A Love Letter To Our Old House

Biggest Brother sent the following note to his friend in our old town: "London is amazing but it still doesn't beat La Grange."  To be sure, this made my heart break a bit. We probably all would have written something similar.  While I'd never trade the life changing experience of living abroad with the children, part of me will forever be heartbroken for having left our beloved old house, that sweet school, our church, the lovely town, and of course, dear friends and neighbors.

I could go on about all of those. About how terrified I was that first winter of the cold and yet how warm our life there became. That the town was a village quaintly out of another era. About how everyone, including lots of the staff, walked to school so even in Chicago winters (with 2 days' exception in about as many decades) the school didn't close.  About how at lunchtime at school you could go home or bring a packed lunch, but that there was no cafeteria. How Biggest Brother, then in second grade, was on the approved list to bring Big Brother home from half day kindergarten.

I could go on and on (already have, I know). About how I cried the first Sunday at Mass seeing pews filled with strangers, only to make lovely friends so quickly.  How our neighbors, many of whom were from our parents' generation, became surrogate parents and grandparents, and even more, cherished friends.  How the corner store ran a house account and never sent bills.  They knew their customers would pay when they could.  The boys would pull tiny Big Sister in a wagon down the street when we needed a few things.  It was hard to explain to the boys the difference when we arrived in London and they saw markets even closer.

The first night I saw the town when we were house hunting, I thought the Mister had done some elaborate staging.  I was pretty sure I was an extra in a Julia Roberts film set in the Midwest. That night we ate dinner outside and walked around seeing teenagers toss beanbags into boards with their parents in their front yard on a Saturday night.  It is that kind of wholesome place.

I could go on for days talking about La Grange alone. About how the library had a summer movie program for the kids. I dropped them off and no one wanted my cell phone number, or even for me to sign them in. Why would they? Everyone knew each other. The kids would be okay.

But this is all about our house.  The house was magic. We all felt it.  Thousands of miles away and I still do. It was love at first sight for the Mister.  Full confession: while I was captured by the whole town and saw the undeniable charm in the house, and its original woodwork and traditional floor plan, I was leaning toward one in a tonier neighborhood.  It came down to those 2 homes.  The one we were meant to have came and went off the market twice while we were preparing to leave Virginia.  By the time we had our Virginia house sold and were ready to buy, it was ready for us to purchase.  It waited for us. You might think I'm nuts for saying so, but it was meant to be ours.

We could have saved ourselves lots of looking if we'd realized that our email address, which we'd had randomly assigned to us 8 years prior, features 3 numbers. The address of that very house.

The house wasn't particularly fancy or grand but it was perfect for us. A 1920s American Four Square on a tree lined block. The boys had the converted attic bedroom.  A bedroom, drum studio, LEGO suite and playroom all in one. We shared a bathroom with 4 kids and it was fine.  (We still do that now, although the flat has 4.5 baths!).  We made it even more ours. When we arrived, Big Sister was a bit out of sorts and would wake in the predawn darkness. I snuggled her for countless hours against my growing tummy watching the first commuters walk to the nearby train station in the dark, headed into the city.  Our babysitter lived across the street with her parents in the home where her dad was raised.  Her father went to the kids' school with some of its current teachers.

The detached garage, made for cars not as cumbersome as my Surburban, became a playhouse. The kids made a clubhouse in the trellised storage space under the front porch stairs. The fenced backyard was plenty of yard for tiny legs and insurance that they couldn't wander off.

I lovingly researched the house's history although much of that was congenially shared by many longtime residents of our block. Many a new friend arrived at my door only to announce that their popular high school football coach and driver's ed teacher had lived in our house for many years. On the way over to a cocktail party one evening, my girlfriend asked her husband if he remembered our address. He assured her he knew the house. He'd been to a keg party in the backyard years ago. It came to be that I felt like I knew the coach and his 3 boys.

