Twins

Oh, it's been a while.

But for good reason: our darling identical boys were born on December 30th, and arrived home at a quarter to midnight on December 31st to a spectacular display of fireworks.

We've taken our sweet time getting to know them but even so, in the blink of an eye, the so-called "fourth trimester" has flown by and I've found myself putting away size 0-3 month sleepsuits and vest tops - forever.

The bony toes and ankles you see above have filled out into deliciously plump feet that I kiss every time I change their diapers; their saggy knees no longer the sharp obtrusions that jutted out below my ribcage but now round little mounds that dig into my postpartum belly when I lift them up to burp.

Although our house has remained inexplicably calm since their arrival (quiet, except for the indignant screams of hunger when I'm a second too slow in providing breast or bottle), for weeks I operated in a robotic survival mode: methodically changing diapers, feeding, and burping before gently laying them back down in their cot to sleep without so much as a cuddle.

"Don't!" I shouted at my parents who held them for a minute too long after burping. "They'll get too used to falling asleep on you!"

My mother obeyed me but looked forlorn putting Twin 1 into the cot; my dad almost always succeeded in making them fall asleep on him with his gentle, rhythmic pats.

I had trouble accepting them into our family life at first - it was an adjustment for us all. Their arrival was almost disruptive - a breaking of the bond between me and our eldest. At least, it felt like that to me. I wept as I watched my son play contentedly with his new fire engine, a "gift" from the twins, which felt deceptive and merely a tool to distract him from the fact that I was hobbling around the house, trying to stay on top of painkillers and night feeds.

And I worried. Oh, how I worried: that our eldest was having too much screen time; that we still hadn't been referred to the tongue-tie clinic and it had been nearly two weeks since we were discharged from the hospital (both boys were found to have severe ties, as was the case with my first); that my husband was fatigued and wrought with worry over work; that my c-section scar hadn't healed properly; that I wasn't bonding properly with the twins.

Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

And then, one day, I opened my eyes, and they opened their eyes and looked back at me, and in that moment, I knew, I knew. Suddenly, it clicked into place and they fit into me in this outside world just as they did inside. Our bond was complete.

They were born with heads full of jet black hair: a pair of little ravens, with cries that filled the operating room like squawks and sharp, pointed little fingernails that bewildered and freaked me out.

Our eldest took an immediate interest in them, gently stroking their hair and kissing their knees. That's changed a little now: the hair-stroking is interspersed with violent rocking of the bouncers when he thinks we aren't watching, and blankets snatched from their laps, followed by a cackle of laughter, especially after seeing our stern expressions and hearing our exclamations of, "No, gentle!"

But, here we are: a family of five.

And we just fit. Like so.

Frankly, I'm Terrified

The first thing the midwife said to me when she read my file and saw that I was expecting identical twins (and that I had an 18-month-old at home) was: "You'll need to let some things go."

She was kind, but firm in her advice. And what she meant was: I won't always have a clean home. I won't always have time to put my son to bed and massage his legs after bath time and read three stories after dinner. I won't always be able to head out into the world with a full face of makeup and a chic, put-together outfit (not that there's much of that these days anyway, unless I'm heading into work!).

John has been gently reminding (read: nagging) me to start by letting some things "go" now - for example, stop making separate meals for our son (one weekend morning, I found myself simultaneously stewing apple, oranges, prunes and cinnamon to help with his constipation and preparing a slow-cooker chicken soup with four different types of veggies so I could freeze it and ask his nanny to give it to him for lunch).

"Your perfectionism will destroy you - or us," he said.

And he's right.

At the very root of the anxiety and depression I've struggled with for years is this obsession with "being enough". Doing enough.

And after the recurrent miscarriages I experienced, together with my son's difficult birth and subsequent hospital stays, the way I dealt with the trauma was to do my best to provide the best for my child.

To me, this meant breastfeeding him exclusively for nearly a year (until his interest naturally waned and he became fully weaned), even if it meant I was waking up at 3 or 4 a.m. to pump when he was asleep; even if it meant I bled from over-pumping; or that I couldn't get my hair cut for months because I was so anxious about getting back in time for a feed.

And when he transitioned onto solid foods, it meant preparing meals from scratch for him (luckily, his nanny does the lion's share of this now and she is an excellent cook), ensuring he had a fresh supply of whole fruit replenished every week, and that I was baking sugar-free cakes and waffles that I knew he'd love as snacks.

