Nonsense and Stuff

In the car this morning my two sons decided to act true to type...

Me: "So, Boy #1, what do you do at school on a Thursday?

Boy #1 (always loving a bit of drama and suspense when - most importantly - he is the one dishing it out); "I don't know. It's a mystery! We'll just have wait until we get there to find out..."

Me: "OK... And Boy #2? What do you have at school on a Thursday?"

Boy #2: "Sausages!"

Cutting straight to the chase, as usual. Good to know he's aware of what's important in life...


The whole move to Moscow thing is becoming a bit real today with estate agents calling to value the flat for lettings and international movers hassling us for paper-work, so once again I suggest that if you want to read coherent thought from me you check the following;

Powder Room Graffiti - where I'm musing on the dubious benefits of Skype's video-call facility

or Alpha Mummy at Times Online, where I'm revisiting and expanding on my thoughts from my earlier post on a Husband-shaped space in our lives.

Oh, and Red Magazine is running an article about the British Mummy Bloggers Ning this month, featuring an interview with the divine Susanna of A Modern Mother who set the network up. And yes, I am in the photograph. (Note to self - work on posture... Pilates, perhaps?)

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Attn Country Cousins

It's that time of year again.

No, not the time for Christmas cheer and last minute desperate searches through the 'present cupboard' (formerly known as your sweater shelf but which is the only place in your wardrobe the children can't see or reach), in the hope that you have something suitable when visiting friends break the cardinal rule - no unannounced presents - by turning up with Lego Pods for your children when you have nothing to give their offspring in return (oh, the shame!).

No, it's far more exciting than that; it's Circular Letter time!

Now, I appreciate that for you web-savvy folk in this age of Facebook and Twitter, when your nearest and dearest not only know what you had for dinner but how long the meal took to digest, this may seem a sweetly out-moded concept, but believe me, these little treats do still appear tucked into cards all across the land.

Last year I was particularly taken with the concept that an acquaintance encountered; that of writing a round robin letter from the family pet. Unfortunately, due to allergies (both to pet hair and to the work involved in caring for one), we don't have a pet - but I got around that by enlisting the help of the ever-obliging family of mice who were at that time making far-too regular appearances in our flat.

This year, however, times have changed.

After fierce battles featuring traps, poison and plastic buckets with our furry friends I had convinced myself that they were gone...


Attn. Country Cousins.

This may be a short missive. Stop. Hope all is well. Stop. Currently in deep cover under the Floor Boards. Stop. Human Family Above-Boards convinced we have been eradicated. Stop. Not true (Clearly). Stop. They are fools for even imagining it. Stop.

Our unit is currently working on a plan for global domination Above-Boards featuring adaptation of Human Children's Lego City Police Station. Stop. We are hoping that radio comms attached to the station's roof will link us in to High Command for further instructions. Stop. And that miniature microwave will prove useful in heating up my Cornish Pasties. Stop.

Have already appropriated Power Ranger Motorbike and Transformer Rocket which Cousin Brains is converting into all-terrain vehicle suitable for Kitchen assault. Stop. Grappling irons have been sourced likewise from Playmobil set in Toy Box. Stop.

Uncle Hannibal running boot camps under the Living Room Sofa for Rookies. Stop. Casualties slight to-date. Stop. If only he would stop making the raw recruits scale the bookshelves in search of paper clips and other deadly weapons they might be negligable. Stop. Death by impalement on Lego Shrapnel not pretty. Stop.

Floorplans for target gratefully recieved. Stop. Our condolences to Great Aunt Sissy on the loss of Uncle Bert in the operation to obtain them. Stop. Those solicitor's offices can be death-traps. Stop. Who would have thought that the shredded paper he was bivouacking in would get re-shredded? Stop.

Getting light now, Humans traipsing around Above-Boards and orders being barked to 'get Shoozon'. Stop. Wonder once again what they are talking about and why it requires such emphasis. Stop. One day we'll break their fiendish code. Stop. Must stop. Stop.

Signed, Private Ro Dent.


(Yes. I know it. I need to get a job).

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A Christmas carol, anyone?

Last night I took a break from explaining to my Boys why Santa may not be bringing them every single item in the Lego and Power Ranger catalogues, and went to a Christmas carol service at the Royal Hospital, Chelsea. It was to raise funds for Home Start who, 'through a network of nearly 16,000 trained parent volunteers, support thousands of parents who are struggling to cope. The families they help need support for many reasons including post-natal illness, disability, bereavement, the illness of a parent or child, or social isolation. Parents supporting other parents - to help build a family's confidence and ability to cope'.

Home Start is a fantastic charity and the carol service was a wonderful experience, even more so because we're leaving London so soon. Just to add to the sense of theatre, it was held in The Chapel at the Royal Hospital.

