"boo-she"
I know not everyone celebrates Christmas…but we do…so in honor of today – also known as Christmas – I wanted to wish all of you a happy day filled with lots of fun and joy and laughter.
This is our Christmas card.
And now I’m sharing it with you.
Because you are awesome.
I am so thankful that you are here, reading this.
PS: I’m the reindeer on the left. Tim is the right. Kellan the middle. Obviously.
Happy Christmas Eve! It’s supposed to snow for Christmas this year.
I’m very excited.
We baked cookies yesterday.
Baked and baked and baked.
And baked.
We still have one more batch to bake, but only because the dough requires overnight refrigeration. I saw a recipe for the best chocolate chip cookies from an old NY Times article and decided that now is as good a time as any to try them.
The recipe still scares me.
Just check out the first sentence on the step where us *normal* people would just drop a rounded teaspoon on a pan and call it a day.
We’ll see how they turn out.
After, of course, I turn all of the vertical chips to a more eye pleasing horizontal position.
Between all of the baking, I dealt with an on-the-mend-clingy-sick baby and Tim dropped off/picked up the dogs off from getting groomed.
Everybody is going to be clean for Christmas. Every. Body.
Why so much baking?
Because I decided we had to make cookies (plain, easy chocolate chip and peanut butter) for the Post Office and Police Department as part of our random acts of kindness.
They better like them, is all I’m saying.
I have no idea what is wrong with me, either.
We also made *our* cookies — Hazelnut-but-really-pecan balls and Jammies. And the dough for the crazy ingredient chocolate chip cookies.
The powdered sugar on the Jammies got a little out of control. I blame sleep deprivation.
Five Four batches. All baked.
Lucky number six five tomorrow.
Obviously I can’t count.
Oh, and we wrapped Kellan’s gifts. I think we are done wrapping, now, wrapping and baking and cleaning.
Tomorrow should be way chill, minus the aforementioned cookie delivery and the rolling of sausage balls for Christmas morning. We do it classy here, people — cookies and sausage balls and OJ.
And it’s awesome.
Also? To anyone and everyone who has family nearby?
Thank them. Appreciate them. Roll your eyes one less time at them.
It is really, really hard to raise and care for a child on your own AND do evvvvvverrythiiiinnng else all by yourself. And by “yourself” I mean our little family of three
It’s really hard.
I currently dangling at my wits end. Just so you’re in the loop as to my current state. Too much. There is too much going on. I’ll be glad when it’s over and I can have a minute to myself to just BE.
More of our random acts of kindness. Spreading the joy…one small moment at a time.
$5.00 Starbucks gift cards…
Given to random cars in a thrift store parking lot.
A sweet treat for our mail person.
For our pizza delivery guy…
He was only a kid — no older than twenty. I hope that small bit of joy helps him in some way…
Also? I love the saying on the front of the cards. It is so true. And it is something we all should strive to do, I think, even if it is just a simple “hello” and a smile to a person who looks like they need it.
I have to remind myself to find the joy in doing these random acts of kindness. I think, sometimes, well, probably most of the time, I get too wrapped up in the task itself – in executing and completing it – that I don’t stop and think about what I’m actually doing.
Helping someone.
Making another person smile.
Being kind.
I stumbled across this the other day. #26Acts of random kindness to honor the 26 lives lost in Connecticut. How wonderful is it that so many people are doing nice things for complete strangers all over the country? All over the globe?
Obviously, what can anyone say about the awful, awful tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary?
Nothing.
There is absolutely nothing you can say.
It is unfortunate that I know this from firsthand experience, having lost my brother at the tender age of three.
I was seven years old when it happened and it is still a raw spot on my heart. I’m not sure how my mom managed to make it through another day after that, knowing what I know now about having a child. I don’t think I would be able to cope with that kind of loss and my heart truly aches for all of the parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles…grandparents…the list goes on.
So, instead of feeling sad and helpless, Tim, Kellan and I are have decided to join in on the random acts of kindness. Hopefully our small gestures will inspire others to do the same and pay it forward.
It doesn’t take much to brighten someone’s day — and everyone’s day needs brightening at one time or another.
We started our mission this morning at breakfast.
And we will continue to spread the kindness and random joy 25 more times…
…to be continued…
This happened today.