It meant creating the perfect nursery for him: with perfect Scandi-inspired decor, the perfect breathable pillow to rest his head on, the perfect sheepskin mattress topper to "keep him cool in the summer and warm in the winter", the perfect organic cotton cot sheets, and the perfect hand-knit doll that I felt would best comfort him at night if he were to wake.

He doesn't need any of these things - I know that. I know it. (Though - can I just say - his bed looks insanely comfy?)

And I know I've been doing all these things for myself, more than I've perhaps been doing them for him. Reassurance. Insurance. An apology for those terrible first days and weeks. Because somehow I still see it as my fault.

Because each four-layered muslin blanket and soft toy is a whispered, "I'm sorry."

And I know what he wants more than anything else - more than any green garbage truck replica (his current favorite) - is for me to play with him; to hold and cuddle him. Which I do. As much as I can.

And so, I'm scared. I'm scared that I won't know how to cope when the twins arrive and I literally can't "do it all".

Because doing it all - or attempting to do it all - is what keeps me sane, even when it's driving me to madness.

My goal in the next few weeks and months is to try to gradually begin to find a balance in all of this ... and to find time for myself and my husband too.

But it may be the biggest challenge I've ever faced, and I'm terrified of this journey.

To My Son, On His First Birthday

Dear A,

I got a paper cut the other day when I was opening a box of party decorations for your birthday. It was one of those stiff, cardboard Amazon envelopes and it sliced into the crease of my middle finger and palm, just as I tore it open. I yelped, but forgot all about it until I went to wash my hands later and felt a sharp sting: ah, that paper cut.

Just like how, after twelve months of getting to know you (of loving you), I've forgotten how much it stung to hear the words, "I'm so sorry, but the embryo stopped growing some time ago," in a darkened ultrasound room. The tears I cried when I saw the pregnancy test read 'negative' again. And again, and again. How I felt ripped in half when you were taken from me in the delivery room and whisked straight to the Special Care Baby Unit in an incubator your Daddy called, "the little fire engine".

Those paper cuts were cuts on my heart, but you healed them.

You know, your Gung Gung wrote me the nicest note when I told him about my miscarriages (note: your Gung Gung is one of the kindest, funniest human beings in the world, and you are too lucky to have a Gung Gung like him). He said: "Jaime, don't feel too sad about it, because it was not meant to be. Take good care of yourself, and a real healthy little person who is truly belong to you will come along [sic]."

And he couldn't have been more right: you truly belong to me, and to your Daddy, and you to us. You, with your expressive eyebrows and your mischievous grin; you, with your long lashes and perpetually flexed feet; you, who loves to explore your surroundings safely from atop the "Mommy Perch" i.e. in my arms.

My darling: on your first birthday, I want you to know just how loved you are, and how your Daddy and I wanted you - you - in our lives so very, very much. You have brought us more joy and laughter than we could have ever imagined and you make me, your mom, so happy every minute of the day.

Even when you sneeze oatmeal on my work clothes. Even when you bust out of your sleeping bag after I tell you not to. Even when you flip on your stomach and push the bear nightlight off the changing table when I'm getting you dressed in the morning. Even when I wake up with your feet firmly wedged between my eye and my nose, your big toe occasionally twitching (btw, sleep training officially resumes after your party. Sorry, mister!).

All these things make me smile.

And I hope we make you happy too: when Daddy blows raspberries on your tummy in the morning; when we take you to the park and push you on the swings; when I make cinnamon apple waffles for your snack.

I love you, A, always and forever. Thank you for making these past twelve months the most wonderous days and nights of my life.

Love,
Your Mommy xxx

The Juggle Is Real

I stole this line from an Instagram friend (@anglopologie), but it sums up my first week as a working mama pretty darn well.

I mean, it was a shock to the system!

I'm currently working four days per week: Monday - Wednesday in the office and Thursday from home. On Monday morning, I anxiously woke before my alarm went off, peered at my little one's sleeping face, crept out of bed, and proceeded to dress in the dark (I plan my outfit the night before now!). Gone are the days I'd change 5-6 times before leaving the house because I was unhappy with my original outfit. And buh-bye rolling-out-of bed-at-the-very-last-minute!