I experienced something of a Susan Boyle moment as it started. The Chapel Choir processed into the church by candle-light and as they entered, stopped at the doorway. One of their members, an unpreposessing middle-aged woman, stepped forward and nervously raised her hymn sheet in front of her.

I have to admit that at this moment, my heart was in my mouth for her. I mean, really, not having heard this choir before I had no idea what to expect. Obviously I should have known better, for she took a breath and, unaccompanied, sang the first verse of 'Once in Royal David's City', beautifully. Just as beautifully, in fact, as any boy soprano chorister that I've heard.

The lesson, I suppose, is not to judge a book by it's cover...

There were readings too; at one point the friend I was with whispered that it was rather like listening to a 'best of' on Radio Four. They included The Nativity sketch by Joyce Grenfell (a hero of mine - click here for a poor attempt by me at writing in her style), and a parody of 'The Night Before Christmas' written and read by Richard Stilgoe which unfortunately I couldn't find on Youtube, but which ended with the immortal words '...I must have been barmy, to end the night eating three Peperami.'

We were also treated with one of my favourite Christmas-themed monologues; 'The Journey of the Magi' by TS Eliot. If you've never heard it I can recommend it; it will give you food for thought whatever your religious inclination...

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Keeping the space free

Husband and I sat down yesterday and made a list of all the things we still have to do to make our move to Moscow happen in just over one month's time. Bugger, there's a lot of stuff on it. Throughout this planning process I found myself fighting back the stress-yawns that any type of house-move always prompts from me (it appears my 'fight or flight' instinct is in fact a 'fight or stay on the spot and take a quick nap' instinct), and I have to admit that it did occur to me - more than once - to wonder; 'Why are we doing this, again?'

I know too that this is a question that friends and family ask themselves privately - and not so privately, on occasion. I mean, we could just maintain the status quo; Husband flying backwards and forwards every week, the Boys and I safely ensconsced in London and just seeing him for 2 - 3 days every weekend. I could continue to hold the fort on the home-front whilst my beloved brings home the Russian bacon.

But that would be wrong on so many different levels, I can't contemplate it. Manic though the next few weeks are going to be, we can't continue as we are doing. Not only because it is important for our sons that they get more time with their father (and for our marriage that their parents get to spend time together too), or that the constant travelling - for him - and solo parenting - for me -is exhausting both of us, or even that moving to Moscow going to be a great adventure in our otherwise staid and middle-class life. No, the problem with leading life like this is, I've found, that when one parent is gone for a significant amount of time - in this case, approx 75% of the week, every week - it creates a vacuum.

All the e-mails, skype and telephone calls in the world can't hide the fact that there is a Husband-shaped hole in our family when he's not here, in London, with us.

That's bad enough, of course. But I'm aware - both from my own experience, and from that of friends who've found themselves in similar situations - that what happens subsequently, as the absences become more common-place than exceptional, is almost worse. The longer the situation continues the smaller that hole becomes, because as they say; Nature abhors a vacuum. So what happens is that the family left behind starts to expand to fill that hole. It's a coping mechanism, and there's nothing wrong with that. Except, of course, that in this instance the partner who is absent comes back every weekend, expecting to find the same space they left behind empty, open and waiting for them.

I recognise this. He recognises this. And we both recognise that it is not a long-term recipe for healthy relationship. So we're moving to Moscow.

On the plus side, every single thing that we ever thought 'I must get round to that someday / I must throw out / I must organise' is going to be sorted in the process. And I'm anally retentive enough to be quite excited about that...

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British Mummy Blogger of the Week

There must be something in the air; I seem to get riled quite easily at the moment. But I took time out from huffing about party bags (fine in themselves but I hate the behaviour they prompt in my children) and railing against chocolate filled advent calendars (what's wrong with festive scenes of robins and reindeers, huh? Never did ME any harm as a child, twitch twitch...), to watch 'ET' with my children this evening.

Unsurprisingly it was my younger son who was enchanted, firing questions at us about rockets, spacemen, aliens, and whether ET was waiting outside our house, and my older son who hid beneath a quilt, peeping out every now and again to protest about being forced to watch such a scary movie. Never mind the happy ending - which we assured him frequently was on it's way - we were apparantly committing a heinous crime by switching on such a horror-flick in the first place. I should have known, I suppose. This is a boy who gets spooked by 'Numberjacks' on C-Beebies, after all.

All the fun and games, prevarications, negotiations, confrontations and reconciliations, however, are still to come for this Blogging Mummy of the Week.

Myshka is not a new blogger, but is currently in the eye of the storm that is becoming a first-time mother. As someone who's mostly forgotten what that was like, it's fascinating to read her real-time observations, both on what's happened since her daughter was born, and on how she felt about it all before-hand.

