The Potty Diaries

Nonsense and Stuff

2009-12-10T09:05:00.007Z

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?)

Attn Country Cousins

2009-12-09T09:42:00.002Z

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).

A Christmas carol, anyone?

2009-12-08T12:30:00.000Z

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...

Keeping the space free

2009-12-07T09:15:00.000Z

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...

British Mummy Blogger of the Week

2009-12-05T21:01:00.001Z

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).

What would you NEVER do?

2009-12-04T09:07:00.000Z

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...

Let's take a Moment or two...

2009-12-03T09:39:00.000Z

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.

Top Tips and bad man-management

2009-12-01T21:44:00.000Z

Right. It's Top Tip Time.

Here's the first; if you have a small child about you and want to get completely, utterly and totally into the Christmas spirit, wait until they're at school / asleep / on a visit to loving grandparents and wrecking their tree rather than your own, and visit this post at Sticky Fingers. Then follow the links to create a real live video message from Santa Claus to your tiny tot, to show them at some suitably festive moment. It works, I promise. Hell, it had me believing in him (and even tearing up, if I'm honest) and I was the one who typed in the information to create it.

And here's the second tip. Are you super savvy when it comes to caring for your home and running your family? I bet you are. I bet you have loads of money saving tips to pass on and share. My top tip, which I've written about before, is to make a meal plan and a list before I go to the supermarket. Oh, and not to take the Boys down the cereal aisle where they can get seduced by the free toys. I know - I'm a horrible, controlling mother. Especially since designing, manufacturing and distributing those very same toys was the best job I ever had...

Other than Motherhood, obviously. (Cue sickly sweet smile as I pick leek and potato soup off my cardigan).

Still, if you're not feeling particularly super or savvy this cold December day, there's always the supersavvyme website for back-up. In the interests of full disclosure, they hosted a fantastic blogger's meet-up for the British Mummy Bloggers at London Zoo on Sunday, not only providing yummy sandwiches and somewhere to shelter from the freezing wet weather, but giving us the rare and very welcome chance to chat face to face, which is why they're top of mind for me right now. Check out A Modern Mother's blog for photographic evidence of the event and proof that we do, indeed, exist in the flesh...

Right now though, there is one area of my life which I'm not feeling either super or savvy about. No top tips here - just a sad tale of bad management on my part.

Not long ago I wrote about my inability to deal with 'the cleaner'. Reading it back, I decided enough was enough, I was paying her good money - more in fact than the our previous, better cleaner - and the next week (when she grudgingly turned up on time and as agreed) I spoke to her about understanding that she had been ill but that I needed to be able to rely on her. I explained that since we were moving soon and would be showing the flat to potential tenants, it was important the place was kept reasonably clean and that obviously she could help me with that.

You would think that would be the end of the matter, right? That she would either accept those terms or say 'thanks, but I don't think it's working out, you need to find yourself someone else'?

But no.

Since then, she has been when she said she would, that's true. She has done a just about OK job, also true. Not a great job, as I still find cobwebs and dust in blindingly obvious places, but I can live with that.

What I hadn't reckoned on, however, was that in retaliation for the unwelcome news that she was expected to start earning her wage, she would start helping herself to my toiletries.

Bugger.

Time for a new cleaner, I think.

Does my blog look big in this?

2009-11-30T23:20:00.001Z

So, it's been a while since you looked - really looked - at yourself in the mirror. You know how it is; you find a look that suits you, that you think is the bees knees, and you stick with it. It fits you, it reflects what you're up to at that particular point in time, and you feel comfortable with it.

Time passes, though. Your shiny new look starts to look a little less new and a little less shiny. In fact, it becomes a little grimy around the edges and feel a little uncomfortable in certain places. It doesn't fit as well as it used to. You start to notice that there are other people around who are looking quite a bit sharper than you do. Their colour-ways are clearer and brighter. They are more on-trend, more on-message. They can do things you can't. You start to feel like the frump on the edge of the dance floor whilst the cool chicks are getting noticed and getting on down under the lights, and you begin to feel a little left out.

So you grasp the nettle, take your courage in both hands and decide it's time. Yes. You are going to have a blog make-over.

Well, actually, I grasped the nettle in the summer and got my logo designed then, but in the way of all good ideas, at that point the project stalled. I uploaded the logo, thought 'ah, that looks purty, I must do something about the template now' and funnily enough real life came along and got in the way, dammit.