I did my make-up in a flash and scooped up the baby, who looked as bewildered as me to be up at this time of the morning. I changed him ("No, really, stop - STOP - wriggling. Mama does NOT have time for - STOP. STOP IT!") before plonking him in his high chair downstairs and proceeding to run around like a chicken with its head cut off in the kitchen, defrosting frozen cubes of food I'd prepared the day before for his lunch, while making peanut butter toast fingers for his breakfast and periodically feeding him spoonfuls of oatmeal.

Before I knew it, I heard a key turn in the door and our nanny arrived with her baby in tow (who's three months younger than mine), shouting a cheerful, "Good morning!". I threw on my coat and babbled, "He's not finished with his breakfast. He's due a poo today. He can have a yogurt as a snack and the porridge fingers I made last night. OH. I accidentally left his snowsuit in the washing machine, so you'll need to put him in the back-up-snowsuit if you take them outside. THANK YOU!"

And - silly move on my part - as I closed the door behind me, I looked back. What did the movies teach us? TO NEVER LOOK BACK. And I did, and it was THE WORST. My baby's high chair is (foolishly) positioned in view of the front door. So what did I see when I glanced back? The worried and confused expression on his little face; his neck craned to get a better look at me, his brows upturned in two perfect inverted commas. Right before the door clicked shut.

My eyes pricked with tears as I sped-walk to the bus and my emotions were made all the more worse when the bus route took us past the hospital and - I'm not kidding - the actual room I labored in. I mean, crazy, right?

But as soon as I got on the tube, I was in "work mode" again and everything quickly became both strange and familiar: the crush of commuters angling for an empty seat; the passive-aggressive 'tuts' and sighs when someone took up too much room in the doorway or aisle; the rush to get out of the station.

At work, everyone was very lovely and kept exclaiming how glad they were to have me back. I spent my first day or so filing away some papers (and re-reading previous emails I'd sent, surprised at my confident and authoritative tone and wondering if I'd ever achieve that level of assurance again) and scraping the dusty crevices of my brain for answers when co-workers came to ask me questions. They were there - just a little out of reach. I realized I need to re-familiarize myself quickly; like returning to school after summer vacation.

I nervously checked my phone for WhatsApp updates from our nanny (she sent pictures of a smiling baby clutching a balloon, then eating a mini quiche with his hands) and bolted out the door at the end of the day, running - no, sprinting - for the train home.

And he was not happy to see me. He was angry. I opened the door to a furious baby, standing in his Stokke Tripp Trapp chair, flapping his arms and angry-crying with an accusatory look as if to say, 'Where have you BEEN?' But, as soon as I picked him up and we had a cuddle, he forgave me (and when his dad came home from work early, he was even happier - I thought he'd take flight, his arms began flapping so maniacally!). We did his bath-time routine together as a family and put him to bed, before John and I cooked dinner together and caught up on our day.

By the time Friday rolled along, I really, really cherished having the whole day to ourselves - just the two of us. More so, admittedly, than if I were home all week long.

I still feel a little sick to my stomach on Sunday night just thinking of the workload ahead of me (I'm effectively cramming five days into four) and I'm sad that my juggling act has taken a real toll on this blog and my Instagram presence, but - I hope to carve a tiny slice of time out of my schedule to keep writing and creating.

Sending lots of love to working mamas (and SINGLE mamas - how do you do it?) out there. The juggle is very, very real.

Am Sick; Will Travel

We just returned from a two-and-a-half week trip to Hong Kong and Japan ... and it was nothing short of amazing. The sights; reconnecting with family; the food (!!!) - we had a phenomenal time and some jaw-dropping moments.

Except.

All three of us were sick at some point - and I don't mean a little sniffle kind of sick, I mean a high temperature/food poisoning/hacking cough/ear infection kind of sick. 

John was sick for the entire trip (he had four different colds and food poisoning) and had three full days of meetings in Singapore, Hong Kong, and Japan. Our baby was recovering from a upper respiratory infection on our way to Hong Kong, then got the dreaded "spluttering virus" (as John and I called it) followed by an ear infection towards the end of our trip in Japan. I developed a stomach bug on my birthday and was treated to the spluttering virus straight afterwards. 

I'd like to say it didn't affect our trip, but it did. Walking around Tokyo with a fever and a sick baby wasn't fun - when I wasn't attempting to syringe Calpol and Nurofen into his mouth (the UK equivalent of baby Tylenol and ibuprofen), I was either running to the bathroom or shivering with chills and aches. And poor John spent at least a day in bed, but gamely soldiered on and completed all sorts of hikes and even a canoeing excursion (which, I don't know how he completed, feeling as bad as he did!).