Well, the actual mailing of these first birthday invitations to (mostly) fictional characters, anyway.
(and yes, those a receipts that Tim needs and a piece of our the trunk of our Christmas tree that, at some point, I plan to make an ornament out of, since it is Kellan’s first Christmas tree…all in my abundant spare time, obviously)
Can you believe that we are basically NINE WEEKS away from Kellan’s first birthday?
OMG. OMG. OMG. OMG.
I remember counting nine weeks last year. I remember Christmas last year. I remember thinking that Kellan would be here soon.
I remember looking like this (and this post was written almost exactly a year ago).
And now, he’s here.
And he’s almost one.
How did this year go by so quickly?
Have I started planning his party?
Um.
Yes?
Only…not really?
I’ve gotten as far as the guest list. Theme? Location? Time? Date?
NO CLUE.
I think I’ll start by ordering invitations because, honestly, the number of things I want to get done for his birthday?
Overwhelming.
Invitations are important, right?
The overachiever in me thinks I’ll get it ALL done but the realist knows it probably won’t ALL happen.
I still haven’t even finished Christmas stuff yet.
So, instead of freaking out, because I can feel it coming the more I think about everything I’m not doing, let’s just take a moment and look at this cute face, instead.
I know I’ve been harping on how every. single. holiday. Tim and I will have from now until the sprout comes is THE LAST ONE AS A COUPLE and I’m sure you’re super tired of hearing about it….
BUT
Don’t you want to see what all went down during our last Christmas as a pair instead of a threesome?
It’ll be like you were right there with us…only…slightly delayed.
This Christmas, Tim and I wanted to do everything…cookies and a real tree and decorations and anything and everything else we could possibly cram into the holiday.
(Maybe it was just me who wanted to do “everything,” since I found out this year that the only reason Tim puts up lights outside is because *I* like them)
There would be no slacking like last Christmas where all we had was a fake tree.
In our defense, we had just moved to Colorado and had to move from our temporary asspartment to our house a few days after Christmas, so it didn’t make much sense to go all out, only to have to add extra work to our already overflowing plate of stuff to do. I digress.
This year was completely different.
This year Tim put up the lights for me and we made little boughs for the porch and bought wreaths and it all turned out super freaking adorable, if you ask me.
(I took this picture right after we got something like 10 inches of snow…the piles on either side of the driveway were up to my HIP!)
(And yes, that’s my car in the garage)
Tim and I LOVE tradition. We live for it.
It’s funny…Tim, as an individual, fell in love with tradition on his own, as did I. And here we are. Thirteen years separating us in age and we both value many of the same things…
Tim and I have traditions for everything…all of the big holidays and even the “Hallmark” ones.
The big holidays tend to be some of Tim and some of my childhood traditions melded together. The smaller ones….not so much.
Like, for example, Tim has always gotten me roses on Valentine’s Day.
Sure, some people may find it cornballish but it is something I look forward to every year. We also get all dressed up and go out to a nice restaurant for dinner. Typically, it is a restaurant that Tim picks, makes reservations for and then takes me to without my knowing where we’re going.
It’s not cheesy.
It’s tradition.
For the big holidays, through trial and error and compromise, Tim and I have done a pretty good job merging our traditions together.
We tried to go cut down a tree because Christmas isn’t Christmas unless WE HAVE A REAL TREE.
But since that didn’t work out, we ended up with this one…still pretty…still real…just…from Oregon instead of the mountains of Colorado.
(I have no idea why they came all the way from Oregon when we have plenty of trees here…)
We tried something new, which was to go into downtown Denver and take a picture of this building. We passed it by accident on our way home from one of my OB appointments and I was all, “WE HAVE TO COME BACK. PICTURE.”
So, we did.
I can’t even begin to describe the details on this building…ones you can’t even see in the picture. The windows have nutcrackers and tin men…Santa and his reindeer are on the roof…it is insane the amount of effort that must go into this display.
And how they make sure none of the lights go out is beyond my realm of understanding. Tim and I almost had a breakdown with our icicle lights not working. I couldn’t even imagine taking on that kind of lighting responsibility.
I’ll settle for this one, instead:
I have no neck in this picture and it made me sad in the pants and I didn’t even attempt to “fix” the brightness due to said no neck but long story short: no other pictures were attempted….this year.