So it's only now that the final look is present and correct and ready for duty.

I hope you like it. And if you think my blog looks too big from behind, don't tell me please. I'm just enjoying the moment for now...

Please don't think for an instant that I achieved any of this myself, as I am a luddite of the first order (you may have worked that out from the somewhat home-made previous incarnation of The Potty Diaries). If you're interested in doing something similar with your own blog, details of the lovely people who helped me with this transformation are as follows;

Bespoke blog logo design by gesadesign.com

Template design by ourblogtemplates.com

Overall blog design and project management by Liz at Violet Posy Design (Liz's other hat is as the fabulous blogger Violet Posy)

British Mummy Blogger of the Week

2009-11-29T10:36:00.000Z

I'm distracted, I have to admit it. I have a travelling Husband, here only a couple of days a week. A younger son who has recently discovered the power of a whine delivered at top shouty volume, and who has forgotten how to use the words 'please' and 'thankyou'. An older son who is (I am delighted to say) discovering the joy of reading, which is great, but which does currently involve a lot of interaction from me. Plus, of course, day to day life, and a move to Moscow in the next few weeks.

Overall then, I suppose I should be grateful that in a rare and completely out of character moment of organisation, I've stockpiled a list of contenders for British Mummy Blogger of the week. On the flip side, admitting this does imply - correctly - that I've not had the chance to check through the most recent joiners, but I promise I'll get to you, I promise...

This week's Mummy Blogger of the Week, Kitty Moore, writes of her blog and herself;

'Love and life as a single mother. I created it to share my experiences - I know I'm not the only one! Film professional turned writer. Doing my best to juggle everything.'

I loved her tale of haruanging a poor hapless official at London Bridge when her train was cancelled, and her ongoing tale of getting involved with a man of whom her mother would definitely not approve. It's not your normal mummy blog fare - and I'm hooked.

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

I'm wearing my glasses...

2009-11-28T10:13:00.000Z

...so that should tell you that when I went out last night with 3 girlfriends, and ended up in a gay club watching Motherhood the Final Frontier doing a fantastic personal appearance in front of some adoring fans, I may have had a vodka and tonic or two along the way...

Therefore, I'm going to beg your pardon and politely suggest that if you want to read anything approaching cohesive thought from me, that you pop on over to Powder Room Graffiti where you'll find me chuntering on (again) about moving to Moscow.

And there's good news; the deadline for entering the Robinsons Put On a Panto competition to win panto tickets at theatre local to you has been extended to 11th December. Go on - you know you want to!

Scroll down to the bottom of this post for details...

Happy Saturday!

Today's definitions...

2009-11-26T18:44:00.001Z

Today's definition of 'WTF Were You Thinking?'...

... is agreeing when, during a post-school play-date, your children ask to continue erecting the lego monstrosity they started and abandoned yesterday afternoon. (And which you had since hidden in the study in the hope they might forget all about it).

Today's definition of 'Diplomacy'...

...is working out how best to deal with the discovery that your son's playdate visitor is a bit of a lego fiend and has issues with 'sharing' and 'taking turns' when it comes to deciding who gets to put which piece of useless moulded plastic where.

Today's definition of 'Relief'...

...is when 2 out of 3 participating children decide after 15 minutes that lego is 'boring' and you see an end in sight to the horror, the horror...

Today's definition of 'Dashed Hopes'...

...is when your younger - and more obstinate - son refuses to give up the ghost and insists on continuing to build the police car that comes as an essential part of the 'City Police Station' kit.

Today's defnition of 'Pain'

... is the sensation in your knees as you 'find' yet another tiny walkie-talkie / street sign / railing / choking hazard without using your hands.

Today's definition of 'Frustration'...

...is when you spend 20 minutes looking for the one tiny piece of plastic shrapnel without which said police car cannot be completed.

Today's definition of 'A Sense of Achievement'...

...is when you find the piece and can finish the damn thing.

Today's definition of 'Resignation'...

...is when you look up from attaching said piece and find you are alone in the room, surrounded by a sea of brightly coloured plastic, and realise that no child has been involved in this project for at least a good 15 minutes.

Today's definition of 'Groundhog Day'...

...is when you hand the finished police jeep to your delighted son, turn around to start the clear up operation, and hear the crash as the dratted thing falls to the floor and disintegrates into a million tiny pieces.

