Relocation

Our house got relocated over the last 12 months. A year ago, when we moved in fresh from our 9 months in Cambridge (England), we found ourselves in a lovely, warm and sunny place. Fast-forward a year (of riviera weather), and we're now finding ourselves living in a cold, damp, and dark cave, which could desperately use some Southern exposure.
Of course we haven't moved at all. It's amazing what context/perspective (the weather of the previous few months) can do to one's perception.

A kind soul suggested my blues from the past post were probably caused by the weather, but I do doubt it: it's mostly gorgeous here this time of year with beautiful, awe-striking colors. Do come in the winter or spring if you ever want to visit...

... Not that I would know if we'd still be here or not. The vulnerability I mentioned in the past post is simply living on the razor-thin edge where to the left, ladies and gentlemen, is routine in this neck of the woods with predictable daycare and mommy+me and yoga; and if you look over to your right is the green pastures (or abyss?) of relocating completely again to a whole new place. If you would like to suggest that for my sanity a decision rather a razor-thin edge of indecision would be preferable, you do not need to bother, but thanks for the suggestion.

Nothing like a post on weight issues to attract no comments at all!

The little one is cracking me up. She climbs up the tiles on the side of our bathtub to get to the soapdish (carved into the wall), using only a fraction of her tiny toes on the smallest of reliefs on tiles and grouting for adherence. We catch her lugging around her diaper bag (bigger than her, same weight as her), her lego truck (on wheels, but definitely bigger), full-size chairs, or doing side bicep curls with her child-size chair. I may have to break it to her that miss Universe does not allow contestants below 1 year of age, and that her extra girth at the waist-line wouldn't fare too well anyway.

She's got her own dance steps, bending at the knees with butt nicely sticking out. She hikes up the stairs with the gait of a soldier in some totalitarian army (you know the look: leg straight up, foot at hip-height). She talks up a storm, especially with other kids. She would eat all the christmas decorations, but especially the glittery christmas balls and lights, if we let her. She's decided mashed up food is for babies and is much more interested in chunks of bread/pasta/fruit/veggie. And I've given in to the national obsession with sturdy ankle-bracing shoes: (US advocate soft-soled shoes, France goes for clunky heavy hard-soled ankle-covering ugly boots), simply because she walks better with those. For now at least.

This week will be one of packing for the trip. I have sneakily purchased a new toy (something I thought I'd never do), a bubbles container, and (holy moly) a little spinny thing like they sell at fairs (where you blow air and the thing spins; there must be a better name for this). She's captivated by the spinning vent in our kitchen, and I'm hoping between those three and my usual bag of tricks that the two of us (and our 150 fellow passengers) will survive the trip in economy class on our single seat while P lives it up in b class! Spare us a thought next weekend.

Thinking of you, friends, around the world. The world always seems a smaller place to me this time of year.