What a difference...

...2 days make.


Sunday morning.

We're on holiday - skiing - in France. We drop Boy #1 off at his first lesson at Ecole de Ski Francais, in the hope that he can learn just how much fun it is to encase your legs in what feels like cement, strap a couple of bendy boards to your feet, and go against all your natural instincts to take them straight off again, instead pushing yourself off down a slope of icy coldness to what seems like (the first time you do it) certain death.

The drop-off does not go well. There are tears, tantrums, and Husband and I are seriously questioning whether our older son will ever 'get' the fun (because obviously, that's what it is) in skiing.


Tuesday morning.

I join Boy #1 half way through his third lesson to supervise break-time whilst their teacher takes some of his other pupils back down the mountain to meet their parents. The daughter of the family we are on holiday with - and who is also joining Boy #1 in ski school - is adamant that she has had enough for the day and that she wants to go home too. Boy #1, on the other hand, decides that perhaps a little bit longer wouldn't hurt, and manages to persuade her otherwise.

I look on, amazed, as 15 minutes later the barely-shaving-yet 19 year old teacher takes them both up the moutain and skis down an intermediate track with them. Boy #1 is skiing without poles and putting in perfect turns as he goes down the slope behind him, making little jumps on command and snow-ploughing to a stop when required.

He's having the time of his life, and I'm not sure I've ever been prouder; not because he's doing so well (although he is), but because Boy #1 has overcome his perfectly natural and understandable lack of confidence in an alien environment, has felt the fear, and has done it anyway.

In the paradox that is motherhood, of course, this gives me mixed feelings. He's growing up. This is amazing, wonderful, and a joy to behold. And a little bit scary, too; every step he takes - with me cheering him on from the sidelines - makes his obvious needs for me less. So as he learns to let go, I have to learn to let go too...

We're OK - you're OK...

I remember back in the 1980's and 1990's, living in London, that friends and family would call just to check I was OK whenever any kind of terrorist attack happened there. Never mind that - like Motherhood, the Final Frontier said in an e-mail she sent me this morning - I was living in a city of 8 million people and the chances of my being affected by any of them were extremely remote; people still felt the urge to check. I'm grateful that they took the time to reach out, really I am. I have to admit that I had forgotten all about that aspect of living in a temporarily besieged city when we heard this morning by e-mail of the attacks this morning on the Moscow Metro.

So apologies for my not having posted earlier to let anyone concerned know that not only we were not directly affected, but that we're not even in Russia this week (hence the radio silence on the blog). We're skiing, in France, thank god, far from terrorist bombs and the carnage that no doubt took place in those stations this morning.

More of our adventures on the slopes tomorrow, but in the meantime thanks again to everyone who has e-mailed and left a comment on my last post to check that we're OK; I really appreciate the sentiment that led you to get in touch.

The Keys to My Heart...

Me: "So, do you know why I'm calling?"

Husband: "Ummm. No?"

Me: "I'm sitting outside the house, and - where is my door key? Is it still in your pocket?"

Husband: "No! Absolutely not!"

Me: "Well, I don't have it. Can you just check?"

Husband: "I gave it back to you."

Me: "When?"

Husband: "Before we left. You asked me for it, I went upstairs and called down that I found it."

Me: "I know. And then I called up that when you came out you should lock the door with it, and that I was going to put the boys in the car, start it and wait for you."

Husband: "No, that's not what happened. I gave you the key and then you said I should lock the door and I had to go upstairs and look for mine because I had given you yours and... I definitely gave it to you."

Me: "I don't remember that. Did that happen? Are you sure?"

Husband: "Yes, it happened!"

Me: "Well, I don't have my key, so can you just look in your coat pocket. Please?"

Silence for around 30 seconds. Then...

Husband: "I have your key."

Me (unable to keep this frankly unhelpful comment to myself): "You do know that the second part of that conversation took place entirely in your head, don't you?"

Note: I, of course, am a saint in human form and this conversation never takes place in reverse. Never, I tell you...

This is NOT a photo blog...

... but apparantly, this - according to the birds and the locals - is what passes for early Spring in Moscow.

Hmmm...

(And I know it's Spring because Dawn at Little Green Fingers said so...)

The Gallery #4: 'Me'

Tara's prompt for this week's Gallery is 'Me'. This is a tricky one as I have a standing agreement with my husband that I will not post photos of any of our faces, so I spent the last few days thinking of clever ways to photograph the' inner Potty Mummy' without actually showing what I look like. I hatched plans that included crumpled Green & Black's wrappers, books with bent spines, the computer, children's toys, and a Russian dictionary, but frankly since I'm not a professional photographer everything just came out looking like the contents of my handbag had been upended on a table, dust and all...

Instead, here is a photo of my right hand, which at a stretch could be said to representative of me; it's not the most beautiful you've ever seen ('builder's hands' run in our family), nor is it the ugliest (at least, I hope not), but it works.

