Stupid is as stupid says...

On Friday I wrote about being English. Given the England football team's lacklustre performance in South Africa on Saturday night, I might shelve that one for a while...

Reading Susanna's British Mummy Bloggers update this morning, I came across a couple of posts on MummyTips written by Sian and her husband. They were about racism.

Living in Russia, where racism is a part of daily life if you are anything other than caucasian, I have so much to say on this subject, yet on the surface I'm not personally affected by this issue. I'm white, British, middle-class and privileged, no question about it. You think?

Dig a little a deeper and it's not that simple. I think my family's ethnicity is probably not so different from many people's in the UK; many people who, in fact, might unthinkingly use some of those thoughtlessly racist terms that Sian and her husband mention. A 'chinky' to refer to a chinese take-way. An 'Indian-giver' to refer to someone who gives with one hand and takes away with another. In the Netherlands, calling someone 'East Indian deaf' if they pretend not to hear what you're saying. A 'Paki-shop', to refer to a corner shop owned and managed by Asian shopkeepers. The list of casually abusive racist terms in common use is endless - and none of them are acceptable.

And a lot of them, in fact, may be a lot closer to your own personal heritage than you might think. I'm going to use myself as a case study to illustrate...

So, I look like this. Dark hair, olive to medium-fair complexion, brown eyes, and I burn before tanning - although then I do go pretty brown. In fact, I'm hard to place; I could come from any number of countries probably, which is actually not far from the truth.

My maternal grandmother, for example, looks Spanish. My uncle and cousins - her grandchildren - look like Moors. You could parachute them into Morocco, Algeria, Turkey, Egypt, Israel, the Lebanon, and they would fit right in. We always assumed that this was because there was a link to Spanish sailors who survived the wreck of the Armada on the South Coast of England, and their very Catholic family name seemed to bear this out. However, this theory appears to bear very little relation to actual fact (especially because the wreck of the Armada took place on the coast of Ireland rather than Dorset, and most of the sailors who survived the wreck were then killed by the Irish).

The truth behind our dark eyes and hair is both more interesting and more recent than that, as my mother found out when she made a first attempt at putting together a family tree. It seems that as recently as the beginning of the last century, my great-great-grandparents were Romany travellers. We can't be sure of this, because historically once a family left that part of their lifestyle behind them they did their absolute best to hide it due to the shameful connotations involved, but based on parish records and census information we are as certain as we can be that that's the case.

And my paternal grandmother's maiden name was as Irish as they come, due to the fact that - again, we only think, we don't know, and she certainly never discussed her family's heritage - her family left Ireland during the Great Potato Famine and moved to the north of England where they made a life and a fortune, only to lose the latter in cotton when the UK market crashed after the 1st World War.

So, let's see. Without going back more than 100 years or so - only 4 generations - there are Irish and Gypsies in my ostensibly more English than English background. Both of whom, whilst I was growing up in ignorance of this, were the frequent butt of what was seen at the time as acceptable mockery (thank god, we've moved on since then).

Now, let's throw my blue-eyed Dutch husband into the mix. His family - as I've probably mentioned before - is much more complicated than mine, and includes Dutch, German, Russian, Indonesian, and Chinese heritage. And that's what we know about.

And just to cap it all, when my older son was born he had (and still has) a birth-mark which one of the doctors in the hospital told us is typical in shape and location of children with African genes, and when my younger son was born and for the first year of his life he had the dark blue bruise at the base of his spine which I'm told is also typical of children with that heritage. Where did they come from? Who knows, but my point - I hope - is clear; we're all a composite of different ethnicities and backgrounds. Dig deep enough and no-one is 'only' from one place; whether you like it or not we're all related.

Please, think about that before you turn a blind eye to casually racist terminology. Not so long ago it was acceptable, for example, to call some-one wearing glasses 'speccy four eyes', a clumsy person a 'spastic', a supposedly ugly or not very bright person a 'mong'. Thankfully - at least in my experience - most of these terms have now slipped out of public usage; it's one of the positive side-effects of political correctness. And now, just as our mothers did with those terms and us, we're in the perfect position whilst raising our kids to make sure that terms like those which Sian and her family have experienced disappear just the same way.

You might think that you know your family's heritage like the back of your hand, but do you, really? Just a few generations ago, it could have been you - or your children - on the receiving end of this stupidity.

