Everyday Susa

  I  used to see religion as a warm, safe place.   It was somewhere that created a routine, a social network, and a place of belonging.   Oh, and we were right. About everything. And that’s a great feeling, being right.  Never having to doubt.  Knowing my neighbor was wrong, but I was right.  It was strange how every other religion was Oh So Wrong.  So clear how they hurt other people. So obvious that the adherents were worshiping themselves, rather than a god.  And then I..changed.  They’d say that I fell away. The people in the pews. Because I was no longer convinced that I was better than others.  That I could be cruel, selfish, vain, and legalistic, and it was okay if I sat in a pew on Sunday. In fact, I could doubt and wonder and process as much as I needed, if I kept mindlessly repeating the same tropes as everyone in the pew. Recite the same Bible verses. Sit in the same seat. Drink the same bad coffee. Go to the sa...

    April 12th, 2021. That was the day England's shops and outdoor dining opened up. The day that I could once again take my child to swim lessons. The day we could once again stay somewhere overnight - not a hotel or someone's house, but anywhere self-catering.  Confusing, American readers? Welcome to my life.   People like to tell me they can tell this has been hard on me as if this is radically new information and they're providing deep insight into my life. Truthfully, a Euro-style lockdown is hard on any healthy person. The struggle to survive a brutal lockdown is more indicative of a person living a full life than anything else. Sprinkle that with negative commentary from US dwellers who think a lockdown is an optional event, and it makes for a nearly unbearable, dark winter.  But we survived. All of us. Infection numbers are down, down, down. Vaccination numbers are up, up, up, and the adults in our household are the unusual fully vaccinated non-medical...

 It started out demurely, this year.  I had low expectations, or so I thought.  We survive the winter and the sunshine will blaze once more.  I bought a planner, still sprouting vestiges of hope that is more on-brand for 2019 than The Year That Shall Not Be Named. And then, on the fourth day of January, 12 hours before my children were supposed to go back to school and preschool, the Great Pivot hit. Lockdown 3.0 for England. Now I stare at the calendar darkly, laughing at the Susie who hoped and prayed that she would at least have six remaining months in 2021 free to explore.  OCONUS  tours are supposed to be difficult. They are supposed to be stressful, chaotic, exciting, new, rife with homesickness and cultural shock, and filled to the brim with adventure and exploration. I was ready for that - in 2019, 2020, and 2021, after being taken aback in 2017 and falling in love with the experience in 2018.  This was not the experience we expected. This qui...

This weekend is our third anniversary - our third anniversary of moving to England. It's difficult to believe that we've lived life here for 36 months already, especially when our four year tour seemed eternity that first day in the car on the A14. If I could encourage that grumpy, anxious, pregnant Susie of three years ago, here's what I'd say.   Dear Susie of October 2017,  First of all - go get something to eat. I recommend a sandwich from Tesco. Stop staring at the road; it's freaking you out, and no, the car you're NOT driving won't crash just because you're not staring in terror at the road ahead.  Now, take in the scenery around you. Isn't it gorgeous? It will never not be gorgeous to you. You will always want to capture images of rolling green English hills and share them with the world. The first time you see a stone bridge and sheep, you will quite literally squeal.  Back to driving - that car you're about to rent from Steve's? Ther...

"How is that we've already spent two Christmases here," Stephen asked in a rare moment of verbalized surprise. "That means this year will be our THIRD Christmas," I replied in my standard over-enthused way. It's true. This year will make our third Christmas season in England. We have our social/travel/visiting lives scheduled until September, and while that delights my fun and people loving side, it horrifies the commitment averse side of me. But, what that also means is that we will soon be hitting our third round of all things England. That seems serious. Committed. Almost as if we really do live here. Life here has become routine, even that unpredictable inconveniences that pop up when your tether to your homeland is an APO box and (sometimes questionable) base services. For instance, (US) Amazon sent us size one diapers in a size four box, and Nova's 21 pounds of buttery chub will NOT fit into size one diapers. So now, I have to run o...

It's happened many times this Christmas season. A well meaning adult will come up to my four year old in a public space and gleefully ask him what Santa Clause/Father Christmas is bringing him this year. And each and every time, my son cocks his head to side and clearly announces, "Santa isn't REAL." The reactions vary - there's shock, confusion, and even a bit of bemusement. Yes, Santa isn't real, but my four year old isn't supposed to know that. We've taught him to say "Santa isn't real at MY house," when other children are around, keeping the excitement alive for his friends and classmates. Despite that, plenty of Christmas time threads on mommy forums insist that parents like us are ruining Christmas, not only for our own children but for theirs. Even still, my four year old knows all about Santa and has asked for an Elf on the Shelf. (That's a no from me, son.) Most of the time he's content to muse aloud on the logistics ...

