Good bye August, and good riddance!

Good grief!!!

This is a loooong lag between posts, even for me. But the truth is, now that I have a child in a bona fide school program, not a year-round day care, August is one long, dry, kiddo-infested month.

Not that I don't love my children. Of course I do. But spending 24-7 with them is definitely a challenge, especially when you've gotten comfortable with at least a couple of 3-4 hour breaks a week. Helen our fabulous doula did pitch in here and there, but Josie and I used her shifts to run over to the Bath Spa Hotel and swim (my friend R, mother of Josie's BFF E, moved her family to York and left us the last month of her swim club membership).

Plus, I've been starting to work on a few projects, so any precious moments caught during now-dwindling naptimes were spent huddled over my laptop. Plus we went on two vacations. Plus we moved house. But where to start?

Part of the thinking, I'm thinking, behind the dry August child care spell is that everyone packs up and goes en vacances. We joined the masses, renting a cute if somewhat stinky house on England's Southwestern coast in Salcombe, Devon (very Nantuckety), for the first week of August. It was quite an action-packed week, as Salcombe is convenient to myriad neighboring towns and sights -- with enough of a variety that everyone could chose his or her own unique day trip. Jeff went first, with the somewhat mystifying but charmingly quirky choice of Babbacombe Model Village.

Help! A giant girl is attacking the hospital!!

My choice was Pennywell farm, complete with mini train, falconry demonstrations, model cars (on which Josie proved to be a menace on the road) and animal-holding sessions every half-hour, including their famous miniature pigs.

Toonces, the Driving Cat

That's Some Pig

The weather was better than anticipated, but we only got in two good beach days, which actually – since I spent most of the time in our beach hut with Hugo –was fine with everyone. Josie once again had no fear of the water –or bitter, butt-numbing cold– and once wetsuited-up, loved splashing around in the bay, making up games, and making friends.

Surfin' U.K....

My little tent-mate

Post-beach crabbing

I think our favorite trip was to Plymouth, where the "Mayflower Steps"–from which that fateful ship, along with other expeditions to New Zealand, the Virgin Islands, etc. sailed–are being renovated (so the pics aren't too spectacular). It's also home to the Plymouth Gin Distillery – we sadly missed the tour but stocked up on Navy-strength gin and other treats anyway– and loads of cute shops and galleries, not to mention a world-class aquarium! Josie saw her first sharks swimming overhead, freaky jellyfish, etc. Great town!

Where our American story all began...

Josie decides that when she grows up she wants to be "an underwater
person what (sic) swims around and looks at things."

We returned, exhausted (true to form I had insisted we stop at a castle, once owned by the Seymours of Tudor fame, on the way home), cranky and hungry, but had to quickly prep for packers to arrive at 8 a.m. the next morning, because someone had decided we should move house three days after returning from holiday!

Berry Pomeroy Castle. I don't think the Seymours
got their security deposit back.

I won't go into too much depth re: why leave Pulteney Street? From the "friendship circle" to the Pulteney Arms Pub, from the Pooh Sticks Bridge to lovely Henrietta Park and its Secret Garden, there was so much to recommend Pulteney Street. I'll never regret spending our first year in Bath there. It was a movie-set location convenient to many sights and shops. However, it was a 1.5 mile uphill trek to Josie's school, incredibly dark and damp-moldy around the edges. Not a fab venue for a growing family.

A chronic real-estate-speculator (I often spend late nights surfing real estate sites, alternating between properties on Martha's Vineyard, Nyack, and now Bath) I had happened one evening upon a darling house on Northampton Street, conveniently located between the Royal High School for Girls' current location and its future location to the far west of the city centre. On a whim, Jeff suggested I go see it. So I got a sitter, trucked up the hill, and fell in love.

New Home, Sweet Home on "Northern Hampton" as Josie calls it

Moving sucks, no question, and my husband in particular does not enjoy the accompanying upheaval and disarray. But now we are happily settled in a real four-bedroom (each of which is brighter than the next) with a separate playroom for Josie and a sunny, ground-level garden perfect for barbecues, play dates, having a cup of coffee from the Nespresso machine or a glass of wine. It's a true Georgian, which means we are spread out over 4.5 floors - which I've actually come to appreciate given zero child care means Less than Zero gym time. It has original flagstone floors, a piano, lots of funky wallpaper and a huge family bathroom that we can all be in for bathtime. Jeff has a man space/office and both kids have tremendous views of Bath. Come visit!!

