On taking time to smell the local roses as an Expat parent...

Taking blogging to new interactive levels - for me, anyway - I asked on my previous post which of 4 topics I should write about next.  Amazingly, some lovely people replied with their preferences (honest - you can see their comments here), so today's post is all about the guilt some people experience as expat parents, and how they handle it...

Wherever you live, being a parent nowadays can be hard work.  Not only in terms of dealing with children in a world where touch points and references are constantly changing, and when the authoritarian model of parenting many of us grew up with is now being pushed gently to one side in favour of a more authoritative (for which read, 'consulting') model of dealing with our children, but also in terms of being physically demanding as a result of the punishing schedules we create for ourselves and for our children.

Whilst many of us dream of a more 'free-range' approach to bringing up baby - opening the back door and letting kids take responsibility for their own entertainment in non-school based hours - quite often it's simply not practical in a world where traffic is horrific, double-incomes are a financial necessity for the majority of families, and time at home together is so limited.  And even leaving that aside, the pressures and expectations that we put on our ourselves - and our children - are amplified to a level that our parents, 30 or 40 years ago, would find ridiculous.  Not only is there homework to be finished - from a much younger age than I remember at school - but there are the after school activities to be fitted in.  There are the music lessons.  The sports clubs.  The swimming lessons.  The ballet classes.  The art play.  The 'improving' opportunities that we convince ourselves are essential to our child's eventual growth into a well-balanced adult.  And that's just in middle England.

Now, imagine yourselves as an expat living in a culture not your own.  Your family moves from one country to another every 2 - 4 years, putting down roots where you can, ripping them up when you have to move on, and doing all that you can to maintain a sense of equilibrium in a world where the scenery is constantly changing.

It's tough.  And not only because YOU are transient, but because - if you live in the international, expat environment (often the only possibility when you are not planning on making a country your 'forever home' but are merely a guest for a short period of time) - those around you are transient, too.

So, there you are, in Moscow/Beijing/Rio de Janeiro.  As you watch your children saying goodbye to a best friend for the second time in 3 years, you resolve that in spite of everything they will not suffer for your lifestyle choices.  Instead, they will see more, do more, experience more because of them.  They won't have TIME to miss 'home' goddammit - and you are going to make sure of it.  You fill their days with extra activities and their holidays with exotic destinations.  You find the tennis lessons, you get them enrolled on the fencing course, you drive them an hour each way to the football pitch every Saturday morning.  You leave no stone unturned in your quest to support your child's learning opportunities, because there has to be an upside for your kids to this somewhat unorthodox lifestyle you've chosen.

Your golden expat children have golden opportunities and they are ruddy well going to benefit from them, no matter how exhausting your schedule becomes.

Even with the best of intentions, it's easy to find yourself in this situation.  I know how easy; to a certain extent we're in that space right now.  But asides from the fact that filling children's lives with stimulus - to the extent that they can no longer to entertain  themselves with a box of lego, or a blank pad of paper and a set of pens - is not actually doing them any favours in the long term, where in this constant maelstrom of activity is the chance for them to connect with where they live right now?

Yesterday I bumped into an expat friend who was concerned about some of the things her children had been saying about Russia and Russians.  She felt that there was a lot of negativity being spouted at them from somewhere - she wasn't sure where - and was concerned because when she signed up for the expat lifestyle, that was the absolute last thing she had expected to happen.  She had hoped instead for her children to connect with their environment, to get something positive out of their experience of living in this interesting and engaging country.

But as we spoke about this it became clear to both of us that we were not giving our children the chance to do this.  Unless we - as expat parents - take a breath and pause in our constant efforts to give our kids the best opportunities, and instead simply enjoy where we are living, how can we hope that they will see the best in their current location?

Perhaps, instead of working so frenetically to minimise the number of opportunities that we imagine our kids are missing out on by not being 'home', we could put the breaks on the perpetual motion - just a little.

Then we could  take our kids off-reservation, away from the ever-so-comfortable golden expat cage, into the city centre or out to the countryside, into the museums, art galleries and playgrounds.  Because in years to come, when our children recount tales of their international lifestyle to others who've never visited the places that they temporarily called home, what do we hope they will say?  That in Moscow/Beijing/Rio they perfected their backhand and learned how to play the piano?

Or that the sunsets were amazing, the winters astounding, the people welcoming, and the blinis delicious?

The difference between... Men & Women (Again)

We were at a party to celebrate a friend's 50th birthday in Moscow last night. It was a 60's themed event, which basically meant you could wear whatever you wanted as long as it included boots (for the women) and some kind of hippy themed accessory for the men. There were plenty of wigs, too, ranging from bubble cut to long and straggly, and some killer handbags as well.

The party was in somebody's home, so dancing was impromptu and in a confined space, but nonetheless impressive for that; at one point a guest (a somewhat matronly mid 50's, wearing a short dress, thick black tights, the requisite boots and a blonde bubble-cut wig) decided that she would perform a spontaneous forward roll on the dance floor.

As you do.

Now, here's where that difference I referred to in the title of this post comes in.

