I have been blogging for nearly three years about motherhood: runny noses, messy diapers, the world of toddlers, which, if you have one, is undeniably engrossing. But in January, as my husband and I made the decision to leave our insanely comfortable life in the suburbs of Washington, DC for the land of rain and royalty, I became all-too-aware of how little I knew about the Brits beyond the big hats and Henry VIII’s wives, and how little reliable information there was in the mainstream about really taking on a new culture. Let’s face it, we’re not moving to Angola. We speak the same language as the Britons (mostly) and eat some of the same food (I’m being generous here). How difficult could this transition be? I sought out a few books for guidance, and short of visiting London, they were thin. Comically bad. I wanted the unvarnished insider’s view. Do I really have to pour my milk before spooning the sugar to avoid risking an international incident, as one guide warned?

I’m a journalist by trade, an avowed extrovert. Could I survive in the world this one tome depicted – where you do not ever invite neighbors over for a meal lest you strain the bounds of British privacy?

It is best, I was advised, to discuss cats and the weather. Only. My mother-in-law, who has spent a considerable amount of time in the UK, has told me story after story about the bitter cold she says we are sure to experience inside every English home. Sounds great, doesn’t it? On a four-day recon trip in January, I experienced none of these things (well one pub loo was exceptionally icy). The test comes when we begin to assimilate, learning both the ropes of  US government move (it’s called PCS-ing) to finding a suitable school for our children (a difficult-enough task in the USA) and trying to forge the same kinds of friendships we enjoy at home.
I don’t know what we’re going to find on this three-year adventure. But I’m going to give it to you straight: the good (I’m certain there will be plenty), the bad, and the cats.