We'd barely unpacked when I rushed us off to a second holiday (which I'd booked after weather forecasters predicted a cold and wet August, to ensure some swimming time) at a family water park-resort in Wales. Wales is lovely! Gone are the slag heaps from How Green Was My Valley, instead you'll find lots of golf courses, farms, and holiday centers like Bluestone. We had a "self'-catering" cottage, but had a wealth of ready food options in the fake-village, including pub, bakery, Italian restaurant, and grocery store. The water park was clean, beautifully maintained, and tres cool –with a wave pool, "lazy river" and killer slides. Josie learned to swim underwater!

Bluestone is also an outdoor family adventureland -- lots of bike trails, hikes, archery, and a high ropes course, which Jeff and I decided to try during Josie's "Unaccompanied Pirate Camp." Jeff and I each successfully completed a leg of the course, however, it was a) the wrong time to discover I have near-paralysing vertigo, and b) followed, for me and Hugo, by 40 minutes of wandering, lost and screaming for help, through unmarked off-trail hikes– and 9-10 inches of Welsh mud– looking for the village and Josie's Pirate Camp. I was able to recover from the Blair-Witch experience just enough for one last surf down the Lazy River and a rollicking Pirate Party complete with a treasure hunt and fireworks.

I think the weekend is best summed up in this short clip:

And gosh, there's lots about July/August that I haven't even covered: a lovely visit from Aunt Hilary, Hugo learning to roll over and laugh, playing "Shabbat" over and over in the new garden, training to London in the midst of alleged rioting (not in South Kensington!) to see Melissa P and family, but much of that will be covered in the photos to your left and the rest will just have to be left to the imagination. I will leave you with a moment that really encapsulates our year-plus in Britain.

Scene: Harried housewife is ordered by persnickety landlord to return to empty flat to further clean and repaint sections. On a drizzly night, she calls a taxi to fetch her, Dyson vacuum, and bucket of cleaning materials.

Taxi approaches, stops. Driver leans out.
Driver (in rather high-pitched voice): Davidson?
Beth: Yes, that's me. Sorry, can you help me with this (gestures to vacuum)
Driver: Sure (exits vehicle, and with surprising strength, chucks vacuum into trunk) Ooh, that's a bit heavy!
Beth: Oh, thank you so much. Going to Great Pulteney Street, please.
Driver: Sure, no problem! (starts car, begins driving)
Beth squints in the darkness, noticing driver's rain-misted wig, dress, and press-on fingernails. It slowly dawns on her that the driver is a lovely, incredibly helpful cross-dresser.

Beth: Oh, ^%$*#. I forgot to bring gloves and window cleaner. Sorry, can you actually drop me at Waitrose? I can buy what I need and walk the rest of the way.
Driver: (titters gaily) Um, aren't you afraid you'll look a bit odd pushing a vacuum cleaner around Waitrose?

This is the Bath we love. Irony is not lost on cross-dressing taxi drivers.

Life is a zipline, mes amis!

Honey, I Blew Up the Baby!*

It's official: Hugo is the Incredible Booming Baby! He had his first weigh-in since May last week, and clocked in at 11 lb., 5 oz! That's more than double his weight at its lowest. Go, Hugo! (and, erm, go me!). He had his first vaccination last week and sailed through that as well.

Generally, he is sleeping for longer stretches (usually 4-5 hours for the first go) and has become MUCH more chillaxed in temperament. He still has some quirks – he's quite agitated by sneezes, for example, regardless of from whom they emanate – still hates baths and wardrobe changes, and ejects poos the size of the Mediterranean. The good news is, he is gravitating in times of need towards his chosen (by Josie) transitional object, the aptly (and politically correctly) named "Soft Friend" (if you've had the good fortune to meet Josie's Pink Friend and Green Friend, you can imagine where her instincts in naming this cream-and-beige colored lovey were headed) so we can faintly envisage sleep training on the (still faraway) horizon.

It's you and me against the world, Soft Friend!

Most importantly, he continues to dazzle us with his smiles.

You think this is cute, just wait 'til I have teeth!