In the movie of my life, I will always cry thinking of when it became very clear that we were indeed selling our beloved home and giving it to someone else.  Our house was very popular when it went on the market and we were out one morning while there were several showings.  Upon coming home, I met our dear next door neighbor in the back yard.  He told me he'd talked to the prospective buyers. They seemed serious and he said, "You're going to get an offer.  It's a nice family with young children. They want to keep it for a long time and raise the kids in the house." He hugged me while I cried. I knew it was good. It was right.  What our lovely house deserved.  New life and owners who would cherish it for a lifetime, if not longer.  Little children who would discover and treasure all the nooks and crannies. Teenagers who would throw great parties. A family who wouldn't gloss over the house's imperfections and quirks, but live with them and show them to their friends.  If we couldn't stay, this was exactly what I wanted for our home. It was time. It was meant to be someone else's now, even if it felt too soon.

If bidding farewell to cars is trying for me, saying goodbye to that house was very sad. Even though we were enthusiastic about London and our life ahead, it was weepy in those last days. The day the movers arrived on a bitter December morning, the crew leader told me his dispatcher had grown up in the house.  I knew he must have meant one of the coach's 3 sons.  Of course. There were a lot of "what are the chances?!" comments among the guys, but I wasn't terribly surprised. It was another magical way of passing that treasured home one to another graciously. In exchange for that happy turn of events, I sent a copy of my house history research to the dispatcher with the crew. Ours was just another chapter in the story of a sweet house in a wonderful town in the middle of the United States. Sometimes it is still hard to turn the pages.

Our Lovely School. Lighting the Way.

If I told you how sweet our school is, your heart might burst.  I know mine nearly did this morning at Mass in the school's "hall" with 200 adorably uniformed little people singing with their lovely British accents, celebrating Candlemas.

One day I'll tell you all about school and how good they've been to us.  How it was love at first sight and sound for the Mister and me.  How staff and families have welcomed us so graciously.  I'll tell you how the school day begins when the Head Teacher comes to the courtyard to ring a giant bell.*

But today, for the first time we are celebrating Candlemas.  At school, at church, and with French friends over crepes tonight.  It is a charming, lively, and daily education living here. I'll have to be sure to remind the children about the traditions of Groundhog Day tonight. But for today, we're shining more light into the world and working to make others happy.  It is a tradition we'll carry on.

*I found a similar bell on Portobello Road. Someday, I am going to ask the Head Teacher to ring mine. Sort of like giving someone a flag flown over the US Capitol, only I'm going to keep it.

Go Pie, GO!

I knew I would love the movie "National Velvet" when I discovered two of the main characters are named Pie and Velvet.  Spectacular already, right?! I suppose it is too late to give start calling Big Sister "Velvet." Maybe someone out there will pick up that glorious name.  Go on without me.  I've already given one of mine a cute nickname. Two would be too much. And Big Sister is already called Ladybug around the house.  (Which translates to Ladybird, you should know.)

Even better than those darling names is the actual film.  We watched this lovely 1940s classic starring Elizabeth Taylor and Mickey Rooney (and a horse named The Pie) for Family Night.  Do you know about Family Night? Two years ago, on a summer Sunday evening when we were visiting my parents, we rented a movie.  My mother made us snacks and popcorn. It was such fun that we decided to make it a Sunday night tradition.  Even if we've spent the entire previous 48 hours together, we set aside some time for "Family Night." Sometimes it is very simple, like few games of charades or seemingly endless hands of Uno (and look out for Big Sister. She's ruthless at Uno). Other nights is it gooey science projects or a movie. 

"National Velvet" is dated in charming ways, and is without a doubt from another time.  When Velvet (11 year old Elizabeth Taylor) takes a trip without her parents (and to the Mister's dismay, with a young man!) Biggest Brother said, "You'd NEVER let me do that." And although it is set in England, few actors even attempt accents.  Many scenes look like a filmed play.  All of that only adds to the sweetness.

Sweeter still was enjoying it together.  On this night we got into pajamas, pulled out the couch, ate British candy (!) and popcorn. It was glorious, my warm, pj clad smalls cuddling while being transported to another era!  It is a lovely story that stands the test of time.  In fact, there is a very progressive theme about women and girls, which must have been groundbreaking in 40s. In many ways it is very current or maybe better, timeless, in its appeal. We snuggled, positively enchanted for 2 hours and cheered for the thrilling ending (which usually annoys me to no end - especially in the theater - but this was entirely deserved).

