When Jennifer McCann moved from Dublin to an American suburb, she found that, although the local 'desperate housewives' talked diets and property prices, just like at home, some things - clean hospitals, for example - were alien to her. This is her diary
We have been here in Ridgefield, a small town in Connecticut, on the outskirts of New York city, for almost a year. We moved from Ireland when, to much excitement, my husband was offered a transfer to his company's corporate headquarters, in New York. Our three young children have smoothly made the transition from life in a Dublin suburb to life in a New York suburb, with the seven-year-old and four-year-old developing US accents and the one-year-old remaining oblivious to her Irish roots. Settling in for us hasn't been too difficult, either, as Americans are so welcoming and friendly.
What is most different about living in a US suburb is how child-focused it is. This town, with a population of just 20,000, has six playgrounds, a boys' and girls' club, a children's library with regular drop-in storytelling, and a heavily subsidised leisure centre that includes an open children's gym every morning. The main hairdresser has a supervised playroom, restaurants cater for children, and friends include children when entertaining. Even the main street closed on Halloween, so all the children could safely go trick-or-treating.
Some might say it's too child focused. My 30-year-old single sister visited recently, and within 18 hours she hightailed it back to Manhattan, muttering about squeaky-clean Americans and Desperate Housewives.
We were at a dinner party last night, and it was all I could do to contain my horror at a story told by one of the guests. Apparently, when she gave birth to her second child, earlier this year, her two sisters, best friend, mother and mother-in-law were all in the delivery room with her and her husband, munching pizza and taking photographs. The New York Times says it is becoming a trend, with many east-coast hospitals creating delivery-room spectator zones.
Babies aside, dinner-party conversation is remarkably similar to that at home: people are preoccupied with property prices and extensions. Some seem overextended, admitting that it's too easy to borrow money, and a few are getting jittery because of a suspected property bubble. We briefly dabbled with the idea of buying a house here, as rents are so ludicrous, but were quickly turned off the idea when we realised that the best we would be able to get would be a tear-down for $600,000, or about €500,000.
Even this wasn't the main deterrent. My husband had some mad idea that we should sell our overvalued semi-detached house in south Dublin, convert the euros to dollars - thereby gaining about 20 per cent - and buy a 370sq m (4,000sq ft) colonial here in Connecticut, which we would sell if or when the time came to return home.
The success of his plan was based on the dollar gaining against the euro, the Dublin property market slumping and the New York market continuing to grow at 20 per cent a year. The idea came to naught when we realised that, in addition to financing a mortgage, we would have to pay a local town tax, to the tune of 2.5 per cent of the property's value, every year.
I'm not too perturbed, as I like renting. The toilet blocks - ring the landlord. A tile falls off the roof - ring the landlord. The tumble-dryer breaks - you get the picture.
Our seven-year-old son is in first grade at the local elementary school. School, for even this young age group, finishes at 4pm. It wasn't always such a long day. When we moved here, back in January, he was in the preceding class, kindergarten, and his day finished at 11.35am, much to my horror. Anyway, he loves it, and so he should. There are just 17 children in his class, he is collected and delivered home every day by a yellow bus, and the school's facilities, which include two playgrounds, playing fields, a music room, art room, computer room, auditorium and cafeteria, rival those at any of Dublin's top private schools. He also has speech therapy twice a week, with the school's therapist, as his teacher and I felt that his diction was pretty muffled.
Not all US schools are like this, of course. The federal government sets a minimum standard for state schools. Thereafter, each town or school district sets its own standards - and funds its schools through those property taxes. Predictably, the wealthier areas end up with higher standards, so send a higher proportion of teenagers to Ivy League colleges, in turn becoming more affluent, as wealthier parents move in because of the local school's reputation. Naturally, property prices then rise, the town's tax receipts swell and, before you know it, the town has not only superior schools but also superior playgrounds, library, leisure centre and private lakeside or seaside beaches - all for the exclusive use of its residents.
The children and I were invited to a birthday party yesterday. None of the other mothers seemed to be bigger than a size eight. Except me. I'm a size 10 and, three children later, rather proud of it. I realise I have work to do, however. None of the mothers touched the food - I felt gluttonous sneaking a cupcake. Our hostess (size six) offered nothing more than diet sodas; I would have loved a cup of tea. The disease spreads. When my husband got home that evening he told me he's going on the South Beach Diet with a few guys from work. (I cannot imagine a guys' diet group at the office back home.) Great. Now, in addition to having to come up with imaginative and balanced meals for the children, I can no longer throw together some pasta for us.