June flew by incredibly quickly -- we're taking advantage of the fact that Hugo is still basically a squirmy and smelly handbag, taking loads of day trips to local attractions. We finally made it up to the American Museum of Britain (renowned for housing the "largest collection of American art and collectibles in Southwest Britain"....uh, okay) for what was actually a drool-inducing special exhibit on Marilyn Monroe. The fabulous private collection included everything from the script for her memorial service to costumes from "Bus Stop" and "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes" to knicknacks from her Hollywood home. I was in heaven! Even more heavenly were the views from the gorgeous grounds and cafe.

Not to be a narc, but someone illegally took this picture... probably an American.

In News from the Incredibly Ironic and Unfair, Jeffrey was invited as a guest by one of his vendors to the Royal Ascot! He actually was also offered a plus-one pass, but I just couldn't for the life of me find a fascinator that coordinated with a nylon, ebony breast pump (I can just hear the Hello! reporter now: "And Ms. Davidson, who are you wearing?" Me (blushing): "Medela.")

Go ahead, Rex Harrison, eat your heart out!

Still, I helped him choose a tie for his morning suit – top hat and tails, bien sur – and captured the moment for posterity. In return, he kindly texted updates, like when "the Queen and Duchess of York rode in" (what? who? Fergie? Not likely!! See? Unfair!)... "oh right, sorry, that's the Duchess of Cornwall." (yeah! Big difference! Lucky for you I watch the Oprah network so I know Fergie is off finding herself with Suze Orman and Dr. Phil!). Arg. Amateurs.

"And here we have Princess Grace and the Duke of Cornbread..."

After an incredibly soggy few weeks, the sun decided to again grace us with her presence, so we've been putting our National Trust membership to good use. We traveled to the coast to see the fabulous Dunster Castle, parts of which date to Medieval times, took a great stroll around its beautiful grounds, and then headed up the high street for a lovely pub lunch in the sunshine.

Dunster Castle makes Jeff and Josie look like leetle dollies!

Jo is completely stumped by the lovely nature stroll

And finally, a monkey-meatball lunch!

And, in a perfect illustration of what we've come to love about the U.K., we remembered spotting a pub with a huge playground and bouncy castle (??) on the way to Dunster, so we set aside time for a stop on the long ride home. Sorry, Josie has just reminded me that it was not, in fact, a bouncy castle but bouncy water.

Because you just never know who might, after a few Pimms, fancy a bounce!

For me, the pièce de résistance of the month had to be last weekend's trip to Windsor Castle. The castle is, as we learned, the world's largest castle still in official use as a royal residence. It's absolutely enormous, and, frankly, really freakin' cool. We couldn't photograph indoors, but the tour included Queen Mary's Doll House, which includes perfect replicas of famous books, running water in all the bathrooms, miniature copies of famous artworks, and a couple of dozen rooms. Josie was so enamored she pled with the guard to see it again. He of course agreed.

The State Apartments were gorgeous, albeit in the you've-seen-one-castle-you've-seen-'em-all sense, and rather than tour the gardens we opted to wait for the miniature Changing of the Guard. You could tell who's seen The Wizard of Oz by the various eruptions into screaming tears around us.

Josie, still a Wiz-Oz neophyte, instead uses the occasion
to utilise her current favored phrase, "O.M.G."

We also took turns, with a lovely couple from Scottsdale, capturing potential holiday card shots.


We were also impressed by one barkeep's incredibly quick work and entrepreneurial spirit:


This week is Josie's last week of school (can you believe it? It seems like yesterday that she donned that little uniform for the first time and posed for her slightly-anxious first-day-of-school shot.... sigh). The last few days have been filled with various end-of-the-year celebrations including the hotly-anticipated Final Ballet Watch, which I made sure to capture on film for our viewers at home. And no, it's not your hearing, you will indeed detect a trace of Josie's gradually acquired West Country accent.

At the end of the month we're off to Salcombe in Devon (on the southern coast), a bit like Nantucket in Old England, for a week's holiday. Then, because we're just that sadistic, we've decided to move three days after we return – to a house that's closer to Josie's school and with a bit more space and sunlight for our newest family member. We're sad to leave Great Pulteney Street, the Friendship Circle, and our Friday night pub dinners at the Pulteney Arms, but we're excited to have a bit more space and a much shorter school commute.

