heard of it, and read an account in O magazine that made Bikram sound interesting. It's been so long since I read the article I forgot the excruciating part. The morning before the class, I tell my flat mate, Amy, I'm going t...

Birthday Week Before the World of Wearable Art Show, Wellington You've probably had a few birthdays that took you by surprise: Maybe you were somewhere you didn't expect to be, celebrating with people you never expected to meet, having conversations you never expected to have. Last year, I turned 40 in Paris. I walked to a tiny cafe called Le Comptoir (The Counter) in the 6 th arrondisement with my dad and his wife. I savoured salmon and the most perfect bowl of plump, pinky-red raspberries ( framboises , in French – a lovely word, n'est pas?). Raspberries at Le Comptoir, Paris This year, I turned 41 in New Zealand. I spent eight hours of my birthday in a Range Rover with The Boyfriend, peering at snow-capped mountains, green hills, gray mama sheep with their suckling lambs; and giant white wind turbines while driving narrow, winding roads from Wellington to Mount Maunganui.  We stumbled on dinner during a pit stop at the Rangitaiki Tavern (reknowed as a biker ...

Splendid at the Checkout I couldn't decide if she was ridiculous in her splendor, or splendid in her ridiculousness. The first thing that caught my eye perched on her head. From the baking products aisle of the Countdown grocery store, the head lump looked like a white beehive. A closer look from the checkout line revealed this 80-something Kiwi glama-gramma had fashioned a turban from (I think...) a pair of nylon stockings. It was braided and snaked around a mass of grey-blond hair. 12 Magpies could nest in that turban. Glama-gramma chatted easily with the checker, clutching her receipt between shiny fake fuchsia talons. Diamond-looking rings sparkled from several fingers. A thick paste of sky-blue cream eyeshadow and long, fake, black eyelashes obscured her eyes. Her lips and wrinkled cheeks were painted bright pink She'd decorated herself like a Christmas tree, wearing a dozen or 20 silver necklaces and roughly the same number of jingly silver bracelets, the kind with ...

Prayer: Why Bother? Two people I know here in New Zealand are experiencing major crises involving ill or injured family members. One of those people asked me to pray. While I'm not a prayer expert (more of a prayer polliwog), I could be a crisis expert (after living through a late husband's critical illness for four-and-a-half months; the birth and subsequent operation of a pre-term baby and my own sky-is-falling-wait-maybe-not health crisis). When things go terribly wrong, like when the husband who's supposed to return from the hospital dies in the ICU instead, you think about prayer differently. It's not about outcomes. It was never about outcomes. We pray (or wish, or hope, or whatever...) for a return to physical health, wholeness, financial security. We pray (or wish, or hope, or whatever...) for our ideal. We rarely reach what we thought was ideal. Expectations can get snuffed like candle flames. Some studies have shown prayer  can  influence outcome. That'...

Housing Crisis I just looked in the mirror and saw a smudge of dark chocolate coating my upper lip. Red wine stains my teeth. My reflection is that of a woman on the edge. I’ve indulged three of my vices tonight – chocolate, red wine and watching fat people on TV (a 651-pound American lost 331 pounds. If nothing else, you can watch his story and think, ‘Thank God I’m not that guy. Now, where’s my snack?’ ) The reason for the solitary pity party: What started as a crap afternoon morphed into a shit storm of Kiwi cow dung. Here’s the rub: I hired the cows. I orchestrated their, ah-hem, movements. This is a mess of my own doo-doing (pardon the pun - I couldn't resist). Before you stop me, let me tell you – you cannot have my job: Own Worst Critic. I’ve loafed long and hard to get where I am today. I’m damn good at this job, and not about to give it up. It pays nothing and has no tangible benefits – no vacation, expense account or wardrobe allowance. Plus, I’m on call 24/7. Unless...