Based on a book, the story and dialogue are so well written and there are countless good quotes.  The kind that you would dog ear pages over in a book. And underline.  I do that in all of my favorite books and most book club reads, too thinking that one day it will give the children insight into my thoughts as a young mother.  The Mister is less convinced they'll one day flip the pages of my books lovingly, looking for my messy writing in the margins.

Maybe though for insight and sharing, they'll come talk to me long passed bedtime just as Velvet does. When Velvet appears at her parents' bedroom door in her pajamas, her mother is at her vanity in her nightgown, fixing her hair.  Velvet's mother says, "A dozen times you might have talked to me today but you waited until now.  It is because large dreams come easier when it is dark and still?"

So much to love.  Go, Pie!

Dear Transport For London

Transport for London Lost Property Search Request
Item Lost:  LL Bean lunchbox.
Description: black, vinyl, rectangular, zipper pocket on front. Filled with yummy lunch, heart shaped sandwich and love note. Thanks for looking while I make another one!

I should have known something was amiss when we were out the door and chatting in plenty of time.  I'd even managed to give Big Sister and her goldilocks and shampoo and blow dry.  Some days I think I'm less stay at home mother and more sherpa. Since we've stopped using our buggy for the school run, we're often loaded down like mules with rucksacks, PE kits, lunches, water bottles and various warm weather gear. Baby Sister carries fists full of dolls and random toys.  She is still irked that I won't let her push her shopping trolley to the school gate. I cannot imagine time standing still could move slower.  We might have to leave now to make it for Thursday. Afternoon pickup.

Well. We are all carrying things except Big Sister.  She doesn't carry anything but she gets out the door in a uniform for a long school day so I try not to comment. Very often. Today, though, I noticed she could hoist an entire Barbie for "Treasure Tuesday" (sadly she didn't pack the Lilly Pulitzer one).

I know what you're thinking.  Barbie - not such a high brow sharing item, but Big Sister is happy at school. She went from 2 morning per week preschool, then my homeschooling, to all day school all in a year. So if she wanted to bring in a piece of toast I'd tell her it was the best toast ever and that her friends were going to go crazy for it.  Last night asked me to make a "Momma on a Stick" which is a photo of me affixed to a popsicle (lolly if you will) stick.  That's derivative of Big Brother once asking to bring in very Baby Sister to share in class. I thought that might be disruptive, so instead I made him a nearly life-sized "Baby Sister on a Stick" to take instead.  Big Brother is the same little guy who asked if he could bring Biggest Brother for show and tell.  Their very nice teachers coordinated and in a celebrity appearance, Biggest (Third Grade) Brother visited Big Brother and his First Grade friends at the appointed time.  Fun was had by all.  But the Momma on a Stick got nixed at the last moment for Barbie.  I get it.

The lunch isn't the first we've left something on a bussie and surely won't be the last.  Just last week we left a big white (you know the type) paper handle bag of chocolate chip cookies. Loyal readers, you know that look some effort to compile that here. The chocolate chip cookies and my signature white handle bag, too. The cookies were for the school talent show (where beer and wine were also served!). Fortunately, it was one of our favorite drivers that day and he happily let me dash back on where a kind man handed me the gift bag with huge gold star and "TALENT SHOW!" adorning.  It happens.

So today I was carrying Big Sister's things and Baby Sister sometimes, too.  The boys had their rucksacks and PE kits, hats and gloves, but must have left a lunchbox on the bus.  S'alright!  No worries.  I can't fuss at Big Brother about it. He's been so cheerfully ready and organized in the mornings. They've all been great students of becoming urban.

And I walked out the door without my keys.