British Mummy Blogger of the Week

Whenever Husband and I, in the sweet ignorance of youth, spoke about having children (before we actually did, that is), we always said that we wanted either two, or four. I know that three kids is a good number - that's how many there were in both of our families, in fact - but we felt that sometimes - just sometimes - the dynamic worked out as 2 plus one, and that it was usually the same 'one' who was left on the outside.

So, two or four. That's what we believed we wanted, and continued to do until Boy #2 arrived and suddenly the wheels fell off our well-worked out plans when it became clear that having 2 children didn't just double the work, it tripled it. (For us, at any rate). There was of course also the small fact that we weren't getting any younger and if we kept the same spacing - approximately 2 years between each child - I would be 43 before our 4th child arrived (always assuming that everything went smoothly and things went to plan, which of course was highly unlikely).

So we stopped at 2 boys. And whilst I'm (mostly) OK with that, I do wonder from time to time what it would have been like to have a tribe of boys rather than just the two (because you just know, don't you, that they would all have been boys.) Luckily for me, however, there are plenty of bloggers out there who can tell me what larger families than mine get up to, and this week's recommended British Mummy Blogger is one of them. 'FourDownMumToGo' writes of herself:

'Do you know, I never liked children (I still don't some days). I never rushed across the office to wrest newborns from the arms their frazzled mothers taking a brief break from maternity leave, resisted the pleas of tiny relatives to read them stories and failed to earn a penny babysitting during my misspent teenage years, so just how did I end up mum to four boys? And more importantly just how will I cope without the assistance of round the clock childcare or at the very least a lifetime supply of Gordons and tonic?'

You have to love a writer who so neatly encapsulates the pang of saying goodbye to early motherhood with the regret that she will never again 'trail out of a hospital dragging foil helium balloons and a car seat filled with the rest of my life'.

For the British Mummy Bloggers Ning, click here. (Note: it's called 'Mummy', but Dads can be members too...)

I've got the fever...

I'm British. Well, to be absolutely specific about, I'm English. You might have noticed. It's not something I talk about much, because it's so much a part of me that I don't normally feel the need to analyse it. It's just an intrinsic part of who I am, like being a woman, having dark hair and yet still burning before I tan, being a feminist, and being brought up a Roman Catholic (more of which another time).

But there's nothing to make you more aware of your nationality than moving away from your home country. A lot of the touch-points that you take for granted, such as hearing your native language spoken around you, hearing the 'duh-duh-duh-duh' at the beginning of the East Enders closing credits, and the casual references to archaic drinking laws, Paddington Bear and Top of the Pops that get thrown into nostalgic conversations with friends are suddenly not part of daily experience any more.

Don't get me wrong; in my London-life I was hardly surrounded by Brits. In the Boys' school and nursery classes they were each in a minority of 2 in holding only British passports (yes, they could also have a Dutch one but that's Husband's job to sort out, so 6 years down the line we're still waiting on those...), and when we went out into the communal gardens where we lived I was invariably the only Brit around. I was surrounded by people of all nationalities in central London, and I loved it.

Living in Moscow and mixing with very few Brits has however had some interesting effects on me. I find, for example, that frequently I'm camping up my English accent. Sometimes I sound like the Queen's cousin, for god's sake. I find myself correcting the Boys' pronounciation too; one of my favourite phrases at the moment seems to be 'it's got a 't' in it. A T! Not a D, a T!' I find myself making a point of calling things by their English names; it's 'pavement' not 'sidewalk', and 'biscuit', not 'cookie', for example.

I've found myself hunting high and low in the shops here for cornflour, not to thicken sauces but to make shortbread. Shortbread! I probably made it twice a year when we lived in London. Now? Almost a weekly treat. And when my mother-in-law arrived this week for a short stay, she delivered - as I had requested - Golden Syrup, so that I can make the Boys some gingerbread.

I even found myself offering to provide 'English' recipes to Melissa for her to feature at Smitten by Britain if you're interested in the shortbread recipe, by the way... (click here for the link).

And now? Well, now the football World Cup is about to start, and the fever's got me. I can't help it, I'm rooting for my home team even though I know it's the longest of long shots that they'll make it past the quarter finals. Whilst I didn't go so far as buying a cross of St George to put on the car (unfortunately it seems to rather miss the point, being in Moscow and all - and frankly, you don't want to single yourself out as an expat on the roads here) I did buy my sons England football shirts in London last week. Would I have bought them if we had still been living there? Would I hell. (Whether my opinionated children will actually wear them, of course, is another thing entirely.)