Who is She?

2009-11-25T20:27:00.000Z

Who is She, this other woman who supplants me between the hours of 7.40pm and 7.55pm each evening if the Boys don't get to bed on time? Because I've got to tell you, she's pissing me off, with her temper tantrums and her short fuse.

For the rest of the day, there I am, (mostly) sweetness and light - or at least, quite reasonable, anyway - enjoying spending time with my Boys, delighting in their quirks, cracking jokes with them, rolling my eyes sure, when I have to ask them for the 5th time to put their shoes on when we leave the house in the morning, but generally fully aware of the fact that they are (mostly) great to be around.

This afternoon, for example, I was 'present in the moment' enough to be able to enjoy it and make sure that I remembered it when my youngest son suggested that if I was going to call for Jesus (following an unfortunate tripping over a crack in the pavement incident on my part), I should make sure to do it loud, so that he can hear me.

And I was able to sit down perfectly happily with both my sons after school and start the lego equivalent of a 5000 piece jigsaw in the full knowledge that we would never finish it today, and that the 'City Police Station Construction Project' is likely to form a core part of our activities for some time to come.

(I should add here that in addition I finally got to make use of what I think is probably one of the best pieces of advice a friend ever gave me about bringing up boys; when you start with the Lego, do so on a sheet on the floor so that when you need to stop / finish / give up because it's time for tea, you can simply pick up all the corners and tip the remaining plastic shrapnel back into the box. Sammie, at the time I didn't know what a gem you were passing on, but now I finally get it; thankyou.)

So today I was aware of how fleeting these moments can be and am now able to sit down and record the memories here, safely storing them away so that I can pull them out at some indeterminate point in the future and turn them over in my hands like lucky pebbles...

And yet, the moment the Boys reneged on our deal regarding an extra 15 minutes of 'Wild Russia' on National Geographic Channel in exchange for not having a book read to them in bed, She arrived. I mean, it's not like they were watching 'Deal or No Deal', for chrissake. This was interesting, riveting stuff; of course they wanted to watch more on how the brown bears like to eat flies on the shores of Lake Baikal. (I know - don't ask). In hindsight, it was perfectly reasonable for them to want to push the envelope and nag me for a story as well after they had previously expressly promised they would go straight to bed. They're 3 and 6 - that sort of double crossing is their job.

Not that She sees that. She felt taken advantage of, exhausted, put-upon. It was all shoutiness and crossness and general childish behaviour for a good 5 minutes. There may even have been a Thomas Tank Engine book flung to the floor when a plastic cup (it wasn't even a breakable glass, for goodness' sake) got knocked over necessitating a swift clear up with a hand towel. Which can, of course, be washed, although you wouldn't have thought that from the huffing and puffing that ensued.

And then, as ever, She left as quickly as she arrived. Two minutes in the kitchen refilling the spilt water glass was enough to bring to me to my senses and send Her packing. She's gone, and I'm left with a sense of shame, a guilt hangover and a resolve that tomorrow I will be a better mother to my two darling Boys.

She should be ashamed of herself. And I am.

It's not all a barrel of laughs, this parenting lark, is it?

It's time to draw the line

2009-11-24T23:00:00.000Z

Just because I don't write about woman's place in society and the issues surrounding that, it doesn't mean that it isn't important to me. It is, as I'm sure it is to most people. I may choose to interpret feminist teachings in a different way to those who think that because I've chosen to spend some time at home with my children, I've ignored the call to arms, but that doesn't make my belief that society should be one of equal opportunity for all, regardless of sex, race, creed or colour any less valid or any less heartfelt.

And I hope that the way Husband and I are raising our sons reflects this, not least in the way that they will in the future view and treat women.

When I read Noble Savage's post on what happened to her at the Reclaim The Night March in Central London, I was horrified - although given the number of damaged individuals out there, I suppose I should not have been surprised. And when I read the follow-up post, about the vigil to be held in Trafalgar Square tomorrow night (Wednesday 25th November), even though I can't be there, I promised to post about it.

She's right. This shit has got to stop.

The language of Love

2009-11-23T20:35:00.000Z

How are you at learning new languages? Personally, I'm not the best, never have been. Along the way I've had shots at learning French, German, Spanish and Dutch, none of which has particularly sunk in.