You Dropped Your Teat

It has become shorthand around here to say, "everything is different" and it is absolutely true in countless, maybe endless, funny ways.  I'm not at all convinced that anyone who said to us before we moved, "at least they speak the same language" had even been to the UK.  This is being said by a woman who was utterly and naively stunned (no exaggeration) to stand in a London grocery store and not recognize lots of what was being sold.  You try finding chocolate chips here. Or cookies. Go ahead, ask someone about "a pudding." 

Sure, with a twist of fate, I could be in India or Uganda (although there no one would be all over my case about the kids not dressing warmly enough.  To which I want to say, "THEY'RE NOT THE LEAST BIT COLD. WE JUST CAME FROM CHICAGO.  THIS IS DOWN RIGHT SUMMER FOR US.  ZIP IT." Thank goodness no one here had to endure my barefoot babies.  I don't believe in shoes until our children are really, really able to walk and even then, that they really need them.). This is by no means the Third World, but it is VERY different, England. In most every (even if it is now absolutely delightful) way.


That goes for language, the cursive ("joined writing") font, and kazillion things you would never. ever. imagine. could or would be different.  The Mister somehow just discovered last week that school crossing guards are called "Lollipop Men." The stop sign sticks they hold look like lollipops.  Which are of course, different from iced lollies, which we would call popsicles.  Circular arguments, all.  And don't even get me started on my children saying they have to "go to the toilet." For reasons I'm still not entirely clear about, parents here are way more sweetly diplomatic and kind to their children in making requests versus demands.  My British friends sound so charming when they ask their smalls sweet things like, "Shall we get ready to leave the park now, Darling?" when by contrast I am yelling, "I SAID TEN MINUTES AGO! WE ARE GOING HOME!  GET YER STUFF!"  Foreign.  All of it.  I am not making that "Darling" part up.  They are that nice.  They certainly must think I personify militant American toughness.


I had to pantomime "mop" during the Oxford Street riots in order to purchase one (NO, I didn't mean "map," so envision me making mop-pushing actions). Also had to learn to say "leeks" with my hands when showed an onion by the charming Waitrose produce staff. I started pulling my arms apart in a way that certainly would be recognized in ASL.  Mr Tumble, is that the right sign?  Mr Tumble - notice I didn't punctuate Mr. - is a children's television personality who teaches, among other things, sign language, to viewers.  You are learning SO much just reading this! Hooray, you! This make us positively "brilliant" which is what the British say for "super" or "great" and I now absolutely love that word!  If you're read this far, I deem you BRILLIANT!  Anyhow, back to leeks, which should you need to know, are salad onions here. But this, most importantly, is all about teats.  I think some of you should consider reading this blog Continuing Legal (or Other) Education. Leeks, Teats, You Name It. This is higher education of one kind or another.


Anyway, not long after we arrived and when Big Brother and Big Sister were still enrolled in my glorious home school with Baby Sister tagging along, we were about to cross at a "zeb-brah" (zebra for those of you not yet conversant in British English. C'mon!  Keep up! We need you to be bilingual on this blog!) crossing which is one of the very few places pedestrians are supposed to be able to cross safely. Bonne chance to you if you believe that.  You take your life in your hands at every intersection.  Young, old, small.  Cross at your peril and look both ways the entire time (even if Big Brother INSISTS on continuing a lengthy explanation of heaven knows what because I was doing my darndest not to have Baby Sister run over so just yanked her by her coat hood). 


Anyhow, when we were still very new here, a man passing us on a bicycle while we crossed at one of those perilous "zeb-brahs" apparently noticed Baby Sister drop her pacifier out of the stroller (aka buggy) and shouted merrily as he rode by "YOU DROPPED YOUR TEAT"! 

Thank goodness he was riding at a good clip because I burst out laughing.  

Being a woman of a certain age who has nursed (still going, you should know. And not always mutually willingly.  I'm close to sending you a hostage note. Or at least a proof of life photo. The Mister will certainly be pictured, too) 4 children, I glanced first to my shirt, then to the ground, not knowing what part(s) of me might be embarrassingly exposed to my new neighbors.  We soon discovered he meant Baby Sister had dropped her ninkie.