I saw a woman doing a forward roll on the dance floor. Admittedly, I also saw her bottom, and the fact that as she finished her gymnastic display she lost her wig, but overall I was impressed with her enthusiasm and commitment. (And, if I'm honest, the fact that she still could or even wanted to do a forward roll in public...)

The guy I was talking to? (In fact, all the guys standing nearby). They just saw her arse.

(Cue heavy sigh).

Not dead, just in Moscow - one year on

As of tomorrow The Potty Family will have been resident in Moscow for a year and one week. (The title above is a reference to the first Russia-based post I wrote back then). I'm not going to give you a round-up of all that's happened in that time (I never have been much good at 'round robin' letters; I gave it a try twice - here and here - a couple of years back, but found the whole process so boring I resorted to masquerading as a mouse...), but I will say that I have learnt more than a couple of things in that time frame:

I've learned that 25 years after leaving school, the major complaint of my school teachers holds true; I still don't do my homework. If I did, I might now be able to understand more than the embarrassingly few words of Russian I can dredge up and crucially, be able to say the word 'write' correctly - rather than mispronouncing it and saying 'piss' instead. (Russians are very forgiving of foreigners making mistakes with their language, but there are limits).

I've learned that there are advantages to not being blonde and gorgeous and driving a big 4x4. Who would have thought it? But whilst it's all very well in London (well, it's not, actually - the 4x4 bit, anyway), here all it will do is make you visible and get you pulled over and fined for such technicalities as having a dirty number plate. Luckily, I am not blonde (I reserve judgement on 'gorgeous' - after a day at home with the Boys it's not something I'm feeling right now, that's for sure), and nor do I drive a 4x4, so up until this point - knocks furiously on wood - I have managed to sneak under the radar in our very basic saloon car, and have not been deemed worth stopping by Moscow's finest.

I've learned that in many circumstances, you can rely on the kindness of strangers. This is of course mostly down to the fact that I often have two fairly edible boys in tow (in my obviously unbiased opinion), but even so I've been amazed by how much the expat community and especially the Russians will go out of their way to be helpful. During our recent trip back home I have to say that of the many comparisons I drew between the UK and Russia that came out in Britain's favour, the way that children are treated was not one of them.

I've learned that when clearing snow off a car, it's always a good idea to include the headlamps in your sweeping endeavours. Especially if you're going to be driving anywhere in the dark and want to actually see where you're going. Oh, and to keep a second set of ice-clearing equipment in the house for those times when the boot is sealed shut with the stuff...

I've learned that it can be incredibly frustrating to sit in a country where so much is happening and not to be able to blog about much of it due to concerns on how doing so might affect your own life. (Oooh - a serious one)

And to follow that one up, I've learned that it doesn't always pay to share your blog address with your nearest and dearest because they might actually read it, and then part of the reason that you started blogging - the free writing therapy and the counsel of strangers - becomes impossible to achieve without impacting on them.

I've learned that dealing with hat-hair for 5 months of the year is so much easier when everyone else is doing it too.

I've learned that Russian women have some sort of hereditary ability to walk through snow and ice in high heels without ending up falling tits over ass - and that I don't.

I've learned that far from being desperate to get back home after 18 months, as I had expected to be, I would in fact love to stay on longer. (The jury's out as to what will happen with that, by the way).

And whilst I could go on ad infinitum, I'll end by saying that finally, I've learned that my sons - well, probably children in general - have quite incredible abilities to adapt. And that my own abilities leave something to be desired.

Ice-cold in Moscow

Take a look at this...

Purty, ain't it?

Note how the delicate branches seem to be encased in glass; it's the only remaining evidence of the freezing rain that engulfed Moscow a couple of weeks back, paralysing the city and shutting airports. Well, the only remaining evidence apart from the mirror-like surface of our front steps, the countless number of silver birch trees bent sideways at crazy angles (their fragile branches seem the most affected by the ice) and - most annoyingly -our car.

We missed the worst of the ice, thank heavens, being on holiday in the UK at the time, but I should have known that we wouldn't escape it's consequences entirely...

We arrived home late last night and at around 1.00pm today, I announced my intention to go to the supermarket, marching out into the snowy day (a balmy -6C) with high hopes of being back in 45 minutes.

And at around 1.40pm today after an epic confrontation with nature and an almost complete change of soaking wet clothes, I actually left home.

Because what looked from the house like an innocuous blanket of snow over the car was actually an innocuous blanket of snow... over a 3cm thick coat of ice. Over the locks, the lights, and crucially sealing the boot - where all our ice-clearing equipment is kept - fast shut. (Note to self: maybe not such a good idea to have only the one ice-scraper, kept in the car...) On the bright side however, once I managed to jimmy open the doors (great exercise for your upper arms, don't you know) and turn on the engine it wasn't that bad, since as the car warmed up a little I was able to simply lift great sheets of the stuff off it and toss them away.

Which was fun, in an Incredible Hulk, sort of way (once you got past the freezing and soaking wet gloves and ice crystals down the back of your neck, anyway).