For example, the only thing of value that I remember from 5 years of French lessons is the word for 'slice' (and you would be amazed how handy that comes in when shopping for cheese in Provence, sweetie). Oh, and the first verse of the Marsellaise, which to this day I can sing perfectly due to a particularly fearsome and intimidatingly chic French woman who taught the subject in my 3rd year. (That's Year 9 in new money. I think).

German was a non-starter from Day 1. Bearing in mind that in the 70's and 80's we were never really taught how to conjugate verbs in English, the chances of teaching a group of bored convent school girls how to deal with the 4 cases in German (Nominative, Accusative, Dative and Genetive - and yes, I did have to google those) when there were other important things to be done like looking up rude words in our dictionaries were always going to be slim.

Spanish? Well, that was for a couple of terms at university when, in the first year, I was forced to choose between some 'improving' subject (like Spanish, for example) or spending each and every Wednesday afternoon running around a hockey pitch being chased by scary stocky girls with very short hair and interesting piercings, all in the cause of glorifying the college sporting record. I know how to order beer in Spanish as a result - but that's about it.

Dutch appeared on the menu the year that Husband and I got married. I managed a couple of terms, attending an evening class almost exclusively composed of women with Dutch boyfriends, with maybe 2 men dating Dutch women, but bowed out when I got pregnant with Boy #1 and the term 'morning sickness' proved to be someone's idea of a cruel joke. Morning sickness? I don't think so; my nausea arrived promptly every morning, yes, but then decided to hang around for a laugh until bedtime...

So when faced with a move to Russia, I have to say that the prospect of learning an entirely new language, with an entirely new alphabet, didn't fill me with joy. Nevertheless, I'm giving it a go, and am now often to be found of an evening keeping company with Mamselle Rosetta Stone doing my best impression of Madonna in her 'Vogue' persona (think headphones here please, rather than pointy bra), swearing at the screen when I prove unable to say 'bread' in Russian for the 50th time.

This on it's own is not so bad. However, I am married to Mr Languages himself; he absorbs them by osmosis - oh, and very hard work, obviously. This skill on it's own is also not so bad. (Have you ever seen 'A Fish Called Wanda'? Remember how Jamie Lee Curtis loves it when John Cleese speaks Russian? That's what I'm talking about... But I digress).

Anyway, Husband speaks a number of different languagues, around 5 - including Russian - fluently, and another couple that he claims he can 'get by' in. And there's the difference between us. For me, 'getting by' is making it to the correct destination by taxi in Malaga without being ripped off. For him, 'getting by' is being able to order your coffee in Spanish and specifying that you don't want the whipped cream on top. Which, to my mind, is rather more than 'getting by', so I think you'll agree that our start points are not in exactly the same spot when it comes to learning languages.

Which is why I should not have been at all surprised by the following conversation...

Him: "So, how's the Russian coming?"

Me: "Oh, OK. You know."

Him: "It would be really great if you were able to communicate a bit with the locals by the time you arrive."(at the time of this conversation, around 8 weeks away).

Me: "Yeeeees. How do you mean, exactly?"

Him: "Well, you know. Talk to people in shops. Chat to the cleaning lady. Give directions to a taxi driver."

Me: (after a very long pause). "You do realise that what you've just described is my ultimate goal for when we've been living there about two years, don't you?"

Him: "Oh."

British Mummy Blogger of the Week

2009-11-22T11:38:00.000Z

Despite having had a glass or two of wine last night I find I'm still capable of sitting down to write a blog post, especially when the alternative is sitting with the Boys and watching 'Crocodile Hunter' on DVD for the third - or is it the fourth - time this week. Well, it was that or Beverly Hills Chihuaha again and frankly, that I couldn't face...

But I'm well aware that having to deal with Steve Irwin-mad children whilst fighting the effects of a little over-indulgence is not really a problem. It's nothing, for example, when compared to the issues faced by the families of very sick children. When my two boys were baptised we asked that friends and family, rather than buying yet another silver cup, spoon or money box to sit on the shelf growing gradually duller until a visiting grandmother can stand it no longer and polishes them up, should instead donate money to Great Ormond Street Hospital.

So whilst I never seem to get round to watching The X Factor, I was delighted to learn - via Brits in Bosnia - that their Christmas single is in support of the hospital (click here to watch a video all about it. But have your tissues handy). Not only are Sony donating all profits from sales of this single, but if you click on this link it will show you which retailers are also donating a portion of theirs too.