Baby Sister has since given ninkies up, but Big Brother can still manage to occasionally find ways to announce that we nearly lost/dropped/or that he's just found a teat!  It is all different here.  Even the teats. 


Now off you go.  To find your salad onions.  Just over there, passed that zebra, Darling.

Where Are You From?

Such a simple question, right?  We get it a lot.  I know it is our accents.  Folks here are always so happy to chat about where everyone is from.  Especially at our school, few have short answers. I am never short for words. What? you've noticed!?  Imagine what it is like to be the Mister! Sometimes that poor man's only reprieve is falling asleep. Not that that's always foolproof. And there seems to be no quick way to answer where we're from.  I answer something along the lines of our being Americans, Virginians who just moved from outside of Chicago (must get credit for enduring and then thriving in that weather and we loved it there so).

I think the question also can be a bit of "do you live here or are you on holiday?" (Alert: I will from here on out always refer to being on vacation as going on holiday. I love it. You may think it is pretentious but be warned that I'm sticking with it.) We don't get asked about being here on holiday as much now that I can work my chip and PIN card (coming your way, rest of the world!) and we have mostly stopped crying in public out of the frustration of being new. The first week we arrived we broke something (usually glass) in public for 7 straight days.  Mazel tov!  It was a bit uncanny and on occasion triggered the aforementioned public crying.  Europe is so compact for my family and in those first few weeks we seemed to have sprouted several extra children and each a few wayward limbs.  You've heard of the new book "French Kids Don't Throw Food"?  This was "Big, Noisy Americans Don't Control Their Bodies or Heaven Forbid Their Kids."  Conversely, this is why we were all positively giddy in a Target in October on our first trip back to the States. We could have pushed shopping carts 4 abreast. That felt foreign.

I'm thrilled to say that we're Americans who live here. I also am eternally grateful for everyone who has made us feel at home in London. I am eager to tell them how much we love it all.  I am positively indebted to the many, many people who have made us feel welcome wherever we land.  This wandering won't last forever but meanwhile, we pride ourselves in being good at being new and making our home wherever we are together.  We are from our home.

After sending all of our furniture and nearly every bit of our things ahead on a ship and living without for a few months, I thought I was very zen about possessions.  But reuniting with our things was great medicine and solace for nursing some heartbreak for having left and the trickiness of being new.  Our things are important. They've become our home.  It is the collection of our life story. Not fancy, but ours. The well-loved secretary was originally a china cabinet in our first apartment. We bought the boys' dresser at an antique store when we really shouldn't have because we weren't sure how jobs would pan out when (baby) Biggest Brother arrived. But I was hugely pregnant and nesting and it was still cheaper than buying one new. Our dining room table was an old display table from Marshall Field.  These all make up our home.  I didn't realize, though that our things could look like where we're from.  I'm telling you, this experience has made me think of everything differently and see even our belongings through fresh eyes.

Recently I hosted an American playgroup at our flat. One of the moms got teary leaving saying she felt like our home was "so American."  (The Mister said it was that most of our dining room wall is a giant old railroad map of the US.)  Our Greek landlord described it as "very Ralph Lauren!"  (Hey, folks at the Ralph Lauren on New Bond Street!  Need a hand doing your windows?  I keep hearing we have the same taste.  I understand from the proprietor of one of my favorite Portobello Road shops that you'd been in for store displays.  I'm willing to bet you had a bigger budget but can't brag for having found vintage lawn balls with Big Brother's monogram.).  If our belongings and our home look American I can only be happy.

No one has come over and said it looks Canadian. On occasion though, folks have asked if we're Canadian. That always makes me feel bad in a second fiddly sort of way.  I see the Canadians shuffling their feet, looking down and muttering, "No. We're neighbors. Sound a bit alike, though, 'spose?" while mentally chalking up another gripe against the red white and blue.

