Don't pukh me...

'cause I'm close to the edge...

Looks like snow, doesn't it? Don't be fooled; it's +22degCelsius here. No, the white spots on that picture are the result of it's being пух season in Moscow. This transposes into the Latin alphabet roughly as pukh (the 'kh' pronounced as the 'ch' in 'loch'), and refers to the vast quantities of down that float through the air at this time of year. I spent a frustrating half hour this morning trying to photograph it, but the photo above was the best I could do, so instead I'll have to use words to describe this seeming summer snow that arrives like a blizzard in the city every May and June.

It's the fluff that female poplar trees give out when they're feeling frisky (never knew trees had 'needs', did you?), and it's a real problem here. What normally happens - what should happen - is that the female poplar tree, once it works out through some mysterious tree tomtom that the seeds it's released have been fertisilised will stop producing them, so in most places the pukh season is - whilst quite pretty - mercifully brief.

Except, in Moscow. Enter Stalin.

Having built his mega-city of Moscow, it appears that he became depressed by the preponderance of concrete and the lack of green, so he ordered a few - if you can call 400,000 a 'few' - poplar trees to break things up, lift the spirits and ease the soul a little. There was just one problem which no-one had the nerve to point out. No-one told him that trees come in male and female, or that the consequence of ordering only the female of the species was that they become increasingly frustrated and rather than stopping production in a few days, as would happen normally, put out vast quantities of pukh for a much longer period of time.

I'm incredibly lucky not to be an allergy sufferer (unlike many others who are currently beating a trail to their doctors and hospitals), because there literally is no escape from this stuff. It gets everywhere, creeping in through open doors and windows, drifting into corners, piling up in drifts against the pavements, and even - during dry weather - causing a fire hazard when a spark or lit cigarette butt (of which there are many in this country of devoted smokers) touch it, as it's highly flammable.

Click here for the full story if you're interested. Personally I just want this itchy annoying stuff to go away, especially since I lost my prized sunglasses today - which I was wearing to protect my contact lenses from constant attack by it. Well, actually as a result of my own forgetfulness and leaving the glasses on a restaurant table, but I wouldn't have needed to wear them in the first place if there had been no pukh in evidence, so in my mind, it's those frustrated poplar trees fault. They owe me a new pair of Maui Jims.

I mean, frustrated poplar trees? What next?

British Mummy Blogger of the Week

So it's Sunday evening already. The Boys are in bed, the washing up is done (well, actually it's not, but for the purposes of this post let's pretend that there is a quietly efficient maid in the kitchen who has cleared all the debris of our dinner away... What? A woman can dream, can't she?), and the sun is still high in the sky in the way it usually is at 9.00pm in the Russian summer. Husband and I are sitting at our dining room table tapping away on our laptops, both hoping that the other is going to get up soon and do something about the afore-mentioned washing up.

No doubt I will cave first...

It must, then, be time for this week's recommended British Parent Blogger. Who is it? Aha - you picked up on that clue - my use of the world 'parent' rather than 'mummy'. This week's tip, Matt at Frazzled Daddy, writes of himself:

'My name is Matt and I'm a dad. I wanted to blog about how hapless we are as parents but how those moments of intense frustration or feelings of helplessness can be unbelievably, ball-bouncingly funny. My experience of being a parent is that your always a heartbeat away from utter calamity and therein lies the magic.'

He's just started writing posts that recreate food from his favourite childhood fiction (can I suggest you check out 'It's the Bear!' for a picnic that's hard to beat here, FD?), and even though he's 6 years younger than I am, his list of why he's feeling old sounds far too familiar...

For the British Mummy Blogger Ning, click here. (Note: It says 'Mummy', but as should be clear from today's post, Dads can be members too...

'I said, "do you speaka my language?"...

... and he just smiled, and gave me a vegemite sandwich.'*

Sometimes that's how I feel here in Russia; totally clueless when it comes to the language. Unlike my polyglot husband who annoyingly speaks 6 languages - including Russian - well, I'm not gifted in this area, but I do like to at least make the effort in whatever country I'm visiting. So I am trying with the Russian. At least, I'm trying very hard during my two one-on-one lessons of one and half hours every week, but for the life of me, I just can't seem to find the time in between to do my homework.