So in a fit of Englishness I'm going to leave you today with what 'I still believe' (geddit?) is the best English world cup song to date, albeit in it's updated version for the 2010 tournament. As far as I can tell - from 1500 miles away - the official video is not yet out, so here is a youtube offering (Thanks Bob at Smitten by Britain for pointing me towards this). Watch it if you can handle the mix of best and worst moments of England at the World Cup for the last 40-odd years.

And I have to admit - I did punch the air a couple of times whilst watching...

Possibly my shortest post ever...

Him: "So, I hope you're impressed that I did the laundry whilst you were away last weekend."

Let's be clear here; I was away 3 1/2 days. One load got done.

Me (thinking, 'how best to deal with this one?'): "....Well, I'm not impressed - you are a grown man, after all... But (come on, let's acknowledge this somehow, and he did have paid work to do as well as holding the fort whilst I swanned off to London without them, footloose and fancy-free...) I am glad that you did it..."

What would you have said, though?

Time off

I've not been here for the last few days, because I spent last weekend in London, ON MY OWN, without Husband or Boys. It was the first time in 2 years I spent more than a few hours without any of them, and it was enlightening. I discovered the following about myself:

I can still sleep for 8 hours straight (I thought I had lost the knack).

I can still shop for 8 hours straight (as long as the expedition is punctuated by trips to the chiropractor, haircuts, a sushi lunch on a bench in St James' Park and the odd sneaked Snickers bar for pudding in honour of the fact that I'm not accompanied by nut-allergic children - so it would be rude not to).

It's exhilarating to travel light, walking out of the house with only a handbag containing simply wallet, purse, sunglasses, keys and telephone rather than being weighed down by the usual mix of epi-pens, sun cream, snacks, emergency toys, emergency snacks (for when the first ones run out), and not a cardigan, coat, or sweat-shirt to my name due to the fact that the London weather behaved itself and it was 24degC or over all weekend.

I should not buy cheap nailvarnish to put on my embarrassingly naked toes (one thing that the London ladies seem to have down-pat is well-decorated toes), because...

...even in my 40's I still can't apply nail-varnish properly.

I loved staying in a friend's empty flat and singing along to Xfm at the top of my voice because a) since she was away for the weekend my renditions couldn't upset her (although let's be honest, she's listened me murder music for 25 years now, so she could probably live with it), and b) there is no 4 year old Boy to regard me solemnly from the back of the car or the other side of the kitchen and and say 'Can you stop, Mama? You're embarrassing me...'

That it's actually not much fun to be away from Husband and Boys and have the latter not want to speak to me on the phone because to do so would mean interrupting their dvd viewing schedule...

...but that, every now and again, I can live with it.

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.

The Gallery; Still Life

Week 14 of Tara's Gallery. This week her prompt, inspired by a heavenly photo of some bacon, was 'still life'. I thought about photographing some food, I really did. But whilst we eat well here at Potski Mansions, we don't necessarily eat photogenic food. I'm going to blame the quality of the ingredients from Russian supermarkets not being what they might be, others might blame the fact that I care more about how food tastes than how it looks . Substance wins out over style every time, in my book. (Which might explain my tight waist-bands). Anyway, no pretty photos of cup-cakes or prawn cocktails here today.

Instead, I've photographed some wild flowers in the garden outside our house. They're not outstandingly beautiful, although they are quite pretty, but this photo is more about that what they represent than how they look.

We live in a compound, you see. We don't get to do the gardening ourselves; there's a team of people who do that for us. For the record, we are not allowed to do it. It's a tough life, sitting back and letting someone else take the strain, but I'm prepared to take that hit for the family...

Anyway, back to the point I'm trying to make. Not speaking much Russian yet, I don't have many opportunities to communicate with the gardeners here, but I'm betting they are not trained landscape designers, mainly because most of them are in fact from the same team of guys who keep the roads and paths clear of snow and ice in the winter.

So this makes it all the more suprising to me that this little patch of wild flowers - and many others like it throughout the compound - survive the ministrations of the gardeners driving the squadron of lawn-mowers that trundle out of the work-sheds at the back of the compound on any dry day in the summer. Most of the grass here is mown to within an inch of it's life, so how could the flowers have been missed, I wondered?

And then, last week, I was at home whilst the lawn outside our window was being mown, and I saw exactly how the wildflowers had survived when the guy behind the machine carefully and delicately mowed around them, making sure - in fact - that if even a single flower was blooming, he steered a course around it.

He clearly had a poet's soul.

So this photograph represents yet another reminder for me not to judge a book by it's cover.