If where we are from is tricky for me to answer, it must be even more so for the kids. I am thrilled they are becoming so worldly, but eager to instill in them that they're Virginians first. Deep down, I know they all would understandably have slightly different answers about where they're from. Biggest Brother is the only one with clear memories of our life in Virginia and the 3 big kids are tied to our amazing old town in Illinois.  We all are, and that's fodder for another long entry.  And Baby Sister, despite having the pedigree of being born in a Midwestern hospital in a very chi-chi town, will have her first memories as a Londoner.  They play "shop" in "pounds" while pushing "trollies."  Big Sister, learning reading and phonics from the British, sounds the most British all of a sudden.  I envision someday asking patience of stateside teachers. The children may need time to drop the British spellings they're working so hard to learn as well as the countless funny words and phrases that have become their norm. Not to mention my insufferable notes when I wish them well on holiday. I pity those poor teachers suffering through my long winded explanation of where we're from.  Maybe I'll invite them over and show them that we're from our home.

I Ran So Far Away and Charity Begins at Home

I went running this weekend.  To Buckingham Palace. If you've visited us, I suspect you're saying, "Uh huh. Then where?"  It is admittedly not far, but felt so good to move like that.  Good for the soul.  Also soles.  And solo!  Hooray, all.

The Mister and I ran a marathon together when we were newlyweds.  We ran what's called the "World's Friendliest Marathon" and that was hugely helpful. To be extra sure I'd finish, I told everyone I knew I was doing it.  We loved it.  It was a fantastic shared experience and became our shorthand in delivery rooms years later ("What mile are you on?").  Even though I've bounced between gyms, classes, various workouts, and nothing at all, it has been a long time since I've run.  And just not after a wayward toddler.

I went running because I could and because what started as my 40th birthday knocking softly has turned into a more incessant pound. And have you seen how amazing Elle Macphearson looks at 48? Here I should mention that every single one of my girlfriends and relatives who has already hit that milestone has never looked better.  Tough acts to follow and inspiration from all corners.  Fresh air in my lungs, sun on my face, legs going, mind free, it was great fun.

At first I had to train myself to ignore calls of "Mum!" in the park knowing they weren't for me, to not fret over whether every little errant dog was missing from a worried owner, and steel my eyes ahead so as not to be helpful to others. I wasn't planning the children's liturgy for Mass on Sunday, serving as the homework helpline, my family's ambassador or crossing guard. I fear that sounds terribly nasty and selfish and much worse, ungrateful of my many blessings.  But boy it felt good.  No one saw me.  No one talked to me and that was fine.  It was super.  I was in a cone of silence and invisible to the world.

On the way, I saw a Number 9 bus to Trafalgar Square which is always a treat.  It is one of the routes that still uses the very old style and has become a family favorite. Alone in front of the palace for the first time, I felt myself smiling at my good fortune. Buckingham Palace is a matter of steps from my door!  There's Big Ben popping up over the trees! Over there!  The London Eye!  The guardsmen in their winter greys (even if they do spook me a bit looking so Wizard of Oz-ish)! Look! A newly married couple taking lots of great photos! This is great!

Next I climbed the steps to the Victoria Memorial and was struck by the piece that faces the palace. I've since learned it is called both Charity and Motherhood. (sigh.) Although it is missing a member of my brood to be complete, it really speaks to me. Baby at the breast, one tucked under her free arm, another snuggled in the folds of her skirt.  No wonder her eyes are a bit downcast.  She's dozing. Or trying to catch a glimpse of the Times. (Especially on the weekends when it comes with no fewer than 3 must-read magazines!)  She looks peaceful, content, encircling babes in her arms.  Her heart and mind are probably as full.  She personifies what people often say when they pass me: "Your hands are full" to which even the smalls now join me in responding cheerfully, "happily so!"

On the way back through lovely streets and then the park, I was near tears admiring the nooks and crannies (my favorite thing about London) and feeling a bit overwhelmed by how much more we have to do.  Just in London.  And all over Europe.  Just how impossible it will be to take it all in even if we are here for a lifetime. And devoted ourselves to the study of a tiny corner of the city's beautiful buildings and charming streets.  Even before we'd really dug into restaurants, shows and museums.  A lovely problem to have to be sure.  A blessing of riches indeed.