We also baked cookies, all from Tim’s family. My family wasn’t huge on baking specific cookies every year, so I was happy to indulge in Tim’s traditional cookie feast.
I say “feast” because if we had REALLY gone all out, we would have had to make somewhere around five or six different kinds of cookies.
I just didn’t have that kind of patience or resilience.
Instead, we settled for the favorites: jammies (probably better known as jam cut outs or jam cookies. I failed in taking a picture of ours but the finished product will look something like this), hazelnut balls (which, by the way, the version Tim makes doesn’t even *have* hazelnuts in them) and one new “thing.”
We’ve yet to repeat a new “thing” yet but we keep trying to see if we find something we really like and want to start making every year.
This year, Tim tried his hand at candy making with peanut brittle.
He did a fabulous job but I’m not sure if we’ll end up making it again next year. Personally, I think sugar cookies with icing for decorating would be fun, since baby sprout will be something like 10 months old and might be able to get into it.
I also want to make a gingerbread house with baby sprout every year…but I’m getting way ahead of myself…
The beginning of the jammie creation process:
And the “hazelnut I mean really pecan” balls:
Cookies are vital because one of the traditions we have continued comes from Tim’s family. While everyone is opening gifts on Christmas morning, there is always a plate of cookies out for everyone to eat.
My family never did the cookie thing but we also kept the Christmas morning tradition that my family does as well, which is to have sausage balls and orange juice after all of the gift opening has commenced.
(We didn’t take a picture this year…these are sausage balls from last Christmas at the asspartment but that’s basically exactly what they’re supposed to look like)
When I first told Tim about the sausage balls he was all, “That’s disgusting.“
Then he tried them.
They’re BFF now.
All of these baking projects start a day or two before Christmas and are finished sometime Christmas Eve in the early evening.
Then, on Christmas Eve, we watch the Polar Express, our movie of choice every year since we’ve been together.
Why?
That’s the first movie Tim and I saw together on our very first date ever in the history of us.
Awww…so cute, right?
This year we also “read” one of those recordable story books to baby sprout. My mom sent it with her voice as the narrator for The Night Before Christmas.
Super sweet, I know.
Then, Christmas morning, we get up before the sun, Tim takes the obligatory “before the chaos” picture…
sets out the plate of cookies and then…..
We broke tradition.
Typically, Tim and I always open our stockings first, before any presents are even touched. I’m not sure if he did that with his family or not, but in mine, brother Jeff and I always opened our stockings before anything else.
This year, however, baby sprout had about a million gifts to open, so we decided to do his first before we opened anything for ourselves (basically practice for next year, right?).
If you think I’m kidding, here is a picture of the gifts under the tree before Tim and I put any of our gifts to each other under the tree.
That – the presents under the tree thing – doesn’t happen until right before bed on Christmas Eve. I had to (gently) talk Tim into wrapping and putting the sprout’s presents under the tree before Christmas Eve.
He was all, “Good thing I did!” because it took him somewhere around five or so hours over the course of a few days to wrap them all.
All of the gifts for the sprout, of course, had bows and pretty name tags and the paper was coordinated with who got us each gift.
And that was all Tim’s doing.
Zero percent influence from yours truly.
Anyhow, under normal circumstances there are not any gifts under the tree until Christmas Eve.
The kid cleaned UP!
Yet we STILL have a million things we need to buy for him. They aren’t even wants or ‘it’d be nice to have…’ They are MUST PURCHASE ITEMS like a carseat and a stroller and diapers.
You think I’m joking….
Having your first child is asspensive!
Why so much stuff?!
Anyhow, after we spent an hour on the sprout’s gifts (for serious), we finally got to our stockings and gifts.
We’re one of those households who open one present at a time, alternating who opens a gift from the other person.
I know this kind of slow opening drives some people crazy, but it’s what we like to do…and hopefully when the sprout is old enough, he’ll enjoy it, too, instead of ripping through everything in five seconds and then running off with his new toys…
We end our Christmas day with this meal (minus the peas this year).
This is the meal my mom makes and when we lived in Atlanta, the one we would have either on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, depending on which night she had my two younger brothers (my parents are divorced, so they alternate who has them on these two days each year).
Basically – a honey glazed ham, brussels sprouts, macaroni and cheese.