In the meantime, belated Happy Fourth of July to our American Compatriots, from the Bathian Rothmans, including our smiliest new member!


*"Dad, he looks like a badly-dressed beekeeper." (who's really down with the bad early-90's movie quotes?)

HUGE-o!

Happy Birthday Hugo! You're seven weeks old today. The sages called this the age of reason (OK, so maybe that's seven years, but clearly you have no concept of time or you wouldn't pick 3:26 a.m. to serenade us with La Boobeme) so let me try to reason with you: Mommy is so much nicer, and prettier, with more than sixty-seven minutes of sleep per night. If you woke up every three or four hours, instead of every hour and a half, Mommy would get more sleep and be sooo much prettier and nicer to everyone (sorry Josie). She might have time to, I don't know, brush her hair or cobble together an ensemble that doesn't involve stretch pants. She might have the brainpower to update this blog more than twice a year.

That's right, at the ripe old age of seven weeks, or three minutes for the dogs in my readership, Hugo is still up every 1.5-2 hours to feed, as they say here (which makes him sounds like a vampire, but this is the land of Bram Stoker, after all... and I really don't mind the comparison, actually). I need to catch up on my Dr. Phil, because I suspect he's some kind of emotional binge eater who needs to find other outlets for his insecurities. But clearly he knows what he's doing, because his six-week weigh-in last week showed he gained more than TWO POUNDS in three weeks! He's a real boy. The wrinkly red legs have been replaced with chubby(esque) little thighs. His ruby, furrowed little face has transformed into rosy cheeks and a double chin. He's not a Reubens cherub yet, but at 8 lbs, 10 oz. he's on his way! My goal is to fatten him up to the point where he can't crawl for a few months – in other words, something like this:


When the health visitor weighed Hugo, she said "right, so he's hanging right in there at the ninth percentile." I plucked the dust from my ear and said "exsqueeze me? Did you say ninetieth (Josie's rank at 5 weeks) or ninth?" "Ninth." "Meaning, 89, no, 90... well, whatever percentage of babies..." "are BIGGER than Hugo." Got it. Well, that's why he's up all night. He's hungry, little Niney Ninerson. We have quite a way to go.

Help! Cowabunga! Tidal wave of blue cotton!

In addition to being skeeny, he's still crabby, too. 48% of the time Hugo looks like this:


49% of the time he looks like this:


But as of last week, .0362% of the time he looks like this, and that makes it alllll worthwhile:

How you doin'?

Yes, we love our little man, but let's not forget our little lady. Josie is doing her best to stay in the spotlight, and her little brain is still forming and spinning at a dizzying speed. First, there's her puzzling syntax; she frequently serves up Sarah Palinesque word salads like, "I can't wear this shirt, it's too perchance." "I fell and hurt my arm, and now it's quite sensible." Then there's her critical thinking skills. Our doula Helen, the best wife I'll ever have, who comes several times a week to help with whichever child is in danger that day of being left on a bench in Henrietta Park with a sign that reads "Fox Food" (shout-out to Miami Spice for that great joke), told me when she was taking Josie to holiday club last week, the kid, whilst toting her lunch, a hummus and cucumber sandwich, said "well, if I eat a peanut butter sandwich for lunch, I'll never get married!"

That had me scratching my head for a few minutes. Then I put together the jagged little pieces of Josie's marital puzzle: after the 1,438th reading of Sleeping Beauty, Josie declared she'd really like to be betrothed to her besty E, who sadly has myriad allergies including egg, shellfish, and sesame. Then, last weekend, when she announced that her new favorite food is sesame bagels with cucumber and cream cheese, we informed her that should she marry E, she would have to give them up, along with shrimp spread and French toast. THEN, when I was packing her lunch for holiday club (the sane parent's antidote to the dreaded and oft-aforementioned half-term) Jeff asked why I was making her a cucumber sandwich and I told him how we were asked to send nut-free lunches because one of the children had a nut allergy. So, Josie, always hovering in the background listening and computing, puts one and one together and gets... one, the loneliest spinster number. Thus matrimony is in, and America's classic lunchtime delight is out. What kind of budding feminist am I raising here?

Ohhh, right... that kind.