Now, onto the British Mummy Blogger of the Week. Vegemite Vix writes of herself:

'A keen fan of Vegemite, and all things Kiwi, Vegemite Vix moved her three kids, dog, cat and all her earthly belongings from Auckland New Zealand to a small town in the English countryside. This is her blog about how to survive and thrive as an expat a long way from home.'

It's always interesting to look in the someone else's mirror when it's held up to things that we take for granted about life in the UK - like our education system, as she posted about here. And her notes on how Facebook has changed the way that teenagers deal with the end of 'True Love' showed - me, at least - how our communication-rich society can be something of a double-edged sword...

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

Faaather's caaar's a jaaaaaguaaaar...

2009-11-20T16:47:00.000Z

This morning, in the car on the way back from the supermarket, Boy #2 was doing his best to send me crazy. He had decided he was going to mimic the tannoy announcements he had heard in Sainsbury's by booming instructions at me from the back seat with his hands over his mouth - thus making his pronouncements impossible to understand. Our conversation went something like this:

Boy #2: "Calling all..mimm..ens"

Me: "I beg your pardon?"

Boy #2: "I said, 'calling all cmirmbintes.' "

Me: "I can't understand you, Boy #2. Take your hands away from your mouth..."

Boy #2: "No! That's the point! 'Calling all snutegetmrssns...' "

I never did get to the bottom of what he was trying to say. But it put me in mind of this post about children's accents over at A Modern Mother's blog a couple of days ago, and also got me thinking about something that happened last week...

I was sitting in the doctor's surgery with the boys when a woman of about my age came in with her mid-teen son. They chatted to each other in a mix of German and English whilst they were waiting, and it became clear that whilst she was German / Austrian / Swiss or similar, he spoke English with a very middle class accent.

Until, that is, his mobile rang.

'Aaaaaari-aaai?'

Then he had a conversation with a friend in what is sometimes called Hackney Patois, his mum sitting next to him and stoically ignoring the whole thing.

Something tells me that if my boys spend their teen years in London this may well be my future. Good god. I can't wait, really...

For those of you who've never had the pleasure of hearing Hackney Patois, according to the Urban Dictionary, it is the result of a combination of East London cockney, Afro-Carribbean, general chavspeak and Hip-Hop slang. Essentially, it's the next step on from Ali G.

Check here if you want to know more...

When David met Mumsnet...

2009-11-19T19:49:00.001Z

So today it was David Cameron's turn to run the Mumsnet gauntlet.

Gordon Brown did this a few weeks back and whilst he scored a few points from the mummerati (not my term but it does sort of fit), a lot of stuff he said got missed in the furore over what type of biscuits he prefers - or rather, in the furore over his refusal to 'fess up to what type of biscuits he preferred. (In the end Sarah put them out of their misery, if you didn't hear. Shortbread. Although I'm betting it's not the Duchy Original's version...)

Anyway, today it was David Cameron's shot at convincing the 'early adopters' at Mumsnet that he's their best hope for an improved Britain come next Spring.

How did he do? Well, if you don't want to check out the whole 100+ pages of comments, questions and answers on the thread, click here for an edited transcript. I mean, feel free to check out the whole thing if you like, but I imagine a shortened version might be more up your street.

Alpha Mummy at Times Online also ran a real-time live blog analysis of what was going on (I was part of the panel) and if you want to see how that went, click here.

My take on his performance? Firstly, I take my hat off to both him and Gordon for doing this; the audience at Mumsnet can be a tough crowd and I certainly wouldn't want to get on their wrong side. Overall though, I didn't learn anything I didn't already know (although I have to admit that since I was going to be involved with this I did do a bit of prep before-hand so perhaps if I hadn't, I might have), he's not the world's fastest typist (but then, is that an important skill in a potential Prime Minister? Discuss), and he's going to have to work a bit harder to count on a lot of the Mumsnetters' votes.

And mine too, now I come to think of it.

Rules for a Perfect Family Christmas

2009-11-18T09:06:00.000Z

Yes, yes, I know it's a little soon. And I also know that there is rarely such a thing - in a modern family - as a 'perfect family Christmas'. But we can all hope, and it never hurts to set your stall out early on these things, so when I was asked to participate in John Lewis's 'Rules for a Perfect Christmas' campaign I decided that now was as good a time as any to outline some of ours.

