We are in the Netherlands at the moment, and both the boys are at (field) hockey camp.
Note: I put the 'field' there in brackets for readers who might think I was talking about ice (ice) hockey. I'm not. Yes, there IS another game using sticks with 'hockey' in the name...
Yesterday, the weather was glorious; 21degC, sunshine, a few clouds; perfect hockey weather, but today we have driving rain. Undaunted by that, the coaches at the camp have the children outside doing circuits, playing games and practicing. I shouldn't know that, of course. I should have dropped the boys off at 9.00am, hung around for a few minutes to let them show off some of their newly acquired skills from yesterday, and then come back to where we're staying to spend the day working on The Novel (first draft now finished - let the hard work begin). However, as I turned to leave, Boy #1 admitted tearfully that he had forgotten his mouthguard; rather than returning it to its' case in his rucksack at the end of yesterday's session, he had tucked it into his sock (because, duh, where else would you put it?), and then left it on the shelf in their bedroom when he got changed at the end of the day.
When I was playing hockey at school, mouthguards didn't exist. We just, you know, played. In fact, at school, we didn't even wear shinguards. Man, those balls hurt when they hit your ankle bone, I can tell you... However, time moves on and mouthguards on a hockey pitch are now just as important as helmets are on a ski slope and the kids aren't allowed to play without them, so disregarding my feelings of despair at our nanny state*, I drove the 20 minutes home again to fetch Boy #1's.
Obviously, I couldn't find it.
This necessitated a trip to a sports store to buy a new one which I then took back to the hockey camp where one of his trainers kindly fitted it for him, no doubt doing a much better job than I would have, what with her actually having used one herself and everything.
So yes, on my return to the club I saw the kids outside in the drizzle, playing hockey. Good for them, I thought, and headed off for the second time. But that's not why I'm writing this post. After finally reaching home an hour and a half later than planned I was happily working my way through my inbox (yes, I know I was supposed to be working on The Novel, but displacement activity is All), when the phone rang and the camp supervisor's number popped up.
Which child has taken a ball in the face / broken their leg / been whacked round the head by a stick, I wondered nervously as I answered it.
Neither, as it turned out. The camp supervisor told me that Boy #2 wanted to talk to me, and put him on the phone. I readied myself for a tirade of 'I'm wet / it's raining / I want to come home / have you bought me a model boat yet?' and instead heard this: "I thought you were going to put 3 cookies in my lunchbox. I only found one. Did you forget?"
I'm not sure who was more embarrassed: the camp supervisor for calling me (she hadn't known what Boy #2's question was going to be and thought it was probably something VERY important), or me, for raising a child for whom a shortfall in the number of cookies in his lunchbox was so distressing.
*Yes, I KNOW I would be singing a different song if the Boys came home missing a tooth because they weren't wearing a mouthguard. Say it with me; mouthguards are a good thing. It's just that, well...
Inspired by today's story in The Times and on the BBC of claims by the UK Passport Office that there is 'no backlog in processing applications', here's a little tale of what has been occupying me for the last 3 months; applying for and waiting for a new passport.
Passports are important if you're an expat. Not only do you - obviously - need one if you are travelling, but here in Russia you need one to carry out practically any transaction where you are using a card to pay, whenever you are driving a car, if you want to use the bureau de change, whenever you visit an office building or an embassy, if you are required to show id by a police or security officer, if you want an official service of any kind, and so on. Basically, you have to carry it with you 24/7. Of course you can take a photocopy with you and show that instead, but often that won't cut it and you'll be refused entry or whatever service you're requesting.
So yes, having a working passport is important here, and I needed a new one for this year's residency visa. It should have been a piece of cake. But - oh foolish me - I decided to apply for my new passport remotely, via the British Consulate here in Moscow. We'd done it twice before, when the Boys' passports needed renewing, and in each case it took 3 weeks - definitely manageable. Or so I thought. What I didn't know was that applications from outside the UK, instead of being handled in a centre in Frankfurt Germany, which is where they had previously been processed (and which was where my sons' new passports were produced in the past), are now all being sent to a centre in the UK. To save costs.
I'm guessing you can see where this is going.
Week 1. I take my application into the Moscow British Consulate. They accept the application and tell me it will leave in the diplomatic bag and go straight to the processing centre in the UK. It could take up to 6 weeks for my new passport to reach me, they inform me, but I've allowed for that - and more - and since I'm allowed to keep my old passport (without the corners being clipped), I'm not too bothered. They also inform me that at any point over the next couple of weeks, my passport will be electronically cancelled, so I shouldn't travel until my new documents arrive. Also not a problem - I was expecting this and have allowed for that too.