I went shopping today for The Diet. For two weeks my husband can eat no rice, potatoes, pasta, bread or, indeed, anything with flour. Bang goes my store cupboard. Nor can he touch alcohol. Instead he is to eat eggs, low-fat dairy products, lean meat, fish and lots of green vegetables. This kicks the metabolism into action, apparently, and makes the pounds fall off. In the meantime, the prospect of cooking a three-egg spinach omelette at 7am is turning my stomach.
Our son, like most suburban children in the US, plays soccer. It's just like it is in those silly movies. Practice starts at 8am every Saturday, when a zealous coach yells at a bunch of six- and seven-year-olds while their competitive fathers, my husband included, join in with cries of "Good job, Buddy". All harmless fun, apparently.
American parents, particularly mothers, are overscheduled on behalf of their children. It is not unusual to be involved in complicated discussions about attending lacrosse games, providing refreshments for the soccer team and pitching in at the local parent-teacher-association event, all on the same day. I've managed to limit our children's extracurricular activities to soccer for our seven-year-old and ballet for our four-year-old. I have also resisted all pressure to join a Stroller Strides fitness class or Mommy and Me music-and-movement class with our one-year-old.
Today the humdrum of domesticity was punctuated by my four-year-old. She had been quiet for too long, so off I went to investigate. She was sitting on the floor of her room, munching her way through paracetamol capsules. I had no idea how many were in the pack before she got her hands on it, so, after yelling at her, I telephoned the poison-control line. "How many did she have?" I think she had one or two. " 'I think' is not good enough. How many were in the blister pack?" I'm not sure. "How many could have been in the blister pack?" Twelve. "How many are left?" Five. "I am assuming, then, that she has ingested seven. That's way too many. You need to bring her to the local hospital immediately."
I wished I hadn't rung. But I had to follow it through, especially as poison control had telephoned the hospital to say we were coming. Piling her into the car, I set into rush-hour traffic, knowing it was unnecessary. She couldn't have eaten seven capsules . . . could she? I consoled myself with the idea that, as visiting an emergency room would be so ghastly, she would at least learn an invaluable lesson. Mistaken sentiments. We easily found a spot in the designated car park. We walked into the clearly signposted emergency room with no problem. We waited exactly five seconds before being asked for our names and the purpose of our visit. We waited exactly 30 seconds before being ushered into a cubicle. The staff, who were everywhere - at least three to a patient - used computers in a large central area to check the status of all admitted patients. Once forms had been filled in, three nurses took my daughter's blood. It took two of them to hold her down: she's at that hysterical age.
While the sample went off to the lab, to be analysed, somebody else appeared with sandwiches and juice for a now very hungry little girl. An hour later the results came back. Clear, of course. The whole experience took an hour and 45 minutes, and, unfortunately, my daughter enjoyed nearly every minute of it.
We have health insurance, of course. Were we among the 50 million people in America who don't, it would have been a different story.
Everybody has heard about American restaurants asking if you want to take home your leftovers. I used to think it was a rather disgusting idea. I stand corrected. I can now go to any type of restaurant and leave with a doggy bag. It's a great idea: the remaining half of my delicious but oversized Saturday-night steak, for example, became an equally delicious Monday-lunch sandwich for my husband. The couple beside us took home some mussels that were going to feed their teenage sons that midnight. Some people go too far. A friend's brother was turned off a girl he took on a date when she ordered three main courses, with the intention of doggy-bagging two of them for her freezer.
I have to revisit the issue of medical care after wandering into a "tag sale". A tag sale is an American institution. If you are clearing out your house, you put up a few notices, then pop everything on to your drive and wait for customers - of which there will be plenty - to arrive. I bought a fabulous dining table and 10 chairs for $200, or about €170, at one such sale.
Today's garage sale was in aid of an unfortunate woman who is in the late stages of leukaemia. She has reached the limit of the cover on her health insurance, and, as most insurance plans require patients to cover a quarter of the consultants' fees themselves, her family has already cashed in their savings and borrowed against their homes. Now she needs a bone-marrow transplant, but her hospital will not touch her until she comes up with the money.
Complain as we might in Ireland, I don't think our system is quite so blatant about letting its patients die.
On the same subject, our baby has a very small heart defect. I am not remotely worried about it - 20 years ago it probably wouldn't have been picked up - but as I was told to go and see a specialist, I felt I should. The doctor's medical education must have included a module on marketing. He was as charming as could be, his attention to detail was second to none and he did every possible test.
He followed up our 45-minute visit with a report that covered everything mentioned in the consultation and concluded with a recommendation that I bring the baby in every six months, so that this minor problem, which I have been assured is going to give her no trouble whatsoever, can be monitored. Our insurance policy, like most company plans, is one of those that covers only three-quarters of his fee. I think I would prefer to pop down to Manhattan for dinner a few times rather than cough up $650 - about €550 - twice a year, but would that make me a woeful mother?