1) Children...

...should be seen and heard no more loudly than, say, a light aircraft. Jet engine levels of noise are strongly discouraged. And rocket ship levels will not be tolerated apart from on Christmas morning itself during present opening. (Grandparents are strongly advised to turn off their hearing aids during this time. Everyone else - there's cotton wool in the bathroom cabinet).

And on a more practical note, posting a letter up the chimney is all very well but what if you live in a house with no chimney, as we do? Simple; the rule in our house is that the children write Santa a note with a short summary of their Christmas list. Leave it with the carrot, mince pie and glass of sherry / whiskey / red wine / whatever you've convinced them is his favourite tipple (funny that it's the same as yours, isn't it?). Then, once the tots are in bed, cut a potato in half, carve the bottom of one of them into a semblance of a reindeer hoof, wipe some mud on it from the garden, and leave Rudolf's hoofprint on their note for them to find on the end of their beds with the stocking in the morning. Watch their faces when they see it. Magic.

2) The Christmas meal

Ignore the brussels' sprouts that your mum prepares every year as part of Christmas lunch. Whilst this will not make them disappear in a puff of smoke (because of course they do that anyway when they eventually get eaten, boom boom), it will mean there are enough of them left over on Boxing Day to be turned into soup with the left over ham stock from Christmas Eve. Quite how the most noxious vegetable known to man can be turned into one of the world's most delicious soups I don't know, but there you go, it works - you heard it here first.

3) The in-laws

Be kind. One day - with luck - you'll be in their shoes.

4) Entertainment

Pull out the box of Pictionary and / or Trivial Pursuit. Divide into 2 teams; men vs women. Light blue touch paper and retire 10 paces to watch in wonder as the family ignites...

For a more congenial experience, our family rule is that there must be a trip to see The Polar Express in 3D at the London Imax. Watch the animated snow fall inches from your children's noses as they reach out to try and touch it, and round the afternoon off with tea in one of the Southbank restaurants. Beats braving the Christmas crush on the local high street any day of the week.

5) Decorations

The tree and the decorations are never - NEVER - to be put up until a maximum of 3 days pre-Christmas. This means that the magic is all the fresher once the big day arrives. Tree decorations should preferably include:

home-made tat that you made at school 35 years ago which your mum still can't bring herself to throw out and so has passed it on to you for 'recycling'
garish balding tinsel that you insisted on buying when you were seven and bling was the new black, and which your mum has been delighted to finally pass on to you with the insistence that since she had to use it for 35 years, so should you...
tasteful designer glass baubles you bought on a pre-child trip to Prague and which you put as high up as possible to stop small hands interfering with them
home-made gingerbread cookies lovingly baked and decorated by yourself and the children and which you proudly hang on the tree, only to discover that the mouse problem you thought you'd dealt with last May needs attention once more...

Note; the 3 day rule is allowed to be broken if Christmas is not being spent at home, obviously; there's nothing worse than arriving back from the grandparents on Boxing Day evening to a decoration-free home.

What about you? Are there any rules in your household?

This is a sponsored post.

Ovarian Cancer and Pasties in the same post - who'd have thought it?

2009-11-17T09:15:00.000Z

As I mentioned in Sunday's post, this weekend I went to a benefit event held by Ovarian Cancer Action to raise funds for research into ovarian cancer. This 'silent killer' is not a disease that many people think about, and yet it kills far more women each year than cervical cancer. I thought it would be helpful then to list the symptoms, as most of us don't know what to look out for.

The following is quoted from the leaflet I was given at the benefit:

'If you experience any of the following key symptoms on most days of the month, then ask your doctor if they have considered ovarian cancer, since research shows that these symptoms, when very frequent, can help a doctor distinguish between ovarian cancer and other less serious conditions e.g. irritable bowel syndrome.

persistent pelvic and stomach pain
increased stomach size / persistent bloating (not bloating that comes and goes)
difficulty eating, and feeling full quickly

Any other sudden onset, frequently recurring or numerous symptoms should also be reported to your doctor. Other symptoms of ovarian cancer can include:

needing to wee suddenly or more often
change in bowel habits
excessive tiredness
back pain'

If you feel like getting involved in supporting this very worthy cause then please check out Ovarian Cancer Action's website where there are lots of ideas on how to help.