I particularly recommend this post, where she talks of her change in perspective; I know I'm a soft-touch these days, but I defy you not to be moved. It certainly reminded me of what having a new-born can feel like.

To check out the British Mummy Bloggers Ning, click here. (Note: It's called 'Mummy', but Dads can be members too).

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What would you NEVER do?

I've found that one of the best things about getting older (yes, amazingly there are some that fall under the category of 'good, better, best'), is the fact that I have become less certain about long-held beliefs and started to realise that sometimes life is just too short and too uncertain to ever say 'never'. Even some of the most fiercely felt principles are 'adaptable' sometimes.

Sceptical? Let me walk you through how this can work...

For example, I have always said firmly that 'I will never drive a 4x4'. They're petrol guzzling, unneccessarily large vehicles that serve no real purpose in a town other than being a testament to conspicuous consumption, from my very prejudiced point of view. Living where I do (Chelsea-on-Thames), we're covered with the things like a rash, they're everywhere. Taking up two parking spaces. Cutting the corners on pavements. Being driven like weapons, and generally just pissing me off, to be honest.

That was my start point, anyway. However, as I've got older, my immovable statement mutated into 'I will never drive a 4x4.' (See how the rot sets in?) Because not everyone else thinks the same way I do (I know, it's crazy, but - sadly - true) some of our friends drive them. And sometimes accepting a lift is unavoidable. And boy, are they comfortable. Still wrong, of course, but every now and again, just about acceptable. Let's just hope that my balaclava'd comrades in the Anti-4x4 movement never spot me in the passenger seat...

Time moves on though, and recently my position has changed again. Now, it's 'I will never drive a 4x4 in London'. (Lo, how the mighty have fallen...) Because there's a possibility that once we finally get to Russia, expediency will win out and I'll find myself behind the wheel of one. I mean, there's the weather (ice and snow for 4 months of the year), the state of the roads (pot-holed, unfinished, constantly being renovated), the additional safety that driving a virtual tank gives you in an accident (I'll be driving on the opposite side of the road to the one I'm used to), and the uncertainty of the skill level of the drivers around you (I'm told that in Russia it's more normal to buy your driving licence than it is to take the exam).

Plus, I'll have been uprooted from my normal comfort zone, will be far from my beloved family, bessie mates, and unlimited re-runs of 'Friends' on E4, so who knows? I may just think 'Fxck it. Bring me that 4x4 - covered in chocolate. Because I'm worth it.'

I don't expect that to happen, by the way, but you get my point.

Anyway, this moving of moral goalposts is something I've written about on Powder Room Graffiti this week, with regard to an issue that often raises outraged hackles; that of the Fur Coat.

So, what would you NEVER do? I would be interested to know...

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Let's take a Moment or two...

I'm having those 'moments' rather a lot, recently. The sort of moments when you whether you wonder which reality it is you're actually living in. Needless to say, they usually revolve around my sons. Here are a couple of Boy #2-related examples...

Boy #2 (from the back of the car as we drive through heavy traffic to collect his brother from school): "Did you see it? Did you see it, Mama?"

Me: "What? What was I supposed to see?"

Boy #2 (exaxperated): "The HOUSE, Mama. The house!!"

Me: "Well, which house did you mean, Boy #2?"

Boy #2 (sighing heavily and no doubt rolling his eyes at his mother's tiresome insistence on watching the road when driving): "The HOUSE! The blue one! The one covered with smoked salmon!"

Heaven knows what he was on about. I mean, I do live in South Kensington, but even here conspicuous consumption hasn't reached quite those levels...


And recently, every time I start the car, it jumps forward as it has been left in gear. Not by me, I hasten to add - never by me. No, normally it's Husband who does that. (Is it a Man thing, or a continental European thing, I wonder? In any case, it drives me crazy.) However, Husband - in case you hadn't noticed recently - is rarely in the country during the week at the moment. So how is this happening?

Boy #2, of course. He has made it his raison d'etre to do this. Every morning and afternoon, he climbs into the back of the car and, whilst I'm walking around to the other side to clip him in, nips in between the two front seats to slam it into gear. By the time I've wrestled him into his car seat, located the seemingly impossible to find clip underneath him, and discussed whatever is on his mind, I invariably forget to check the car is not in gear when I finally get into the front seat to start the engine.

I turn the ignition and we bunny hop, to his great delight. Not, so far, into a car parked in front of us (we live in area where off-street parking is but a distant dream), but it's been close a few times.

I keep having nightmares where a clerk at my car insurance company opens my claim form and says "You remember that woman in London who hit a car at 5 miles an hour and gave some poor bloke whiplash? Well, she's back. This time she's totalled an Aston Martin parked in front of her and she's expecting us to be believe it was the fault of her three year old son..."

Hmmm. I think I need to leave a post-it note on the steering wheel.

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