Completely delicious and not exactly health conscious but when you eat sausage balls and cookies for breakfast…….
I think Tim’s family usually has Italian…lasagna, maybe, on Christmas day.
Tim and I moved that to Christmas Eve instead and we have some kind of Italian meal that night. This year it was chicken parmesan…last year was stuffed shells.
Next year?
Only time will tell.
I’m baaaack!
Yay!!…?
The past ten days went by entirely too quickly, even though they were tons of fun and I had a blast having Tim around…mostly because he’d make me breakfast and do things that are becoming increasingly difficult for me.
I’m definitely going to recap our “break” but I figured a belly shot was in order first.
Perfect way to ring in the new year, right?
2012 is the year of the sprout (and the year of good things…more on that later)
Anyway, it’s no joke getting up off of the couch when your front is astronomically bigger than your back. I’ve perfected the barrel roll, though, so that’s something.
To top it off, Tim pointed out that we only have SIX WEEKS until baby sprout is due.
OMG.
Thanksgiving was six weeks ago.
And that doesn’t feel like very long. AT. ALL.
I’m not ready, yet, though I’m starting to get to the point where six weeks is entirely too long to think about having to lug this boy around in mah belly. I’m ready to have *my* body back. I’ve been renting it out for almost nine months and I am completely tired – literally – of the 24 hour demands.
Third trimester fatigue is real, people, and it is exhausting.
It feels like I’m suffocating at night because my lungs have been completely squished. Getting dressed puts me out of breath (sad). I’m tired all of the time. I get up to pee…all of the time. Sometimes, the sprout will kick or head butt or something my ribs so hard they feel bruised from the inside for a day or he’ll kick my bladder, resulting in a bathroom emergency.
My back will ache if I sit in one position too long and can we please mention how my hips are wider than the Grand Canyon and my thighs are now like tree trunks?!
Dislike, pregnancy. Severely dislike these side effects.
I understand it may be necessary but it is not comfortable or enjoyable. Please halt the “pregnancy is beautiful” comments. I live in sweats and Victoria’s Secret yoga pants. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE?!
There is nothing beautiful about grunting when doing the barrel roll getting yourself off of the couch.
I’ve been trying to make sure I get in at least four days of exercise, even though I have to force myself to get out and just DO IT. It makes me feel at least a little bit more normal.
Exercise, as much as I’m all for the extreme, has now mostly become walking the dogs three miles…sometimes more…never less…or an hour on the elliptical with my muscle conditioning and barre tone classes sprinkled in for good measure.
And let me just say, I didn’t realize how much more difficult it would be to do weight-bearing exercises when I’m having to LIFT thirty pounds more than I’ve ever had to before in my life.
The other week in one of the classes, we were doing squats, using the barre bar (like a ballet bar) to hold onto and about half way through I’m all, “My legs are on FIRE! Why is this so HARD?!”
And then it dawned on me.
My legs are having to repeatedly lift my overly heavy, gargantuan self versus the lighter version.
I’d be screaming my protest, too, if I were them (which I am…technically).
Anyhow, to the belly!
Since my last belly shot, baby sprout has definitely gotten bigger because *I* have gotten bigger.
31 weeks…
31 weeks, 2 days
versus now, at 33 weeks, 4 days…
33 weeks, 4 days
Holy WOW.
I’m almost afraid of what the next six weeks will bring because child is running out of space! I have no idea how long he is or any guesstimate on his weight. The only way we’d figure that out is if we A: paid for an ultrasound (which we won’t do) or B: had to get an ultrasound if they thought he was breech or transverse or measuring ahead or behind his due date.
As of right now, he has always been measuring right on track and my OB will recheck his position at 36 weeks and go from there since he was transverse at my last appointment (32 weeks). Whether he’s repositioned himself or not, I have no idea. I can’t tell his head from his butt when he pokes it out and makes my stomach completely lopsided and he has hiccups now (which feel SO WEIRD!), but those move around, too. I’ve done enough research on Dr. Google to know I have no idea what I’m talking about or how to figure out how he’s laying.
Also?
If you look at it my bump the front, it is terribly deceiving (do ignore the zero makeup, unkempt hair and tree trunk legs):
Happy New Year, Friends! I’ve missed you!
**HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!**
I can’t believe it’s 2012…because 2012 is when the sprout comes!!!