It's shocking really; here I am, 43 years old, and still not getting round to learning my vocabulary. The next thing I'll be confessing to is a liking for beans on toast at midnight and that every 3 years I re-read Jilly Cooper's finest novels. (Actually, no, that's not me. Although a certain blogger related to me by blood did confess to that very thing this evening.)

I know I have improved since arriving here; I can now listen to the radio and understand, oh, one word in 30 rather than none at all, which I suppose is something. And I even had a conversation yesterday with a purely Russian-speaking nanny where I made the sort of 'la plume de ma tante' statement you read in a text book and assume is nonsense and never relevant in real life. Until, that is you actually find yourself needing to say 'the dog is watching television through the window.' (Don't ask). Being able to do that is nice of course, but is hardly going to help if I need to explain to the traffic police why I crossed the white line in the middle of the road or to ask the security guards on the compound gate to let a particular car in to deliver my British style sausages... (Watch this space for how that goes. The possibilities for confusion are endless...)

This helplessness in reading and speaking Russian is having one beneficial side-effect, however. It means that I have been an awful lot more sympathetic to my older son's initial struggles with reading. Where previously I might have become frustrated at his inability to sound out words that seem so obvious to me, now - as someone who is struggling to read cyrillic at anything more than a slow crawl - I find myself much more understanding than I might otherwise have been. For example. This:

поттй муммй

reads 'Potty Mummy'. Not as a direct translation, you understand, just as the transposition of letters from one alphabet to another. Of course I have moved on from that point, but it's very confusing when you pronounce a 'B' as a 'V', a 'P' as an 'R', an 'X' as 'CH' (as in the end of 'loch'), and 'H' as 'N'. And those are just some of the letters that look similar; I won't bore you with the list of those that look like nursery school doodles (or is that just my handwriting?). And honestly; 33 letters in an alphabet? Is that really necessary?

So I'm a bit crap at Russian, to be honest. This is of course not helped by the fact that I am fast discovering - as we move further into the study of this language - that my school education was sorely lacking in the basics. Either that, or I've lost everything I ever knew on how to parse a sentence. (I prefer to blame my O-level English teacher for failing to give me the knowledge in the first place than to admit the latter). And when my teacher Ludmilla starts to explain how to use words correctly based on genetive, accusitive and dative cases, well, I'm afraid that my brain starts - ever so quietly - to steam. 'Can-not-compute' it tells me. 'Too-much-information. Need-diet-coke-now...'

This leaves me in an interesting position. Do I admit to her that not only does she need to teach me the fundamentals of Russian, but she needs to give me a refresher course in the English language too? Or do I just quietly go on line, order myself a text book, and add to the list of things that I never get round to doing as 'Basic English Grammar for Idiots and Women with Post Baby-Brain' sits next to my Russian notes, gathering dust reproachfully until I take it back to England with me and give it the church bazaar, still in it's wrapper?

Vegemite sandwich, anyone?

*Men at Work - in case you were wondering.

Guest Blog Day - Raid the Fridge!

I'm taking part in Little Mummy's Guest Post Day today, so you won't find me here, but wittering on about the contents of my fridge here instead, where Mummy Mishaps has been kind enough to lend me her blog. Back shortly, and in the meantime, enjoy a post from a completely different blogger!

Ok, so I am ‘babysitting’ Potty Mummy’s blog for the time it takes you to read this post!! We have agreed to swap posts as part of Little Mummy’s Guest Post Day! Despite not knowing you, I will be telling you all about the contents of my fridge – yikes! Shame this was not done at the start of the week when it was full of really healthy stuff J

Anyway, before I begin sharing my fridge secrets with you, let me tell you a little bit about myself. I am a 30 something first time Mummy to a 10 ½ month old baby boy and since having him I am a full time stay at home kinda girl now. I live in North Devon and am really enjoying my new role. I have only been blogging since April, but have already met some wonderful fellow bloggers, and am really enjoying writing my posts and sharing them. My blog name is Mummy Mishaps – so called because I am a tad clumsy and usually end up doing stupid things due to my forgetful and baby brained ways (well, got to use that as an excuse while I can!).

So, if you are ready then I will start my Guest Day Post.