I subsequently discover that the passport leaves the Consulate and arrives at the UK Passport Office in Liverpool only 3 days later, where it goes straight to the Examiner, which is where all the facts are checked and the application is processed. And this is where the fun begins.
I sit tight for the next 3 weeks to give the process time, until...
Week 4. I know it's early, but since my sons' applications were returned to me within that time frame (the most recent one being only 18 months ago) I decide to call the UK Passport Office to check on my applications' progress. They inform me resignedly that I should leave it another week as the application hasn't yet hit the electronic registering system.
Week 5. I call back. The application has been registered, which is when I discover that the British Consulate has done me proud in speedily submitting my application. I also discover that the Passport Office has not done, well, anything really. Nothing has happened to my application since they received it (it was probably in that boardroom The Times was talking about, at the bottom of an archive box). They suggest I call back next week when there should be more news.
Week 6. I call back. No progress.
Week 7. I call again. No progress. The advice centre puts me through to a second department - the Progress Section - where I am told that no, there has been no progress with my application. But they will check with the Examiners's office, and someone will call me back within 72 hours.
Week 8. No call, and no progress - see Week 7, rinse and repeat, with the added fun of a conversation where I am told that the Passport Office is still within their required guidelines because the website warns an application can take at least 6 weeks to process. I point out that since there is no end-date stated on the website, they could take 2 years and still be within their guidelines. I can hear the metaphorical shrug on the end of the phone because, well, what am I going to do about it?
(On each occasion I followed the prompts on the automated ansaphone system and was put on hold for at least 20 minutes. Bear in mind, I was calling a UK number from Moscow, Russia. And no, you can't track international applications electronically - you have to use the call centre. Thank god for Skype).
Week 9. No progress. Our visa runs out in 4 weeks time, so I decide to cancel my application and book an appointment at the office in London to do it in person. The person on the advice line tells me that if I do, I will lose the £160 I have already paid, and will not get it back. I mentally add that amount to the cost of the telephone calls (at this stage, about £60), the cost of the return flight, and the £135 I will have to pay to get the same day service at the Victoria Passport Office, but decide that in light of our looming visa deadline, I will have to suck it up.
I make an appointment in the UK. The first one available is in 2 weeks time, so I go with that and start looking at flights, before calling to cancel my application.
I am then informed that I cannot cancel my application over the phone. I have to put it in writing, and no, an email or a fax won't do; it has to be a written letter - giving reasons for the cancellation - through the post. I point out that since I'm in Russia with a famously bad postal system, it could take a letter 2 weeks to reach them, but they won't budge. So I write them the letter, print it out, sign it, scan it in, and email it to my parents in the UK who print it out again and send it next day delivery to the Passport Office on my behalf.
Week 10. I chase via the two teams - advice line and Progress Section - in the UK. I am told someone will call me back within 72 hours - at which point I mention that I've been told that twice before and never heard anything. 24 hours later I get an email with a scanned in copy of a signed letter informing me that my letter has been received but that if I want, my application can be processed the next day. (Do I want? Um, yes...) However, to do this, I should give them a UK address if I want it sent out quickly. I write back saying well then, in that case please don't cancel the application (again via a printed out, signed and then scanned-in letter emailed to my parents, who print it out again, and send it via next day delivery), and ask them to send the new passport to my parent's address in the UK.
Week 11. I receive another letter via email telling me that now I need to send them an explanation of why the address I have requested the passport be sent to (my parents') is different to the one on my original application. At this point I refrain from writing back in printed capitals BECAUSE I APPLIED IN MOSCOW AND YOU JUST ASKED ME FOR A UK ADDRESS, STUPID!' and write much the same thing but without the capital letters, the 'STUPID', or the exclamation mark. Thankfully, I am informed that at this stage they will accept an email from me so I don't have to go through the printing out, signing, scanning etc nonsense yet again.
And then I hear nothing. After 2 days I call the number on the letter and after holding for 1 hour (from Russia - watch those costs build up...), I finally get through to the right person. He has received my letter and will print the passport the next day but how do I want to receive it; to my parents, or to the British Consulate in the diplomatic bag? Bearing in mind that if it goes to my parents I can't actually travel to collect it (due to that annoying little fact they have cancelled the passport I do have, so won't be allowed back into the UK), and that if they send it to me via DHL or similar it might be with me in 5 days, but it might also take 3 weeks (as a delivery sent to us did recently), I decide it's probably best to go with the diplomatic bag option. This is on Wednesday. The bag arrives once a week at the Moscow consulate, on a Tuesday, so I figure that should allow the passport enough time to be sent within the UK and still arrive in Russia for Tuesday Week 12.