(totally need to update you all on the past weeks shenanigans)
(but first, our massive FAIL in Paris)
Tim and I decided at some point during the summer a few years ago that we were going to travel instead of eat for Thanksgiving. This concept was completely new to both of us, as I grew up going to a big, multi-family dinner that lasted all day and he’s Italian – need I say more?
This Paris trip would mark the first time I had ever been to Europe, while Tim spent an entire semester in college gallivanting all over England and France and Italy, had gone across the pond again with family and again for work. Basically: he knew how to get around and I was a deer in headlights.
I tried to learn *some* French with Rosetta Stone, but after getting into an argument with the CD in my car one day on the way home from work about the correct pronunciation of “cat,” I kind of fell off the Rosetta Stone French wagon. I wasn’t too concerned though, since Tim took lots of French in school and said he still remembered most of it.
I’ll skip all the prepping part to get to Paris, kind of like how our seats – though they were in the exit row (I’m 5’10 with legs making up the bulk of my height) – they were also directly across from the double lavatory.
Exactly. Let’s skip all that.
So, we land in Heathrow*** and I am ecstatic. I’m IN FRANCE. We decided that neither of us would be driving along any of the roads in Paris, namely the infamous Champs-Élysées, pretty as it may be, so we had a taxi take us to our hotel. And once we arrived?
Heaven.
Our hotel was walking distance to the Louvre and there were beautiful French people and patisseries as far as the eye could see. We dropped our bags in our room and set out immediately, wanting to make the most of the four-day mini-vacation.
We traversed the multi-dimensional levels of the Louvre, we walked through the nearby Tuileries Garden, we took the metro to the Eiffel Tower, we ventured down to the Champs-Élysées and climbed the million steps up to the top of the Arc de Triomphe.
And we did all of this after no sleep on a 13 hour plane ride and zero food other than a small café latte (for me) and a pastry (for Tim) at a small Patisserie near our hotel that morning.
Suffice it to say that when 5:00pm Paris time rolled around, we were jet-lagged and starving. Ravenous is probably more appropriate.
Now, we did bring a few Hi, I’m a Tourist books about Paris, which included plenty of ideas for good, French food, typical American fare and everything in between. However, our stomachs were overtaking our brain in decision making – which meant no decisions were being made at all.
We walked all over, going up and down street after street, deciding that what we (read: our stomachs) REALLY WANTED was a warm baguette from a bakery. Up and down the Parisian streets we went, desperately seeking one out to fill our belly with warm bread. Yet, every time we thought we found one, it was closed.
Our Hi, I’m a Tourist books never said anything about everyone closing up shop early and leaving starving Americans out to fend for themselves.
Finally, Tim managed to put mind over stomach and out the tourist book. He found the nearest place that was within walking distance and still open – a small, quaint Patisserie that also had a dining area. And since there was a “dining area,” we figured that also meant there was actual “dining food” – à la sustenance – inside.
So into the Patisserie we went, Tim explaining in broken French – which was mostly bonjour! and then lots of pointing – that we wanted to be seated in the dining area.
A nice French woman led us up a winding staircase to a tiny, dimly lit room with five two-top (two chairs) tables and handed us the menu…of varying flavors of chocolat chaud (hot chocolate).
Tim and I looked at each other, dumbfounded.
Me: Can we leave? This isn’t food! I’m so hungry!
Tim: We are NOT leaving. I don’t think I can point my way out of that explanation.
We both stared down at the menu, settling on the standard mug of chocolat chaud and biscotti, which was as close to bread as we were getting at this point. When our French server came back, Tim ordered for us and we sat and waited, trying not to pass out from hunger pangs.
Fortunately, it wasn’t overly crowded yet (apparently the chocolat chaud crowd is a night owl kind of group), so it didn’t take very long for our order to be placed at our table.
And let me tell you – I have never in my entire life been more excited to see a mug of chocolate.
Me: Why is there a spoon? Why is this served with a spoon?
Tim shrugged, at this point only interested in putting something other than air into his stomach.
I put my lips to the mug and tilted it back, waiting for the warm liquid to hit my mouth.
And I waited.
And I waited.
Finally, my lips still on the porcelain, I looked down into my mug, thinking that maybe I was doing it wrong. I mean, I thought I had a pretty good handle on drinking from mugs and glasses, but you never know. Maybe it was different in Paris.