I've used it to type more words than I care to think about, it's the hand with which I sign my name, the one I prefer when holding my children's hands, the one I use to wipe their noses and bottoms, which I use to support them when I'm pushing them along on bikes and scooters, and the one which I automatically use when presenting my credit card to pay for stuff.

It's the one I hold my passport in when we travel, which I use to key in my cashpoint number, and with which I scratch my head or rub my eyes when I'm perplexed.

It's the one I doodle with in boring meetings, and the one I use to tap along to music when I'm listening to Xfm and pretending to be down with the kids.

It's the one I use to dial my husband's mobile phone number when he's travelling and I've got the con at home, and the one I use to put on my make-up and fluff up my hair.

In short, it's an essential part of me.

(And I do hope other people's pictures are more interesting....)

Making up ground...

I've always been a bit of a bookworm. Which is probably why, when I was informed that Boy #1 had fallen behind in his reading since he arrived at his new school, I took it as something of a challenge and decided to do my best to rectify the situation.

I know why this - his reading regression - has happened, of course. When we arrived here, my primary concern was that he settled in well; that he made new friends; that he felt relaxed, confident, and at ease in the different system he is now in. The last thing I wanted to do was to push him. It worked. He is now so at ease he has slipped back at least 6 months in his reading ability and when recently tested has come up at 'below grade' level.

Below grade?

MY SON?

MY son?How can this have happened? His reading was fine - better than fine - when we left London. But now, well it appears that repetition is the key, and we just haven't been doing that.

(As a side note, this is where my studying Russian is proving worth it's weight in gold; I can sympathise a lot more than I would otherwise have done with his struggles to understand and sound out words, because he sounds just like I do when doing my homework...)

So we've been spending a few minutes each day working on his reading, and in an effort to get him enthused about it, I've made sure to get him involved in the selection of the books that we get from the library so that he actually wants to do it.

This is all well and good, but it does mean that most of our reading matter is confined to one of three topics; animals, dinosaurs and superheroes.

And that in turn means that... well, see for yourself.

Me: "OK, let's start."

Boy #1: "I am Tri-cer-a-tops. I am a dinosaur and I am big and strong. I have three spiky horns on my head - oh, mama, look at that horn, it's really small, if he was attacked by a T-rex the top two would probably go in but the bottom one wouldn't, and do you think that would work, because t-rex's are really fierce and they attack without warning and - oh yes, the book.... and I have a bony frill on my neck. The bony frill was for protecting him, did you know that? And Triceratops would only eat plants but they could protect themselves yes they could and you know they were able to defend themselves against the meat eaters and..."

Me: "Shall we turn the page?"

Boy #1: "Yes. I look fierce but I am quite gentle. But not with scary dinosaurs he wasn't, was he? With scary dinosaurs, like the allosaurus or the t-rex they could defend themselves and look after their young and their eggs and...."

So. It's taking a while...

British Mummy Blogger of the Week

So we're moving from last week's newest member of BMB to one of the more long-standing ones...

Do you ever get depressed? Not 'God, I'm so fed-up with my life, I want change, I used to be young and pert and look at me now, and there has to be more to existing than this constant round of laundry, washing up, school runs and clocking in and out of the office, and isn't it wine-o'clock yet?'

No, we've all been there. What I'm talking about is real depression. Depression with a capital 'D'. You can't think straight, you can't move forward, you are mired in guilt, panic and white noise. Stasis is the name of your game. Putting on the wash is an achievement, paying the bills and making plans is inconceivable.

All your energies are taken up by simply just getting from one day to the next. You can't focus on anything other than how terrible you feel, you know you're worrying your nearest and dearest but you can't just 'snap out of it' (no matter how many times well-meaning people tell you to), and all that your awareness of their worry achieves is to make you feel even more powerless and to retreat further into your misery.

I've been part of the way there. My overriding impulse, a few years back, was to go into the cupboard off our kitchen, turn off the light, and sit there in darkness, all the better to block out the static and confusion. Thankfully, with understanding support and an excellent counsellor I was able to work my through it, but there are many for whom it's not that simple.

This week's British Mummy of the Week, Reluctant Memsahib, has a mother who is metaphorically trapped in her kitchen cupboard right now. RM writes of herself:

'That I am a third generation Celt in Africa, means I am a Memsahib, like it or not. I’d rather be mama or dada (sister) or – especially – simply addressed by name. None would bear bloody colonial connotation. But no, third generation and white, African logic (or quiet humour) dictates I am memsahib.'

She lives in Tanzania in a far-flung spot she calls The Outpost, and writes of her life balancing between that world, with her husband, and the one that most of us inhabit, which is where her children and family can be found. And she also writes beautifully, openly and movingly of dealing with Depression as an unwanted guest at her family's table.

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