To make sure Josie didn't feel like we devote every hour of every day to her little brother, we hopped in the car last weekend and headed for the brand new Peppa Pig World near Southampton. For our money, it was better than Disney! Closer, cheaper, lower-key, and we never once had to hear "It's a Small World." It was quite crowded, being a Bank Holiday weekend, so we didn't get to go on everything, but Jeff did take Josie on several vomitous rides, including a spinning "Castle in a Cloud" number, while Josie and I rode Mr. Dinosaur around the track, a bouncy trip that induced uproarious laughter in us both.

Dinosaur...rrowrr!

Cute and Clean and No Caffeine

If you haven't yet become acquainted with Peppa, George, Daddy and Mummy Pig and the rest of the gang – and especially if you have young children – I highly recommend you add Peppa to your DVD collection. It's so well-written, usually teaches a nice lesson, and ends with the whole Pig Family falling on their backs in collective laughter. It's really good stuff.

Well, on that note, I hear the Meatball growling for his pre-dinner snack. I have yet to reap the rumored weight-loss benefits of breastfeeding (hence the preponderance of stretch pants in my clothing repertoire), but the weight-gain benefits for Hugo are undeniable. Eyes on the prize, baby:

ohhhhhhh yeah.

Booooorn in the UK!

What so many hapless, hopeless, parents of two (or three, or four) have told us for years is absolutely true: the only thing more world-upending than having a baby? Having a second baby.

My memories of my maternity leave and early days with Josie are probably a bit rose-colored, but I remember floating around in a cloud, drinking milkshakes, gazing into each Josie's eyes for hours, popping in and out of Nyack's shops with my cute stroller and her cute outfits... the sheer bliss of first-time motherhood.

After that, BOY has the second (and, for that matter, a BOY) been a shock to the system. But I guess the shock really started with his birth – oh, if you are squeamish about amniotic fluid, profanity, or socialized medicine, you may want to skip ahead – just 5 hours after finishing a really shagging spicy curry with my mates at local Indian joint Rajpoot, I woke up to my water breaking. I called the hospital and they said to take my time (I wasn't having any contractions) and try to get there within the hour, at which time they would evaluate whether it was in fact amniotic fluid or "just wee" (right, because gallons of brackish greenish fluid and "wee" are easily confused) and decide whether to keep me or send me home.

What does a type-A person do with that hour? Let's see... I burned my "Labor: Uptempo" and "Labor:Downtempo" mixes onto CDs. I e-mailed the aforementioned mates (two of whom are pregnant, one at the time a week overdue) and my family, calmly selected some DVDs to take to the hospital, downloaded "Morning Joe" and Rachel Maddow to my iPhone in case I craved political news during early labor, ate some granola (all the pregnancy guides say to eat early!) and packed nutritious snacks. Jeff (who had the good fortune/gall to go back to bed) finally wandered upstairs, sleepy-eyed, wondering "uh... shouldn't we be leaving?" My request to blow-dry my hair so I would look good in the birth photos DENIED, we woke up my mother, told her we were going to the hospital (her foggy response: "uh, do I have to get up?"), and hopped in the car. Of course as usual we had zero cash, so we had to stop by an ATM, at which point my contractions did start.

Upon arrival at the hospital around 5am we were ushered to an "evaluation" room, where I presented my birth plan: epidural, massage, epidural, no-forceps delivery, and – oh yeah –epidural. The midwife examined me – using the jumbo-Jim flashlight your dad keeps in the garage to look for blown fuses and lost hamsters – and assured me that I was only two centimeters, so the epidural was hours off. Also, there were already three epidurals being administered, the maximum for the floor (WHAT?). Oh, and also, there was a shift change at 8 a.m. (three hours away), after which would be the ideal time to get the epidural. Oh, and also, the floor was SO busy there wouldn't be a delivery room ready for me for a couple of hours. But, she assured me, she could bring me some "gas and air" (nitrous oxide) to tide me over until then.

That first hour or so was actually fine. The contractions weren't TOO bad, though this gas and air business was sheer nonsense: it does nothing for the pain, rather makes you feel just dizzy/drunk/high enough to immediately forget how much the contraction ^%$#ing hurt, and believe that you can absolutely do it again in 4-5 minutes. But then 4-5 minutes turned into 3-4 minutes, and then it sure seemed like 3-4 minutes was turning into 2-3 minutes. After Jeff finished giving my mom directions on working the cable and DVD player for Josie (now awake; I'll never forget grabbing the phone and telling her "The Meatball is coming today!" and her yelling "I'm watching Barbie Rapunzel!!") we both wondered, uh, where is that delivery room?