And yes, there was burlesque dancing at this event, which for those of you who have never experienced it (like myself pre-Saturday night), features gorgeous ladies who wear big pants but not much more on top than fans and sparkly pasties on their nipples. And I would like to state that before writing this post I had no idea that 'pasties' was the correct name for those interesting nipple covers that look a tad uncomfortable (although who am I to say that, not ever having owned any) and which are sold on the Agent Provacteur website should you not know what on earth I'm on about and want to take a look. (Single Parent Dad etc, settle down).

Isn't it amazing where a straightforward post about ovarian cancer can take you? (And never say my posts are not - occasionally - informative...)

British Mummy Blogger of the Week

2009-11-15T21:38:00.001Z

Yesterday evening Husband and I went to a benefit for Ovarian Cancer Action, which amongst other things featured a short and informative film about the disease, and which I hope to put on this blog in the near future. The evening also featured some burlesque dancers. I'll post about my reaction to that another time, but whatever you think about burlesque, I think you'll agree that as an entertainment it's not one you would normally encounter on a Saturday night out...

Unsurprisingly then, Husband and I were discussing it this morning. Boy #1 overheard the word 'dancers' and this is what followed...

Boy #1: "Did you say there were dancers there yesterday night?"

Me: "Yes, there certainly were."

Boy #1: "What were they wearing?" (I think he was expecting me to say 'tutu's' or similar).

Me: "Not very much, actually."

Boy #1: "What! You couldn't see their... their..." (uses his hands to indicate his upper half)

Me: "Do you mean bras?"

Boy #1: "Yes! Yes! Could you see their...(takes a deep breath) bras?"

Me (deciding to limit the amount of information that I give him and that for the purposes of protecting his 6 year old mind, in this instance nipple tassles could be referred to as bras) "Yes, you could."

Boy #1: "Really? Really? I'm glad I wasn't there. I would have been terrified!"

Me: (sotto voce) "Much like your father, I imagine..."

And now for something completely different...

This week's Mummy Blogger of the Week writes of herself:

'Voracious reader, reluctant runner, failed dog discipliner, kitchen experimenter, non-clearer-upper. Punching well above my weight sartorially. Rarely, if ever, stumped for an opinion - believe this to be a Good Thing.'

Mon Avis, Mes Amis is an entertaining mix of anecdotes, dog-training, reminiscences and historical titbits and I recommend you check out her account of finding herself slap bang in the midst of all children's nightmares; that of being the daughter of the geography teacher...

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

Balancing Act

2009-11-13T23:37:00.001Z

A few people recently have asked me why I don't Twitter. And very occasionally, I wonder myself, especially since when another blogger who does is kind enough to tweet one of my posts, hits on The Potty Diaries go up by around 50% for the next day or so. Which is, of course, nice, and extremely flattering.

But then I think of all the things I should already be doing whilst I tap away on the keyboard. That's not to say I feel guilty about blogging - much - just that it does tend to eat into your time. You sit down to check comments, click through to a couple of new posts on your blog-roll and bang! All of sudden, 3 hours, gone. Whilst in the background, every-day life continues without you, and other things pile up. House-hold stuff. Personal admin. Getting organised for The Big Move. And most importantly, spending quality time with my husband and sons.

Then I think of how my competitive and slightly addictive personality (what? You haven't seen any of the many posts referencing my chocolate habit?) would handle yet another stream of information coming into my life. I see my over-loaded, slightly-steaming, most-definitely-not-as-young-as-it-used-to-be grey matter reaching overload level. I imagine myself tweeting in the playground when I should be enjoying sitting on the wings of an airplane flown by Captain Boy #2 on my way to Australia / Siberia / Somerset. I see myself sneakily checking my Blackberry or i-phone (not that I have either but I just know that would be the next step if I made the leap into Twitter), when my sons are telling me about their day as we have a post-school afternoon snack, nodding absently as they share their triumphs and disappointments away from home with me, but actually hearing nothing.

Now, I'm not for one moment suggesting that this is what happens to other bloggers who tweet. I think that most probably the majority of people have a better ability to pair the word 'moderation' with the internet than I do. But I know my limitiations, and I feel that already my beloved Boys see far too much of the back of my shoulders as I sit turned away from them in the office, relating to a world they're not directly a part of.