Tuesday Week 12. There is no passport for me in this week's diplomatic bag. The very helpful lady at the consulate - who knows our timings - is practically in tears when she calls to tell me. I, on the other hand, have run out of tears by this stage. We make an appointment for first thing Wednesday the following week for me to collect it, and I resign myself to a last minute panic. Our visas run out Friday of the following week, which bearing in mind there is a 2 day bank holiday on the Thursday and Friday, gives us one day to process our new visas.
Tuesday Week 13. My passport has arrived - yippee. I rush in to collect it, and we tear over to the correct agency to get the visas processed on the last day possible. Except, we find out the next day that it isn't - possible. There is not enough time. Consequently, we now need to leave the country at our own expense, fly back to the UK to get tourist visas and - oh, I'm just sick of the whole bloody thing.
And you know what? I know of at least 5 other expat families in my circle of acquaintances alone who are going through similar problems - not just in Russia, but elsewhere too.
Excuse me then if I say that any suggestion the UK Passport Office is not experiencing a backlog in applications is a load of shit.
My sister (the former blogger known as Footballer's Knees who now confines her brilliance to outpourings on fb) is - undoubtedly, indisputably and without question - a genius. Don't believe me? Read this...
I’m having a bad day.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Your Facebook updates and posts now postpone, Bring out the tweezers and the bleach with care, For on my chin I found an enormous white hair.
Let the bikini orders and spray tans be cancelled, The foot spa and pedicure kit dismantled, Book that long appointment with the beauty specialist, And the extra time with the behavioural therapist
For my bikini line is bound North, my youth gone West, My cleavage moved South with my sagging breast, My skin, my hair have had their final swan song, I thought that youth would last forever: I was wrong.
The efforts are not needed now: give up on each one; Pack up the diet books and unlock Big Al’s gun, Pour away the miso soup and bring out the gin, For nothing now can bring back my smooth and hairless chin.
Note: those unfamiliar with WH Auden but who have seen 'Four Weddings and a Funeral' may know the poem from that movie. And whilst I've included a link to the right scene, I don't recommend you click on it unless you fancy inducing a maudlin mood...)
Hands up who out there has children who are not particularly sporty?
Yes, that's me, right at the front of the room, waving my arm in the air in the slightly embarrassed manner of a parent who would love her children to be superstars on the sports field but who knows that genetically, they haven't been dealt the strongest of decks.
If Husband is reading this he will no doubt be throwing up his hands in horror at my defeatist attitude, but even he - supportive of me and all my failings as he is - can't deny that what I say is true. I am not a natural sports person, being a bit crap at anything that involves motion faster than - well, a walk, really. But. I am married to a man who's family are much better at this stuff than I am, and with whom I am in complete agreement that some form of regular physical exercise - and I don't mean walking to the library - is essential for the growth of a healthy child. At least whilst they're still at an age that we can push them into it, anyway.
Consequently, Boys #1 and #2 take part in a couple of extra curricular physical activities over and above the excellent programme provided by their school, one of which - TaeKwonDo - requires their attendance in the early evening twice a week, come rain or shine.
Boy #1, biddable first child that he is, is fine with this. He enjoys it, more or less buys into it, and participates with enthusiasm. He even practices from time to time. Boy #2? Well, not so much. We have frequent arguments about whether he is, or isn't, going to go to class. (He is going to go. He knows that, I know that, and sometimes the neighbours know that too - especially in the warm weather with the windows open). I have tried one strategy after another to get him out of the door on time, only hitting on the most effective by mistake in the last couple of months (more on what that is in a moment*). Why do I bother, you might ask? Is getting him to take part in a TKD session (that's what we call it in type, by the way, we seasoned TaeKwonDo parents - TKD. Get me...) really that beneficial? Is it worth all the angst?
The short answer is yes. Not only is it great discipline which trains him listen to and follow the instructions of the teacher whilst also giving him a chance to run around and burn off energy in a sports hall in a country which for 5 months of the year is too cold to spend much time outside (I'm tough on my boys but not 'No you can't come back in you've only been outside in -18degC for 25 minutes' tough), but the fitness regime it encourages is fantastic. And crucially, once Boy #2 actually gets to the class, he loves it. And that, at the close, is the clincher. If he hated it whilst he was there then I wouldn't make him go. Probably. But he doesn't. He finishes the sessions, bright eyed, bushy tailed and happy he's been.