Finally, yes, we were moved into our own room (about 7:45 a.m.) and I was assured that only two epidurals were now running (is this the fakest story you've ever heard or what?) and the anesthetist would be by shortly. My midwife was also rolling off her shift, and cheerfully introduced her replacement, whom we'll call Ellie (that may actually be her name; I couldn't tell you my own name at that point). The anesthetist came in, explained the epidural (yeah, yeah, had one before, move it along), and inserted the shunt into my hand. Meanwhile, forgetting every laboring maneuver I'd learned in six months of prenatal yoga and five weeks of prenatal-couples classes, I'd decided to cope with the pain by sucking on the gas and air inhaler while using a side to side-duck-and-sway move strangely reminiscent of "It Figures" with Charlene Prickett, the Lifetime workout show my mom and I used to do together when I was in high school. In between panting "four more, three more, two more, now kick it side-to-side", I yelled, "WOW I REALLY FEEL LIKE I HAVE TO PUSH!"

Ellie, the midwife-slash-wing-man to my blackberrying husband (o.k., to be fair, I only had to say "I'm going to need you to put away the blackberry" once) chirped, "ooh, perhaps we should examine you before we start the epidural," to which I replied *&^% yeah, and perhaps that's a really %$**&ing great idea, and lots more best communicated with symbols.

Surely no one will be surprised to hear Ellie's amazing discovery –that I was already fully dilated and "by the time we get the epidural going, this baby will be out!" Frantically, I clutched at the anesthetist, sobbing "Please don't leave me," while he struggled equally frantically to free himself. Before I could absorb the idea that this would indeed be one of those drug-free "natural births" I'd done everything in life to avoid, I was surrounded by a chorus of midwives, cheering "you can do it, you can totally do it!" I then fixed my big, pleading blue eyes on Jeff, sure that he could save me, but he only joined in the chant.

Now, what can I say about natural childbirth? Well, firstly, I know now where those quaint English chestnuts like "stiff upper lip," "keep calm, carry on," and "don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes" originated. Secondly, if I ever, ever again hear a man say that passing a kidney stone is "just like childbirth," I will punch him in the face. Thirdly, well... it actually was pretty empowering. Yes, there were f-bombs, bone-chilling screeches, even a couple of "I can't do this!"-es, but BBR was apparently really freakin' eager to see the world, because in 4-5 pushes, there he was! 8:44 a.m., Greenwich Mean Time. Now, if you've seen my "bump shots" on Facebook or the blog, you know how – oh, how to put this delicately – mucha giganta I was. So when the midwife plopped BBR on the scale and announced, "2850 grams" I felt completely vindicated. No WONDER I was so huge! Then Jeff just had to ask for the English conversion: "Six pounds, five ounces." What??!? Wait, why was I so huge? I'm ashamed to admit that my immediate reaction wasn't concern about my baby's weight but embarrassment about my fat-to-baby ratio. To all my lovely and loyal friends who insisted throughout the last four months that I was "all baby," sorry but you were wrong! Clearly I was mostly salt and vinegar crisps, largely rocky road brownies, partly cookie dough ice cream, and just a smidgen baby.

Of course, the rest is already urban legend, but yes – we named our delicious baby Hugo Walter, after Jeff's grandfather Herman and my grandfathers (though "Hugo Raj," as a tribute to that magic curry, was tempting!), filled out some paperwork, I took a shower, and then we did indeed go home after three hours. Lest you jump all over the English system, that was our choice – lots o'babies had decided to be born before the 4-day Easter holiday weekend, so the ward was apparently hopping, and we felt like I would be more comfortable and better looked after at home. Plus, I couldn't wait to see Josie... so home we came, just six and a half hours after we arrived! Efficient, right?