Down below the bridge of my nose, I see this dark brown sludge of a movement creeping ever so slowly towards my mouth.
I set the mug down and looked at Tim, who hadn’t touched his chocolat chaud but was instead munching away on his biscotti.
Me: I guess that’s what the spoon is for.
Tim: Hm?
Me: The chocolat chaud. It’s more like chocolat…how do you say “mud” in French?
Because that is exactly what it was – mud. There was no “drinking” of this chocolat chaud. It was more like a hot pudding. In a mug. And this is all very deceiving to someone from America who has never been to Europe and has zero idea how to say ‘thank you’ without completely butchering the language, much less successfully drink what she thought was “chocolat chaud” aka hot chocolate aka non-viscous.
So Tim and I sat at this little upstairs dining area and ate our chocolat chaud with a spoon.
Afterwards, we half fell, half tripped down the winding staircase onto the street below, punch drunk on sugar. Actually, I might have been certifiably drunk.
And we took our inebriated selves onto the Metro – again – to see the Eiffel Tower at night in all its glory. I’m not even sure if this was a conscious decision or more of a “follow the crowd” type of activity. Either way, we spent the next thirty minutes outside, laughing at the blue-lit tower, freezing in the cold November air while walking down the long lawn behind the Eiffel Tower to try and get a picture of me, in front of the tower, at night.
(as you can see, sound decision making was never part of the plan)
However, the silver lining in our jaunt across the lawn? It led us to this tiny sandwich type store that we found while looking for a Metro station that was STILL OPEN. Tim and I ran in there like we were being chased by herd of angry elephants, rushing up to the counter and pointing and babbling, our mouths salivating from the smells coming from the back kitchen. Whether this little shop was about to close or not – I have no idea. All I know is that they had French onion soup and yesplease.
We didn’t have much in the way of Euros with us since we hadn’t been in Paris long enough to change over any extra money and had planned on getting by mostly with a credit card – everyone speaks plastic.
This little sandwich shop said they took credit cards on their sign outside, so we loaded up. French onion soup, a grilled something sandwich, two pieces of an apple pear tart and two bottles of water and two very happy people who were finally – after almost two days without a decent meal (hello, six hour time difference) – getting to eat!
Tim handed the older Parisian woman behind the counter his credit card.
She swiped it though the machine.
“No.”
Tim looked at her like, “What do you mean, ‘no?’”
She swiped it again.
“No. Not working.”
Tim’s eyes were wide, disbelief written all over his face. He asked her to try again by making the swiping motion with his hands.
I was standing behind him, not really participating in the silent war that was going on between them. However, I watched her the third time she swiped the card. And wouldn’t you know it?! She wasn’t *really* swiping it! She was only half swiping it through the little machine so it wouldn’t read properly. She didn’t want to take our card. She didn’t want to pay a fee to run our card. So she tried to pull one over on the stupid, starving Americans. So we would have to pay in CASH.
And the stupid, starving Americans did just that.
Because that is exactly what we were.
Starving.
And stupid.
We spent almost all of the Euros we had on that meal. But it was THE BEST meal we had the entire time we were in Paris.
We left that tiny shop just as they were closing for the night, fat and happy.
***FOOTNOTE***
I am aware that the airport in Paris is Charles de Galle. For whatever reason…the self writing this decided to type Heathrow. I have no idea.
I swear we’re done with London throwbacks after this…
Here’s a mini-montage of our trip to London last month. I didn’t film very much…partly because most of the places we went said, “NO VIDEO!” and partly because I just…didn’t film very much.
Tim’s job is the camera and mine is the video camera. And in London…I slacked off.
Tim and I went to London one year, not far after the holiday season.
This is what happened.
I had one major objective while in London. I didn’t care if I saw Buckingham Palace or Westminster Abbey or St. Paul’s Cathedral. Above all else I wanted to go “beach-combing” on the Thames. I read reviews and stories of all the crazy things you could find – like hundred-year-old clay pipes or Roman tiles or pieces of pottery. And as long as you pick up things on the surface and don’t dig, you’re fine.
And THAT is right up my alley.