So whilst I can see that Twitter is really the next logical step for a blogger, and that it adds a great deal to many people's lives, I think it would simply detract from mine.

Shame, really. I'ld love a cast iron reason to buy a swanky new i-phone...

Do you have 'Cleaner Dis-enablement'?

2009-11-13T10:41:00.000Z

What is it with us Brits?

I'm a fairly mature individual - at least, I like to think so. I run my own home (mostly). I have successfully produced and managed to sustain two gorgeous boys. Husband and I have a happy marriage. When I worked in paid employment I was successful and was able to manage a team of people to achieve the end result I was after.

So why is it then, that when faced with dealing with someone who is cleaning my house - someone who I am paying a very decent wage to clean my house - I am seized by a crushing embarrassment and find myself totally unable to have a proper working relationship with them?
It's not as if I'm new to the idea of having a complete stranger come into my home and clean up after us; it's been at least 16 years that I 'recycle cash into the economy' (well, I had to come up with some way of rationalising it and dealing with the guilt). And yet, in all that time, I've never managed to crack it.

Some of them have been good, and some haven't. Some have stayed with us for years and have become pseudo aunts to the boys. Some haven't. But with none of them have I ever felt able to say - in the way I might with a colleague in the office - "I think this needs to be done again." Instead, when I spot the cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling or under the cupboard during their visit, I won't mention it, because that would be rude and of course they're going to deal with it. Aren't they?

But no. They finish up, put on their coat, I'll ask them about their life, sweetly hand over the cash, wait until they've left, and then... do it myself. Muttering about it, yes. Cursing, perhaps. But I'll still do it - and then not say anything the next week, simply handing over the readies for a repeat of the whole process.

For goodness' sake, what's all that about?

Don't answer that question, I know. It's the guilt. Unless you're from a very upper-class or moneyed background (and I'm not), we're just not used to having people in our own home 'serve' us. Indeed, the very word 'serve' is part of the world 'servant', and we've not been comfortable with that for some time in the UK. Or is that just me?

This is top of mind for me right now because our latest cleaner has just called in sick - again. She's probably managed only a 50% hit rate since she started with us a few weeks back. On the one hand I find myself thinking "It's just not good enough, I need someone I can rely on, I'm paying good money, I really should find someone else." On the other hand I also think "Oh, but you should be grateful! She's being good enough to clean up after you, a job that you don't want to do, don't you think you should give her a bit of leeway?" Which is all very well, but she's actually not very good at her job. Now, if this were an office-based workplace, those two facts - low attendance and poor performance - would be enough on their own to merit at the very least a discussion and if a decent explanation were not given, possibly result in a warning.

When you're dealing with a person who has the keys to your house, however, the goalposts tend to move a little. In my case, somewhere outside the stadium. So whilst I know I should sit down with her, ask her what the problem is, and explain that I need someone who, whilst allowed to call in sick every now and again, shouldn't be doing so every other week, and who notices the cobwebs / soap scum / water marks on the shower door, I also know that I probably won't.

She is cleaning up after us, after all... And god, does that make me feel guilty...

Never let the truth...

2009-11-12T13:06:00.000Z

...get in the way of a good story.

Which is another way of requesting, as I respectfully ask if you might be interested in visiting Powder Room Graffiti to read my latest post there on the subject of 'the man cold', that you take it all with a bucketful of salt...

Today's definition of 'Embarrassment'..

2009-11-11T10:06:00.000Z

...is answering the door to an electrician you have booked to come round and sort out the lighting in your bathroom when you know that right now the air in that bathroom is a little... fragrant.

Today's definition of 'Prevarication'...

...is the number of electrical based faults in other rooms that you can find to take a look at and discuss at length with the electrician on your way to said bathroom.

Today's definition of 'Relief'...

...is realising when you finally reach the bathroom that your diversionary tactics have paid off.

Today's definition of 'Paranoia'...

...is wondering whether in fact you're kidding yourself and if your relief is misplaced, because perhaps it is just that your nose is accustomed to this brand of 'perfume'.

Today's definition of 'Maturity'...

... is deciding not to worry about it and to use the whole experience as blog fodder.

UPDATE

Today's definition of 'Mortification'...

... is the horror you feel at just how filthy the top of your shower-head is revealed to be, now that you can see it in the mended light.

Apologies to the sensitive flowers amongst us...