One night in Tokyo, it was clear that our baby was super uncomfortable and pulling at his ears ... we contacted our Airbnb host and asked if he knew of any nearby hospitals that would take us, but he couldn't really help, so we called six hospitals, one by one. Out of these six, only two receptionists spoke English and one insisted that we needed an "agent" in order to pay for any treatment (they meant medical insurance, which we had, but something was indeed, lost in translation!). The other, thankfully, was able to give me a number for an English-speaking medical assistance hotline and a very helpful man found a baby clinic less than a 10-minute walk away from our Airbnb, where were able to see a pediatrician who prescribed antibiotics for the ear infection and an expectorant for the cough.

But, my goodness - those two hours we spent calling around the hospitals were so stressful! It felt like we were getting nowhere and meanwhile, our little one was becoming increasingly distressed as his temperature climbed.

I know that tending to sick babies on vacation is part of being a parent (it felt like a rite of passage!) but I was surprised at the deeper, underlying lesson I learned about being sick while travelling: that, instead of "pushing through" the discomfort of being ill, it's okay to accept that you might have to spend a day or two in bed, no matter how much you want to go out and explore the exciting place you're in. Even though there were so many things I didn't want to miss out on in Tokyo, I realized I wouldn't have enjoyed them when I was feeling so sick (and, more importantly, that it wasn't worth making my child feel worse by traipsing around - though he was cozily sleeping in the sling 100% of the time!).

Have you ever been sick on vacation? How did you deal? Let me know!

Full Circle

I waved off my parents this morning after a two-week visit and my heart is torn.

It was one of the most surreal moments of my life so far: introducing my son to his grandparents; hearing myself refer to them as "Por Por" and "Gung Gung", having only ever associated those names with my mother's parents.

And as I handed him over to be held, he fixed them with a look so certain that it shook me: pure recognition. As if to say, "What took you so long?"

How did he know?

Over the next two weeks, I watched as they doted on him: my dad humming the University of Oregon fight song ("Go Ducks, go!") as he marched him to sleep, my mom coaxing him to smile and gurgle (which he did, and seemingly only at her encouragement - no one else's) - and I felt sad that we would have to say goodbye so soon.

They babysat while I sneaked off for an hour's blissful postnatal massage; watched him as I attended a hospital appointment in Surrey, my mom texting me to say, "He's fine! Take your time! Window shop if you want, get some retail therapy." I bought a soy hot chocolate at Costa in Waterloo station, watching dizzily as commuters rushed past me - remembering that part of my life that's still in there, somewhere.

I took the tube home and asked my dad - an architect - to sketch our house, as a keepsake.

Our first home.

I passed him on the landing in the mornings as I carried the baby down the stairs and glimpsed him working, intently, in his sketchbook.

After he left, I stared at the drawings and took in the pencil strokes until tears threatened to dampen the pages: each blade of grass in the garden, and a faithful rendering of our Audi A3 parked in front.

And so, I've come full circle: mirroring my parents' trajectory of living abroad, starting a family abroad, and waving goodbye - back and forth, back and forth. A 9 or 10-hour journey (depending on the tail wind) back and forth, across the ocean and another country, transversing time, memories, love, continents. Little toes that seem to grow by the day. Smiles that become increasingly forthcoming. Chubby fists that extend overhead; arms outstretched and wanting.

Waiting.

If I thought that being an expat was hard, being an expat with a kid is much, much harder.

5 Lovely Things You Can Do For a New Mama (and Papa!)

I'm slowly adjusting to my new role as a mother (so surreal to write!) and, because our newborn spent time in the hospital and because my own recovery has been a slow (and hard) slog, I've quickly realized how invaluable it is to ask for - and receive - help.

Even in the tiniest ways.

The day our newborn was discharged from hospital, my mother-in-law arrived from her interrupted holiday in Spain to help, and I couldn't have been more grateful. Like, in tears grateful. She always knew exactly what to do - not only with the baby (it helps that she's a retired midwife and health visitor), but with simple household chores. Her help around the house meant that I had a few extra minutes to catch some sleep whenever I could, and John wasn't run ragged trying to hold everything together.

So, if you know a new parent, here are 5 things you can do for them that will be guaranteed to be helpful.