I was busy thinking of my little people the whole time, and not just in getting moony over the statue. Turning toward home, I was pumping my arms while planning to have a big surprise art afternoon this week and "Alphabet Month" for February.  The running freed me of countless nos and made me think more creatively about our time together and enjoying it all.  As I neared the park, I was only walking and caught the eye of 4 tourists in search of their hotel.  After my time alone, I was grateful to chat with them and tickled to know my new city well enough to set them on their way.

I was tempted to tell them to drag their suitcases a bit further and go see the palace.  They could witness Charity before they'd unpacked.  Unless she'd dashed off for a quick run.

Precious Car Go

I love cars.  Always have.  Apparently one of my first phrases was "putt putt car" to describe a classic MG.  The Mister and I always went to auto shows. My primary objective for my first real job was to buy a car. Success came in the form of a white used Mazda Miata (!) after a long summer answering phones.  I hoped to always own convertibles and a couple I did. One of my favorite memories is being hooted at by my gang of girlfriends as I left our annual weekend away, ragtop down, sunglasses on. (Never one to take a compliment too seriously, I shouted to them to remember that a breast pump was stowed in the tiny trunk!)

Convertibles took a hiatus when I fell in love with my station wagon and then a series of Suburbans.  Four children, two drum kits and several budding sport stars made this the world's perfect car for us.  Rights of passages all of those cars.  I remember looking in my review mirror in the station wagon, seeing a pair of children strapped into carseats and wondering how this all happened to me when I still felt 8 years old.  When the boys were little and the Mister in graduate school, I used to drive them down country roads long after dark in the summer, windows down, all of us yelling the words to Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic."  You can't do that on the 274 to Lancaster Gate.  At least without causing a stir.

I have cried saying goodbye to every car we've owned.  Cars are like houses to me.  They are part of our family, part of the story of our life.  So I am truly surprised that I don't miss a car.  Our life now is traveled on foot or by bus and there are countless lovely things about that.

We hit the ground running here.  Big Brother majored in bus routes and all things Transport for London before he started actual school this fall.  The kids are old pros at hailing buses and cabs, swiping my Oyster card and endearing themselves to bus and cab drivers.  I've adapted, too.  Having really never understood the need for a diaper bag, I found myself purchasing something very similar to one shortly after we arrived.  I am in love with my "purse" as it holds basically what my Suburban did (minus soccer uniforms).  I keep an umbrella, rain hat (we do live in London), bandana, various cosmetic and medical supplies and the essentials for the 6 of us.  It has special clips to attach to our buggy and a long strap for when I want to wear it like a messenger bag.  I take pride in helping strangers with the goodies stowed inside.  And my ever present scarf doubles as child wrap, picnic blanket, and towel.  So, car? Who needs it?  I'm modern urban mom.  My errands are steps away.

But sometimes I do miss driving.  I long for impulse antiquing, knowing treasures could be tossed in "the way back."  It can be lots of work running an evening errand with the kids on foot.  Lots of effort to get everyone to walk.  And follow me.  And cross safely.

Sometimes we walk out the front door of our building and the children seem to walk in 4 different directions.  The Mister says he misses strapping little people in and going.  There was less negotiating required.  I miss reading the Sunday paper, hoarded catalogs, and everything else while being driven on weekend errands.  I miss driving with NPR on.  I miss this American Life and Morning Edition stories so good that I idle in the driveway waiting for their conclusions.  The kids miss our old 1920s detached garage which was more clubhouse, toy storage, and impromptu theater than a garage.

We've rented cars on trips which has been great fun. And funny.  Especially on our trip to France. Unless you are the very grumpy gendarme who wordlessly reached through the driver window to get our rental car into reverse when were stuck making a u-turn. The kids were breathlessly asking if the Mister was about to be arrested as he approached, his puffy pants tucked into tall boots.

I have no doubt that we will drive and own cars again. But because that likely means we'd be saying goodbye to our London life, I don't want to hurry it along. Cars will be there when we're ready. Meanwhile, I'm hoping somewhere engineers are busy perfecting the hybrid Chevrolet Suburban.  I'm hoping they'll consider a convertible model.