Now my fridge actually looks quite tidy – I would like to point out that this was not done for the purpose of this post, I actually cleared it out last weekend so that was good timing! Now the fridge is split now in to 2 key areas – Burton’s food and food for me and his Daddy. Burton’s food is usually found on the 3rd shelf down and in the vegetable drawer, afterall, he has the healthiest diet of the three of us! So on his shelf you will find yoghurts, babybel cheese and homemade meals (in this case a bowl of beef casserole and some rice pudding).

The rest of the fridge is full of what we adults eat and considering it is almost the end of the week it is still looking quite full. Normally by now it would be looking a bit sorry for itself, which would create complaints by the OH as to why are we out of such and such. To which I reply “because the on line shop is not due until the weekend”. However, I am pleased that for once that is not the case otherwise this would be a VERY short post. So here is a list of what my fridge contains (in no particular order):

Main Body

3 types of butter – unsalted (for Burton), Clover & I Can’t Believe
Dairylea
Philadelphia
Camembert
Mature Cheddar
Red Leicester Cheese
Strawberry Jam
Mayo
Tomato Puree
Garlic Puree
Organic Yoghurts
Rolo Desserts
An opened jar of roasted peppers
Horseradish
Branston Pickle
Minced Beef
Gammon Joint
Pancetta
Turkey slices
Ham

Door:

Heinz tomato ketchup (my fridge will not accept any other brand of ketchup!)
Salad Cream
M & S salad dressings – honey & mustard and scillian lemon (yeah I know – showing off here!)
Semi skimmed milk and gold top milk

Vegetable Drawer:

Half a sweet potato
Blueberries
Strawberries
Cherry tomatoes
Asparagas
Half a banana

Chilled Drawer:

Apple juice
White wine

I wonder what the contents of my fridge say about me and my family….hmmmm? What do you think? Probably similar to a lot of you I would imagine. I would like to add that normally there would be more vegetables in our vegetable drawer, but being almost end of the week I have run out and need to replenish it (remember – on line shop due at the weekend!). I tend to make our family meals from scratch, and it is important to me to use the best ingredients wherever possible especially for Burton.

So there you have it! I hope you have enjoyed this ‘cool’ (ahem!) post and if you would like to check out my blog you can find me at :

http://mummymishaps.blogspot.com/

Thank you to Potty Mummy for allowing me on to her blog, and thank you for taking the time to read this 

This might smart a bit...

Where do you draw The Line?

For me, it's putting the laundry away. And sewing on buttons. For one of my friends, it's tending to their swimming pool (give her a break, she lives in a very warm climate), and for another, it's stepping over used boxers on her way to the bathroom in the morning. For you, it could be picking up the change, receipts and crumpled tissues left on the hall table, putting the dirty coffee cups in the sitting room into the dishwasher, or moving the shoes littering the hall floor into the cloakroom.

What am I talking about?

I'm talking about the line that many of us draw in the sand where we say; that's It. That's the one thing I choose not to do for my husband/partner, because if I do that one thing - more than any other - I will know that once and for all I have given up the fight to treat you as a grown man, and have instead accepted that I have an extra child to care for.

It's insidious, isn't it? For many of us, it seems that one minute we are tripping along in a partnership of equals, where domestic tasks, whether they be household, financial, planning or child-care related are shared, and the next... Well, the next, we look at the minutae of our daily lives and realise that somewhere along the way something has gone wrong.

Somewhere along the line our generous offers to take up the slack when our partners seem particularly stressed, busy, or are simply too exhausted to function properly have become our expected roles. And without really registering it, we have become the constant care-giver, the person responsible for deciding what is to go on the table when, what the programme for the weekend might be, what colour the kitchen should be and - almost worst of all - the go-to person when a cursory man-look doesn't reveal the location of the remote control (where you left it, darling), the matches (by the candle-stick, sweetheart), or the napkin drawer (where it's been since we moved into this house 12 years ago, dear).

This, by the way, is not something peculiar to either stay at home or working mums. I see it happening everywhere, whether the mum is home full time, whether she works part-time,or whether her more than full-time outside the home job is far more demanding and exhausting than her husband's.

I'm surrounded, both here in Moscow and back in the UK, by bright, sensational, ambitious women who assumed when they settled down with the grown-up man of their choice that he would remain that way - a grown up - and who, swept up in the day to day havoc of family life turn around one day to be blindsided by the realisation that this is not the case.

And I don't know what the answer is.

I only know it makes me mad as hell.