Bring food. Always bring food - especially food that can be frozen and reheated quickly. Soups, pasta sauces, casseroles, and snacks will be gratefully received, especially if the parents were totally caught off-guard by a baby who arrived 4 weeks early (that's us!). I WhatsApped my NCT group to let them know our baby came early and received a separate message from a couple asking if they could bring around some food for us they had prepared. I'd envisioned cooking in batches to freeze during my maternity leave, but wasn't afforded that time with our premature baby, and the thought of cooking when we were just beginning to find our feet at home felt overwhelming (and we didn't want to depend on unhealthy takeout). I nearly wept when I got home: eggs, milk, a fresh loaf of sourdough bread, homemade muesli bars, frozen homemade apple cake, moussaka had been left on our doorstep. Our fridge and freezer were stuffed to the gills for days by their generosity.

If you don't bring food, offer to cook. It's a little extreme, but nearly every day, my mother-in-law would walk to our favorite grocery store and buy ingredients to make nourishing meals for us, which she would prepare and present to us right after I'd fed the baby. From pork loin steaks with baked potatoes and sour cream to steaks with steamed spinach (crucial for my iron levels as I lost nearly 2 litres of blood during delivery), it felt amazing to eat home-cooked meals after weeks of microwaved meals and hospital food. It doesn't have to be complicated - when I was pregnant, my friend Sophia came over and made the most amazing roasted cauliflower, capers, and parmesan linguine. I'm salivating at the thought of it!

Ask if there's anything you can get to make the mom or dad more comfortable. When my best friend called me while I was in hospital anxiously awaiting test results for our baby, I sobbed to her that I didn't have any clean clothes that were nursing friendly or that fit my postnatal body. John was driving back and forth to our house to get me stuff, but nothing fit. I still had a bit of a bump and very swollen legs and ankles. She arrived two hours later with a bag full of maternity and nursing clothes from H&M ... I tore the tags off and changed right in front of her! It made all the difference when I was stuck in hospital, already feeling emotional and stressed about our little one's progress - having clothes that fit and worked well while I was nursing him made me feel not only more comfortable, but also more human.

Bring distractions. I vividly remember scrolling through Facebook during our second stint in hospital with our baby and watching a 2-minute clip of an Olympic figure-skating routine (which was on at the time) - those two minutes gave me the most heavenly respite from the exhaustion and stress I'd been experiencing. So, along with the clothes she brought me, my friend also stuffed the newest issue of Hello! magazine in the bag for me to read. I laughed, but it worked! Reading about Meghan Markle's upcoming nuptials provided an excellent distraction for me and helped me cope with the anxiety I had over our little one's well-being.

Offer to hold the baby or do chores around the house. Our friend Nick crashed at our place last night and, in the morning, he offered to make me breakfast, hold the baby while I had a shower, and deposit the bed linen he used in our laundry bin. Granted, we're good friends, but I didn't feel shy about asking. My mother-in-law would always ask me, "Is there anything I can get you?" while I was nursing, and she'd helpfully pass me my water bottle or stuff an extra pillow behind my back - it's those little things that make the world of difference to a new mama.

Are you a new parent, a parent-to-be, or a new auntie/uncle, perhaps? I hope these suggestions are helpful!

News

Dear Friends,

Many of you will have already seen our news on Instagram, but John and I recently welcomed our sweet little boy into the world, four weeks earlier than expected. As a result, we spent quite a bit of time in the Special Care Baby Unit immediately after he was born and, subsequently, in the children's ward of the hospital for a further stay, but hopefully he'll be home for good now.

There were so many things I wanted to share with you about my pregnancy (it was a very, very happy time for me), but I chose to keep it offline for a few reasons - mostly because I've experienced multiple pregnancy losses and I wanted to protect friends who were in similar situations. I knew how difficult it was for me to see "bump updates" and week-by-week pregnancy updates online (even from people I knew and loved) when I was trying to navigate some of the darkest days of my life.

And because of this, I wanted to protect myself too, during this incredibly precious (and often terrifying) time.

I would love to write more about my experiences and share the story of our journey when I have a moment to begin processing it all, but for now, we are just enjoying getting to know our lovely boy. I won't be sharing any photos of him or his name at this time, but I look forward to slowly introducing him to you in different ways on this blog in the following weeks and months.

Welcome to the world, Angloyankobaby.