Hiya, blog! I've taken a bit of a hiatus. Her name is Nova. Now that the first trimester is almost finished--she's 12 weeks tomorrow--I'm mostly back to my regularly scheduled programming. I won't be fully back until we night wean, but who knows how many months or (prayerfully NOT) years that will be. This week,  took our family of four on Nova's first trip. And where did we go? Scotland! I have an extremely detailed, careful way of picking out destinations and planning trips--not. My method is simply to pick something easy and go with it. I chose Scotland because UK, yay, and who doesn't want to go to Scotland. Edinburgh was our destination because all we had to do was drive to Peterborough, hop on a train, and boom, we would be there. (I'm skipping over the agony of driving, finding parking, hauling children, and all the gross, gritty, exhausting parts of travel. But don't fret, that part definitely happened.) The train ride there wen...

Part 1: Nova's VBAC So where was I? Oh yes. Fresh newborn in my arms, my husband by my side, and my preschooler being cared for by a dear friend. I had VBAC'ed. I had pushed a giant head out. I had succeeded. I was on a high only hormones and euphoria could bring. And then it all crashed down. Nova was born at 7pm on a Sunday, and the doctors planned to release us on Tuesday - barring any issues. They wanted to monitor my pre-E to make sure that it was going away on its own, as well as monitor Nova since she had been a meconium baby and I was GBS+. No one was too worried about my pre-E diagnosis since it had occurred only a couple hours before birth and birth is supposed to be the ultimate cure. I spent that first night wide awake, staring at my precious baby while Stephen slept on the world's hardest, narrowest couch beside me. My extroverted self thrived off interactions with  various medical personnel, and I remember thinking that this hospital stay wasn't ba...

CAVEAT: Birth involves the female body and frank discussions of it. If, for whatever reason, you feel uncomfortable reading such terms and descriptions, stop here. Fair warning. Seriously.  My due date with Nova was Friday, June 8th, and like with Landon, I was in a bit of a time crunch to get the baby out. While Landon's birth had a deployment looming, Nova had a "Report No Later Than Date" of 41 weeks simply by virtue of being a VBAC. Her 41 week mark was June 15th, and lucky me, the hospital did its planned C-Sections on Wednesdays and Fridays. So, at my 38 week appointment, we scheduled a C-Section for 41 weeks and the awesome doctor told me she hoped that I would go into labor before then. Right before my 40 week appointment, Dr. Awesome called and apologized profusely: we had to move my scheduled C-Section date up by two days. I was heartbroken. Convinced that this was the end of my VBAC hopes and dreams, I made my friend E process my feelings with me...over and...

Pregnancy log: 38 weeks, 2 days. 12 days until the due date. 19 days until her final, final eviction date. I just had the happiest week of my pregnancy. Truly. When we landed in England, I was a day shy of 6 weeks pregnant. None of our family even knew I was pregnant until we heard the heartbeat three weeks later. I've spent this entire pregnancy a continent and ocean (since our families are in the western US) away from the organic support system that is family.  And there's just something about siblings. Something about those people who know precisely  how to make you squirm in five seconds and laugh in two that are essential for my ultimate mental and emotional health. For this past week, I got to have my sister. But, she didn't come alone - she brought a sweet friend whose quieter demeanor complemented our obnoxious Manthei socializing style. We are so loud. The loudest. Somehow, M. tolerated us--and even claimed to love us--and our little family of three was hon...

What's with that title, Suz? That's how I feel when the UK springs a bank holiday, ie, my child can't go to his favorite place (preschool!)  on me and dubs it a long week. Who actually celebrates May Day? Not this kid and his mother. Nope.  England, that's who. Today a dad at Landon's school told me that Brits deal with the weather by wishing they lived some place else. I laughed because it's May and the endless winter seems to have mostly ended. On to to the important updates. I drove on--what we would call the freeway--road the wrong way. And by wrong way, I mean that I entered a one lane exit ramp because I miscounted my roundabout exits. This is the Do Not Enter Because You Might Die sign. And this is the Do Not Stop/Wait/Try Not to Break Down sign.  No, they don't really look similar. Yes, I still got them confused. No, we did not die. Yes, I swore and prayed and almost cried.  We survived.  Landon has a...