Crazy Fonts and Mixed Emotions

OK, firstly I need to apologise for the crazy font sizes that seem to have been going on over the last couple of posts. It's when things like this happen that I wish I paid more attention to operating instructions. No doubt those Mac enthusiasts out there will tell me that I really should be using one of their babies because it's so much more 'intuitive' and 'creative' and other artsy buzz words that get right up my nose. Yes, Dad and Little Brother, I'm talking to you. And no, I'm not going to come over from the Dark Side - aka PC World (geddit?) - to join you in White Heaven because, well because... I'm just too dam' stubborn...

Anyway. Where was I before that rant took hold?

We're reaching a crossroads here in the Potski household. Since the beginning of February I've been buckling Boy #2 into the car twice a week and driving him through the Moscow traffic to nursery. It's been stressful, I don't mind telling you, and has made me totally rethink the way I am behind the wheel (basically, just let the idiots go; the assholes who drive like assholes are going to do that no matter how cross it makes you, so just ignore them and concentrate on defensive manouvres to stay alive).

The mornings that he and I negotiate the highway are classified now in my mind as four, five, six or seven lane days. There are in fact only 3 lanes marked on the road (with a fourth feeder that peels off to the right shortly after we join it), but invariably this is not the number of lanes of traffic that greet us as we join it. Every day, some drivers get increasingly frustrated by the slow moving traffic, and a bright spark always thinks 'Hey! There's some space between those two lanes! Let's just see... Oh yes, I can! I CAN squeeze through!' And then before you know it someone else has snuck in behind him, and suddenly, 4 lanes of traffic become five, become six, become seven...

On the plus side, at least when this happens it's likely that any accidents that take place are too slow moving to cause any real injury. (Find that silver lining PM, find it!).

However, in only 2 weeks time, this schedule of drop-offs and pick-ups draws to an end because then Boy #2 will stop going to nursery prior to our summer holidays, and from the end of August will be joining his older brother in Big School, only a 15 minute walk from us.

Like all mums I imagine, I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand I know that with a more settled schedule working to standard school times, the opportunities for me personally to experience Moscow during our time here are going to completely open up. I have a long list of things I want to do and places that I want to see and visit which just aren't feasible with a 4 year old (and his trusty scooter) in tow.

In addition, I'm hoping to get a little more serious on the writing front, and to use my creative impulses for more than just typing diary entries onto the blog. And I'm going to become the world's best filer, for another thing. All those cooling towers of paper currently sitting on our window sill? Adios. I will be a whirling dervish of productivity when it comes to getting administration sorted (Husband, if you're reading this, don't hold me to it. Remember, a declaration made on a blog does not hold water in family court...)

On the other hand, however... Once Boy #2 starts school, who is going be Tonto to my Lone Ranger? (Or, if I'm honest, who is going to be Lone Ranger to my Tonto?). Who is going to sit in the back of the car issuing instructions on our way to the supermarket as to which one we should shop at based on his preference for pushing his own miniature sized trolley or riding in the car trolley at that particular moment? Who is going to demand book-reading with menaces and cuddle into the crook of my arm on the sofa when I agree? Who is going to push the start button on the washing machine to hear the beep?

Who is going to build complicated train tracks around the sitting room that make hoovering a nightmare and which cause me to have scabby knees from sitting on the floor to walk my fingers onto the top of the next wooden train to reach Knapford station? Who is going to listen to birdsong with me as we toil back up the hill from school, and point out - before squashing - the insects on the path? Who is going to retire to bed 5 minutes before the school-run in reverse in the certain knowledge that a trip to the school canteen will be offered as bribe to get him out of bed in time to meet his brother?

Who will demand a pull-along on his scooter and then fit their hand so neatly into mine as I oblige?

Now I know - I know - that all these things will continue. But they will be different. As will he - and I.