Lots of love,
Jaime xo

10 Things I'm Grateful For in 2018

1. Having a job that I secretly look forward to going back to after the Christmas break. When I was making dinner yesterday, John came up to me, all sad looking, and said he had a "case of the Mondays". First, I corrected him and said that he actually had a case of the Tuesdays, since that's when we were actually heading back to work, but then I felt bad for him because it made me realize that - sure, I was sad that our lovely holiday was over - but I genuinely wanted to go back to work again (and to see my friends there!). "Never leave that place!" he said, like a puppy that had been kicked. Poor thing.

2. Having a husband who puts Frozen on BBC iPlayer on his phone for us to watch when our flight's delayed (and who laughs at all of Olaf's jokes). Our recent flight from Innsbruck to London Stansted was delayed, then eventually cancelled (we had to take a bus to Salzburg in the end) due to "poor weather conditions" (i.e. fog). As I wasn't feeling great already, John wasted no time in distracting me with Elsa's magical ice kingdom. And I might have caught him crooning, "For the first time in foreverrrrrr ..." when we got home like, six hours later.

3. Peppermint tea. An all-around winner. Digestif and anxiety-reducer all-in-one.

4. Underfloor heating. We returned from our week in Austria with cold bathroom floors after turning off the underfloor heating before we left and I bellowed, "THIS IS INHUMANE!" (Yes, I absolutely realize that underfloor heating is a luxurious privilege and has nothing to do with human rights, but just roll with me for a moment on this one ...)

5. New technology. My UK driving test is scheduled for later this month and can I just say how much I'm looking forward to having driver-less cars in our lives? Every time I approach a roundabout, I feel like closing my eyes and hoping for the best (please don't tell my driving instructor that. Please.). For now, apps, Google Home (who provides witty answers to questions like, "Hey Google, do you want to build a snowman?" with, "Sure, the cold never bothered me anyway!"), etc. are making my life so much easier (which is all great until we begin to encroach on Black Mirror territory, at which point it all becomes a bit terrifying).

6. Our neighbors. They take in our oversized post when we're at work, put our trash bins back in their place when we're away, and popped around on Christmas Day for a chat and a drink. They cook for me when John's travelling for work and bring champagne over to share when it's their birthday. They shared their shower when our boiler was broken. WHAT KIND OF STREET IS THIS?!?!

7. London bus drivers. They deal with drunken abuse, the narrowest of streets, and cyclists that come out of nowhere (and I mean, nowhere - it's like they've Apparated ala Dobby in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets) with the patience of saints. 

8. Pubs. It took me over a decade of living in the UK to finally appreciate them, but yeah, I was the one who brightly suggested we stop in for a drink at the local pub on our muddy country walk to the next village last weekend when we stayed with John's dad. Back in London, we have our favorite (with our favorite table), and heading there on a frosty (or sunny) evening for delicious food, friendly company, and (sometimes) live music, is such a lovely treat.

9. Our new sofa, arriving February 2018. It's gonna be large, it's gonna be comfy, and I'm gonna disappear into it all day long.

10. Netflix, for introducing me to Korean soap operas. Thank you for providing endless hours of entertainment, which I listen to at a high volume despite not understanding a word and relying completely on subtitles.

What are you grateful for in 2018, whether or big or small? I'd love to know!

Indefinite Leave to Remain

So, it's been a pretty crazy and momentous few weeks for me ... first, after months of nagging from John, I finally signed up for and passed my UK driving theory test.

Whew! That test was hard, compared to the US version (I also found it a little bewildering and intimidating to be subjected to nearly airport-style security upon arriving at the test center). I especially struggled with the infamous "hazard perception" section of the test, where you're shown 14 CGI clips of a drive (in a mix of rural and urban areas) from the driver's perspective and are instructed to click on "developing" hazards within a prescriped period of time. If you click too early? BAM! Zero points. Clicked too late? Sorry, buddy, ZERO POINTS. I was failing every single practice test up until the night before the real thing ... out of desperation, I watched a video on YouTube (hilariously filmed by some kid in his college dorm room) and ... passed the next day! (Tip: if you're thinking of studying for the theory test, the app is the best way to learn.)

Oh! And we bought a car. Hence the need for a UK driver's licence (US licenses don't simply transfer over).

In anticipation of my practical driving test in January (gulp!), I've booked in some lessons with "Dave" - my neighbor's kids' driving instructor - who said reassuringly, "Don't you worry about a thing - you'll do brilliantly. Just let me do the worrying, okay?" after I recounted the story of how I drove up on the curb with John recently and felt "traumatized" by my first UK driving experience. I can tell we're going to get along well.