On Friday, Tim and I set out to do just that. The Thames isn’t known for having the cleanest shoreline but we brought Purell and a plastic bag. We’d be fine. We scouted out a few places near Tower Bridge and Millennium Bridge the day before where we found steps that led down to the water and when the tide was low, led to the shore where, among bits and pieces of trash, one could find treasure.
I was ecstatic. I couldn’t wait. It was like my birthday AND Christmas. I love looking for hard-to-find items amongst the masses. I used to search for whole seashells and sharks teeth on the beaches of Jacksonville, Florida every summer as a child. If they were broken in any way, I threw them back. It was like my own personal quest. Tim thinks that’s where my infatuation with the impossible started. He’s probably right.
We decided to sleep in Friday morning because we discovered – of all things – a Twitter page that had updates on when the tide was high or low on the Thames and low tide wasn’t supposed to happen until around 10:00am. So at 11:00am when I stumbled to the window, threw back the curtains and squinted against the sunlight only to see lots of shoreline, I looked over to Tim and yelled, “The tide is LOW! We have to go, NOW!”
Tim shot up like a rocket, marching orders in hand. He knew I was serious and also knew that any hint of dawdling would send me on a fear-induced tirade of “WHAT IF WE MISS LOW TIDE BECAUSE IT TOOK YOU FIVE EXTRA SECONDS TO PEE?!?”
We threw on dirty clothes and set out with a determined attitude. Well, I had a determined attitude. Tim was playing it safe. He said to me in the elevator, “You are so certain you’re going to find something, aren’t you?” I just looked at him like he was crazy. If there is something to find, I’ll find it or I won’t stop looking until I do. That’s just how it works.
And sadly, he knows it’s true. I’ll look for hours and HOURS until I find something that will satisfy me. It’s like this with everything, not just clay pipes.
Tim and I speed-walked to Tower Bridge, make it halfway across, are forced to wait because the only time it is important for a boat to pass under the bridge is when we’re racing the tide. The bridge finally goes back down and we scurry across the remainder of the bridge and find the stairway to the shore.
The stairway was right next to Tower Bridge. There were no warnings or DO NOT ENTER signs or ropes or chains to bar us from walking to the shore. It was just an open stairwell leading right to the river. So we walked down.
I raced out onto the shore and was like a kid in a candy store, looking through the rocks and tires and trash. Tim got into the search as well and found a few stems from clay pipes.
And then, not five minutes after we’d reached the shore of the Thames and in the midst of comparing our finds, someone yells down from the wall on the river walk, “Are you MEANT to be down there?”
I look at Tim like, “What? Yes, of course we’re meant to be down here or we wouldn’t BE down here. Not exactly my idea of a romantic Sunday stroll.”
But we’re in London. And that’s not what he meant.
I put a hand to my ear, signaling I couldn’t hear him, so he yells, “Someone reported you. You aren’t allowed down there. You can get sucked in.”
Now I am thoroughly confused. Sucked in where? By what? And who has had the time to report us? We JUST got here.
Tim walked closer to the wall and spoke with the guy, who was a Tower Bridge security guard. The guy gave us the what-for and said in no uncertain terms to get off the shore or else someone would happily escort us.
Defeated, we made our way back to the stairwell. We were baffled because other people walked the shore…there are TOURS you pay for to do this…why couldn’t we? I stopped to pick up one last piece from the ground – it turned out to be some kind of pottery painted blue.
We made our way up the stairs, expecting to see the security guard, making sure we kept our word, but he was nowhere to be found. Tim wanted to ask him where we were allowed to walk on the shore, but by the time we found him, WAY down the river walk, he was busy doing important security work stuff and Tim had decided to let it go.
We did find one other place where I could get very close to the shore and pick things up without actually BEING on the shore. So I did that for a bit while Tim researched how to legally beach comb the Thames.
Two more police officers showed up and stood behind me while I was doing my mini-comb but they were more interested in two bloaks in suits that had come down and started walking on the shoreline.
When that happened, I looked at Tim like, “Is it just me…or did they just walk right onto the shore?”
I got up, unassuming, and made my way back to Tim in enough time to hear one of the retreating officers say to the other, “I don’t want to have to explain THIS to Sarge…”
I don’t know what kind of explaining he meant but as long as it didn’t wind up with Tim posting bail for me, I didn’t much care.
I had my treasures.