And Lordy, I almost forgot the best part of the story! After I arrived safely home, I saw an e-mail from Kiwi Mom, my poor friend who was already a week overdue with her second. The message said something to the effect of, "I thought my waters broke so I went to the hospital, but it turns out it was just a little leak, and they sent me home. Not my proudest hour, but given the screams I heard in the delivery suite, I was just as happy to go, thank you!" What time, I typed back, was that? Oh, around 8:30 a.m., she replied. That's right, my bloodcurdling shrieks scared her baby right back up into her abdomen.

ADDITION/CORRECTION: You know, I shouldn't just leave all these angry complaints about pain relief, or lack thereof, floating in cyberspace as the main takeaway from my birth experience. I was actually incredibly impressed by the level and quality of care I received from the community midwives. After the birth, a midwife came to see me every other day (they will come every day if you prefer), to check on me, check the baby/weigh the baby, make sure I was getting along emotionally, help with breastfeeding, really anything I needed. And when I did need some post-delivery medical attention, I was slotted into the schedule, seen, evaluated, and sent home with my (free) prescription within 3 hours. I really did feel, as a friend described, "well looked after." An epidural would have been nice, but that kind of follow-through is priceless.

ANYWAY – of course, next in the busy life of a days-old Jewish boy, is ... the bris! NJ grandparents Papahannah flew in for the event, and we trucked a mohel/GP over from Surrey. Nom, Pee-Pa (thanks to the wonders of Skype technology!), and Papa all delivered remarks about the three grandfathers after whom Hugo is named: Jeff's grandfather Herman and my grandfathers Wilbur and Woodrow. We gave him the Hebrew name of Haviv (beloved, dear one) and welcomed him to the Jewish people. While the procedure is not for the faint of heart, I was lucky in that Hugo screams every time his diaper is taken off, so honestly I couldn't even discern when the actual procedure was taking place. Papa held Hugo, Hannah read a lovely Grandmother's Blessing, and we celebrated with a very nice bottle of red wine.

The Whole Mishbukah

In the middle of all these exciting Hugo-related activities, Britain staged an impressive celebration of its own: The Royal Wedding of William and Catherine. Never one to miss an opportunity for a themed party (does anyone remember the Madonna Birth Party, watching Desperately Seeking Susan and drinking gin and tonics to celebrate Lola's arrival?), I invited fellow American Mum R, her son E, and her lovely mother to join in an indoor picnic and watch party. R brought very English finger sandwiches which we enjoyed with cake and champagne. As one of her "Big Sis" presents I had given Josie a Royal Wedding play set, which she brought out to play along with the real event.


While Royal-lovers all, we definitely had some strong opinions about the affair: Kate's dress (thumbs up!), Pippa's dress (split decision: Jeff declared it "hot," but I thought it was a bit slinky for 11am) William's red uniform (accentuated baldness: thumbs down), SamCam's absent hat (thumbs down), Sarah Ferguson's present spirit (in Beatrice's fascinator and Eugenie's Mrs. Roper-esque peacock blue ensemble: every thumb down), guest list (Gordon Brown and Tony Blair snubbed, but Mr. Bean included? Thumbs up!), HRHQE2's outfit (ZOW! Here comes the sun!), and of course William and Kate's ride to Clarence House (driving themselves in an Aston Martin: thumbs up!). Josie loved it all.

During Hugo's exciting first month, we've managed to keep busy; during our Papahannah week Jeff and Josie took them to the fabulous Longleat Park, Victoria Park and Parade Gardens, even the Marlborough Tavern. Nom stayed a month in total and we took her to the Zoo and the Court Gardens, walked to The George, a lovely canalside pub, for Easter Brunch, toured the Jane Austen Center and celebrated a lovely Mother's Day with our now-traditional boat ride down the Avon followed by a terrific lunch at the Bathwick Boatman.

Mother's Day Cruise

Now the Americans have all departed and it's time for us to figure out life as a family of four! It's a bit crazy and exhausting, but also completely joyous. Hugo is a funny, delicious baby who's already growing fast and showing a bit of personality. Josie is a wonderful big sister; she loves holding Hugo, playing him music, singing to him and showing him off to all of her friends. She's also very excited about her new pink room (Hugo will eventually move into her old room) and just blossoming before our eyes, with new vocab and stories and talents (like tennis!).

Big Sis and Li'l Bro

Daddy's Boy

A (Pink) Room of her Own

All in all, we round out our first year in England feeling very, very blessed. As one of our French friends wrote us, "Vive Hugo!"