But the biggest milestone of all, for me, was being granted Indefinite Leave to Remain status by the Home Office last Saturday. After over a decade of living in the UK, I finally submitted the application I'd been wanting to hand over for years. John came with me to the Premium Service Centre in Croydon (where you can typically get a same-day decision) to literally and figuratively hold my hand - and I'm so glad he did, because I had a slight hiccup with my application (which got figured out in the end) and I totally panicked.

After I received my congratulatory letter, all I wanted was a Nando's chicken feast and to pass out on my bed at home (I got both).

I spent the rest of the weekend in a bit of a daze - happy, grateful, nostalgic, and hopeful - especially after I found out that I can apply for British citizenship once my biometric permit arrives.

I went to yoga on Sunday morning and I think it all became a little too much for me: when the teacher asked us to imagine someone supportive and loving in our lives during savasana, John's face and his kind smile immediately appeared in my mind and I started quietly sobbing, until the teacher came around and surreptitously handed me a box of tissues.

(I kind of love him. Just a little bit.)

Speaking of John, he'd managed to score us some tickets to see Van Morrison at the Eventim Apollo earlier in the year - and it felt like the perfect way to celebrate. We had amazing seats, held hands, and marvelled at the fact that he had - at 72 - the stamina to complete a 90-minute set with no breaks. His voice was as strong as ever, and his instrumental skills alone were incredible. So, so special.

I sat there that night in the dark auditorium, along with the rest of audience, as Van sang, "When you don't need to worry, there'll be days like this," with the biggest grin plastered across my face.

It felt - and it feels - nice to be so happy.

Relationship Goals

I can count the number of times I've thrown up in my adult life on one hand.

Really.

Two of those times were in front of John. And both of those times, he held back my hair, stroked my back, and whispered encouragement like, "Oh, you poor thing. Oh, bad luck, sweetie. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, sweetheart. I know. It's just a shock. You'll feel so much better when it's over, I promise," as I vommed chunks into the bathroom sink (because I could never make it in time to the toilet, and also because bending down that extra bit seemed improbable to me in the moment).

And after that - after I spat out the last, bile-filled mouthful and collapsed, face red and tear-streaked on the bathroom floor (because even as an adult, I find throwing up awfully traumatizing) - he was the one who sweeped away my vomit with his bare hands and handed me a glass of water to rinse out my mouth, before fetching another glass of water to mix up a rehydration packet because he didn't want me to wake up with a headache. 

That, my friends, is the definition of relationship goals: someone who will scoop up your vomit with his/her bare hands. 

Not those sappy, Pinterest-worthy quotes about holding doors open and compliments and long hugs and texting, "Good morning" and "Goodnight" (they're sweet, but not necessarily "goals").

Vomit.

Bare hands.

Because relationship goals is about being there when the shit hits the fan (um, sometimes literally ... Norovirus 2010, is all I have to say) - and loving that person in their most vunerable, humiliating, and lowest moments. And every single time, it's those moments where my husband's true character shines: patience, empathy, kindness - selflessness. 

So, the second time I spewed into the sink, it was about 10 p.m. by the time I finally cleaned myself up and gingerly climbed back into bed.

"Do you want to watch 'The Andes' on BBC iPlayer?" he asked, propping up my pillows for me.

I nodded.

And he held my hand as I watched, heavy-lidded, while puma cubs frolicked in the mountains on the screen in front of us before finally turning onto my side and falling asleep. But he kept it on just a bit longer because he knew that the sound would calm my anxiety and help me fall asleep faster.

But the real reason why I fell asleep so quickly that night was because I felt safe and loved - unconditionally so.

You Before Me

On a recent trip back to Leicester, John triumphantly recovered a box full of childhood memories from his dad's attic: school workbooks; a Thundercats figurine; a well-loved teddy, his ears misshapen and worn from too many nighttime snuggles with a small, fair-haired boy.

I patted the teddy and gave the stuffed owl an affectionate squeeze, but it was John's schoolwork that I pored over extensively. Fascinated by the insight it gave me into the person I knew and loved so much, I delighted in discovering his long, sloping cursive, written in mandatory blue fountain ink. I spent hours in front of the TV, on our couch at home, reading workbook after workbook - smiling at a teacher's encouraging feedback and frowning at grades I thought were unfair.