So I will continue to leave my husband's clean laundry in a heap at the foot of our bed, boxers unfolded, socks not sorted, and shirts not hung up, in a gesture that feels childish and not at all graceful, but which helps me to maintain my sanity. Because that is where I have chosen to draw my Line.

Where's yours?

Note: This is a post that is less a reflection of my home life than what I see going on around me. And the anger may possibly be because I'm partway through an excellent book called 'The Price of Motherhood' recommended by Noble Savage and am feeling particularly sensitive to such issues, or simply because it's rained cats and dogs all day today... Whatever the reason though, surely this is still not an acceptable state of affairs?

The Gallery; Friendship

Tara's prompt for this week's Gallery was Friendship. This presented me with a problem - although not the one you might imagine. I have loads of pictures of my friends. Hundreds. Thousands, probably. It's just that when I started looking for them I realised that since the arrival of my sons, most photographic impulses have been limited to documenting them. And the photographs before? Well, all pre-digital, I'm afraid. And whilst we did pack a load of stuff to bring to Russia with us at the beginning of the year, unfortunately photo albums were not amongst them.

So just as I learned something from participating in last week's Gallery - namely, what's the point of being camera-shy, I'm part of this family and should be proud of showing that off - I've learned something from this weeks'. That is; it's time to start taking photos of my friends again, because they're definitely worth it.

In the meantime though, this is a photograph that Husband took when on holiday with a group of his university friends a couple of years back. It's a long story, but every 5 years or so those that can all get together and go away for a week (it's called a Lustrom - or something), without the distraction of wives, girlfriends or children, and re-establish the bonds they formed over 20 years ago.

Yep. Makes me mad with jealousy too. Can you imagine co-ordinating 15 girlfriends and persuading them they are able to leave their families for a week of fun and frolics somewhere gorgeous without a hefty proportion of them pulling out at the last minute due to an excess of guilt, other commitments or childcare issues? Probably not... And then, can you imagine managing to persuade those that DID make it to don skin-tight lycra and go out cycling for the day?

Me neither.

Trade Fair

Boy #1 had a playdate (I know, I know, I hate the expression too but it does do what it says on the tin...) this afternoon. I'm not sure what he and his classmate have in common other than a shared obsession with Bakugan (see photo above - taken by Boy #1 - if you have no idea what these are), but their friendship works, so when he asked if he could have Friend S over today I agreed.

I had envisaged an couple of hours of loud voices (theirs, not mine), making - and tidying away - sandwiches, clearing up spilt drinks, and watching the two of them and Boy #2 chasing each other around the place.

What I hadn't envisaged was becoming Police Officer Mummy.

Unfortunately this is not the reference to a cops and robbers game that it might first appear. To put the following in context, as a relatively new arrival to Russia, a lot of Boy #1's toys are still not readily available here, and as such are objects of desire for other children.

So Police Officer Mummy is more of a reference to overhearing Friend S demanding that Boy #1 give him (not share, lend or trade) one of his treasured Ben 10 figurines. I hung back for a few minutes until it became clear that my son, whilst unwilling to part with his toy, was wilting under the onslaught of insistent demands, and then jumped in. I pointed out that this toy had been a birthday present to Boy #1 from his younger brother. I then pointed out that it was OK for Friend S to ask to borrow it, and that it was OK for him to ask to play with it whilst visiting. It was even OK for him to ask if Boy #1 wanted to trade his desirable figurine for something in Friend S's possession. But just asking for it?

I'm ashamed to admit that my inner Oldest Child -the one with issues about ownership -couldn't allow it.

Well, whatever my reasoning, Boy #1 looked very relieved, and Friend S backed off. He didn't really want it, he said.

But 5 minutes later I overheard him saying to Boy #1 "Come and hide under the stairs with me. There's something I want to talk to you about and I don't want your mum to hear..."

Question; what would you have done at this stage? Would you have walked away and let your son get on with it, working out how to fight his own battles, and probably losing custody of one of his beloved Ben 10 figurines in the process?

Or, would you have called out from the kitchen "You know, when I hear someone saying that 'I don't want your mum to hear' about something, I immediately start to wonder what that something might be..."

There was no loan or trade. Boy #1 was happily playing with said figurine this evening. I'll let you draw your own conclusions about which of the two routes above I took, but I wonder, what would you have done?