However, what he won't do in between sessions is practice. According to him - whenever I ask him if it might not be a good idea to run through his moves - it doesn't make any difference; he's not going to be any good.
Something seems to be changing, though. He knew he had a belt test this evening and was prepared to practice at least a little. So he did. Admittedly, it was very last minute. And if I'm honest, there were still ragged patches in the 'form' he needed to run through. But he did it - and it did the trick.
Boy #1 put in a stellar performance and made it from orange to green belt, and Boy #2, despite one or two mistakes, graduated from yellow to orange belt - when most of his class didn't - and was delighted. So delighted in fact that he even turned to me when the grading was over and said "Thankyou! Thankyou for making me practice!!!"
He meant it, too.
Now. I wonder if we can try this approach with his piano lessons...?
*That strategy? It's a little known practice - in this household, anyway - called 'Mum making dessert'. Namely, pancakes. Whoever eats the pancakes is committing to go to taekwondo. Simple!
This happened following an argument about how much lunch needed to be eaten to qualify for a piece of cake for dessert. On being told that it was more than he had consumed, he announced that he wasn't hungry for pudding anyway, so didn't need the cake thankyou very much.
Five minutes later, of course, when what was left on his plate had been tipped into the bin, he changed his mind - but the damage had been done. There WAS no more lunch for him to eat to qualify for the cake.
What followed was one of those classic parenting moments that you see happening but are powerless to stop if you have any hope of showing a consistent approach to discipline. We were treated to a downward spiral of disbelief and outrage that he was being treated so much more unfairly than his older brother, lots of railing against the fact that we are always, ALWAYS, so strict with him, and then, when none of this changed the fact that no cake had magically materialised on the table in front of him, horror that we were going to carry through.
So, after stamping upstairs, slamming his bedroom door a few times, and throwing himself around a bit, my 8 year old son packed a rucksack with 2 pairs each of socks, pants (underwear), and t-shirts, a spare pair of trousers, and a spare pair of trainers, put it on his back, and cycled off up the road*.
And we let him go.
Friends tell me that they too did this sort of stuff around his age, and I know for sure that my sis did, but crucially, I never did - so this was very hard for me to let happen.
However, Husband - from the sofa, where he appeared a great deal more sanguine and relaxed about the whole experience than I was, mainly due to the fact that he too had hoisted his backpack on his shoulder at about 8 - told me I had to step back and let Boy #2 make his protest. Although he did agree that a phone call to the guards on the gates to make sure they didn't let our son 'out' onto the streets would be a good a idea.
Of course, Boy #2 never got that far. He cycled about 100m up the road, thought better of it, doubled back and went and hid in a hedge for around 15 minutes. Then he got back on his bike and cycled around the house a couple of times. Then, he abandoned his bike, and snuck around on foot for a bit longer.
Finally, he reappeared at the back door, where I met him and welcomed him home, before he proceeded to empty his rucksack to show me just how well he had packed for himself. I congratulated him and commented that perhaps the next time we go away he could do the same thing, he agreed, and then we kissed, made up, and he took his supplies back up to his bedroom. His Big Adventure (as my sister in law called it through her tears of laughter) had lasted about 30 minutes.
And then, an hour later, he could be found sitting at the kitchen table eating the cake that I gave him.
Bugger. So much for consistency.
* For the record, I would like to state that we live in a gated compound with between 30 and 40 houses. There was nowhere for him to go, other than the playground. Not that that made it any easier to watch him leave...
Dictionary definition of Potty: 'somewhat silly or crazed, addlebrained'. I started this blog to share the benefit of my - admittedly limited - experience of potty training my two boys, and to show that whilst it can be hell, it also can be done. All things must pass though (thank goodness - my sons are now 10 and 7), and potty training for us has been consigned to history, so this has become more of a blog to stop me becoming potty than about the potty. And if you can understand my twisted logic, I hope you enjoy these extremely subjective anecdotes on being a stay-at-home mum transplanted to Moscow and still coming to terms with not also being a career woman. Really. You'd think I'd be over it by now; it's been 5 years since I last worked in an office - and went to the loo with the door shut - after all... You can also find me writing as Clare Taylor on Powder Room Graffiti and in the blog section of the Moscow Times on 'Diaries of a Moscow Mum'.
And be polite. The moment I put pen to paper or fingers to keys, all content, photos, or images on this blog (unless otherwise credited) are copyright me, me, me.