English workbooks from primary school revealed a sweet boy with a sense of humour and lovely imagination, harshly critiqued by a (possibly?) embittered teacher. I thumbed through pages and pages of physics and chemistry equations - equations that I hadn't even begun to ponder until my final year of high school, which he solved with precision at ages thirteen and fourteen. French conjugations painstakingly written and re-written, again and again.

This part of John - this part of his history - unlocked a part of him to me that I'd never known, but had been eager to meet. 

This was him before me.

At times, I was overwhelmed with emotion, reading these workbooks. I laughed at the silly stories, marvelled at the difficult math problems, but most of all, I saw that he, i.e. the same person he is today, had always been there.

I saw a trajectory from childhood to adulthood that was so much more straightforward than mine, and therefore, interesting. As a child, then teen, then university student, my interests were varied and unfocused. I excelled at everything and nothing at once. John was different: focused, logical, and methodical. Especially talented in math and science. A lover of football. Popular. Fun. Loyal.

The box revealed all these things, and the revelation was amazing. It made me love him even more.

Have you ever wondered what your best friend, partner, or relative was like before you met them?
(My brother plays this great game with my dad after dinner ... we'll be sitting at the table and he'll ask, "Dad ... what were you doing in [inserts year]?" We learned so much about my dad from those stories!)

So, I'm Dating Again

... John, that is.

I'm dating my husband.

Did you have a near heart-attack when reading that post title?! I know it sounds weird, but I love going on dates with John, even though we've been together for twelve years, and married for (nearly) five. A movie night, tickets to the Globe, Tate lates, sushi at the train station before heading home - they all seem so special when we spend the week rushing around each other, flying in and out of the house at lightning speeds.

John gets up around 5:30 every morning for work, so sometimes I don't even wake up until after he's gone (that's how deeply I sleep!), so it feels extra special to spend time with him at the end of the day. On rare occasions, we'll meet for lunch at a point mid-way between our offices, but even that feels rushed and distracted.

Our favorite place to go is this little French-Italian restaurant that's nearly on our doorstep. I like to dress up if we're going there - even though it's less than a 10-minute walk away! The tables are candlelit, with white tablecloths and roses, so it feels just fancy enough for a date - but not so fancy that we can't totally relax. The staff recognize us and know my favorite dessert (it's this insane, hot  toffee crumble served with a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream on top, so it all melts together in a delicious sweet and gooey mess), and we walk home afterwards, arm-in-arm, when the sun is setting (summer) or when the stars are out (winter). We always take our parents there when they visit and they love it too! It feels really special.

Last weekend, friends of ours couldn't make it to a performance of The Tempest at the Barbican, so we took their tickets. Going "into town" (AKA Central London) on a Saturday night is rare for us (we'd much prefer cooking/ordering take-out and watching a movie on the couch, or grabbing drinks and hot dogs at our local brewery), but we made a date out of it by doing a little shopping beforehand (and buying a new wedding ring for John - his THIRD one, folks. THIRD), sitting down for a quick bite to eat at Gaucho, and buying candy during intermission. It felt romantic and fun, and later (because it was still warm out), we walked back to the tube station and I loved every minute of it.

The next morning, I was in a great mood, and we ended up playing frisbee in our garden and just having a great day together. It's been a little stressful lately with the bathroom works going on at home (I've had to return literally every single item I bought for the bathroom I'm in charge of designing, while John's loft shower room is basically beautiful and perfect) and decisions needing to be made about our trip to Japan and Hong Kong in December, but I've found that going out out has allowed us to be a little more carefree and playful at home.

Although we both love being at home, I've realized that no matter how good and comforting being within those four walls feels, rediscovering our mutual interest in art, music, theatre, and eating out has only strengthened our relationship. Dating reminded me of the couple we were when we first met - when we were curious about each others' opinions and likes/dislikes. I loved hearing what he thought of Prospero in The Tempest, for example, more than I loved hearing what he thought of the mind-numbingly boring paint colors I was holding in my hand at Homebase last week ("BUT IS IT TOO DUSKY PINK? OR IS IT MORE OF A PINKY PINK?" I was overheard shrieking in Aisle 4).

We're off to see Andrew Scott  (AKA Moriarty from Sherlock) in Hamlet in a few weeks, and I can't wait.

How about you? If you're in a relationship, do you take time to date, or are you naturally homebodies like we are? I'm curious to know!