And of course it does give me more ammunition to bring out in conversations with people back home when they complain about the dreadful weather they've been having. I plan on waiting until some hapless soul bleats about the terrible winter the UK has had (true, I know), and how it's been so cold, and then after listening to their tale of woe, bringing this experience and others like it out to trump them. I am put in mind here of that scene in Crocodile Dundee where he's confronted by a mugger brandishing a switchblade and says something along the lines of: 'Call that a knife? This is a knife...'

And because I'm nice like that, I have actually found a lego rework of that scene just in case you have no idea what I'm on about:

So let's get started. Come on, you first. Call that a heavy frost.....?

Festive Cheer in Box...

It's not at all difficult...

To get that festive feeling...

When you look outside your window...

And see this:

Which is why I don't feel at all premature in reviewing a new dvd that's just been released: 'Nativity!'.

Living as I do in an expat environment where it's not the done thing to refer to Christmas - 'Happy Holidays!' is the greeting we're supposed to use - can I just say how nice it was to sit down and watch a movie which is unashamedly British in it's approach to this? Based on the competition between two schools to produce the best Nativity performance and gain a 5 star rating from the local rag's critic, it has all the required elements for festive viewing.

There were children dressed as angels, Wise Men dressed as Elvis (which took me back to a certain Christmas performance Boy #1 gave a couple of years back), animals behaving badly, a batty headmistress, a kooky class assistant and - of course - a curmudgeonly school teacher (played by Martin Freeman, complete with the requisite cardigan) who starts out Scrooge-like in his approach to Christmas and ends up feeling the spirit of the season on a grand scale.

This is a great 'run-up to Christmas' Saturday afternoon movie, although perhaps not for young children if you're at all concerned by the prospect of a primary school field trip to the local maternity ward. And I think the hilariously bad-taste decision by Jason Watkin's competitive private school drama school teacher's decision to shock his way to a 5 star rating by producing a show called 'Herod', might go somewhat over youngster's heads...

Overall though, I really enjoyed the movie, and without running too much of a chance of spoiling the plot, I think I can share that there is a happy ending and that you would have to be pretty Scrooge-like yourself not to enjoy the Christmas shenanigens even slightly...

Note: I wasn't paid for this post but I did receive a free copy of the dvd...

Apologies for the break in transmission...

So. Two things have happened. Firstly, I seem to have lost my blogging mojo a little. Well - a lot, actually. You might have noticed. And secondly, even if my blog-Mo-Jo were up and about rather than languishing on a beach sipping mojito's somewhere, it also appears that Real Life is starting to get in the way of blogging. What the hell? I thought that when both Boys started school there would be acres of empty space in my day, that I would find myself tapping away at the keyboard for long tranches of time, and that I would become ever more productive on the writing front.

HA!

And again, HA!

It hasn't worked out that way. This is partly due to having got myself involved in a couple of things at the Boys' school which seem to be taking up rather more of my days than I envisaged, but if I'm honest that's not all there is to it.

I've long promised myself, you see, that when Boy #2 started school properly (as in, full days, which finally happened last week), I would at last begin to properly experience Moscow. We've been here 9 months now and due to the fact that up until now I've mostly had my younger son in tow, I still feel a little as if I could be anywhere. But now that's changed I want to make better use of the limited time we have here to get out and about, and get under the skin of this city. I don't want to waste the chance to experience something so completely 'other' to my beloved London; just imagine if, in 10 years time, I mentioned in passing to a friend that I lived in Russia for a while, and on being pressed on what I did there I could only answer 'much the same as in London, really; a bit of work, looked after the kids, went for coffee with my mates, helped out at the school, shopping, laundry, housework...' I'm not slagging any of these pursuits off, you understand. But you can do them anywhere.

So I have set myself a task to get out of my normal routine whilst I'm here. That could mean having a cup of tea with Russian rather than English people, visiting a gallery or museum off the beaten track, cross country skiing in the forests outside town (once the snow comes, obviously - which I'm assured will be in 4 - 6 weeks, hurrah...), taking a Russian language exercise class, or simply walking through the city and finding the opportunities to take photographs like this one...

So don't hold me to it, but I guess what I'm saying is that posts might be a bit thin on the ground for a while. I'll still be here, you understand. But living life, rather than just writing about it. And who knows? Maybe my errant Blog MoJo might look up from her magazine on the beach in Mauritius, glance in my direction, and decide it's actually worth coming back over here for a look-see at what I'm up to...

Thoughts on returning to Moscow...

On the Compound

Gosh, it's quiet. The compound is like a ghost town. Where is everybody? (The answer to that question: still on holiday, mostly. Apparently you're nowhere as an expat unless you take a minimum of 8 weeks out of your country of residence over the summer... We took 7. We're toast.)

On the Weather

Great, it's raining. Wouldn't you know it; Moscow has the longest heatwave in living memory and the day we get back it clouds over, starts tipping down and the temperature drops by 15 degC.

On the Unpacking

One of the advantages of having a Husband travelling back and forwards between London and Moscow whilst you stay on holiday with the children is that you can give him all the 'supplies' you've bought (children's clothes, toiletries and hard-to-get groceries like tomato puree and G&B's chocolate) to take back with him on his interim visits. At least, it is an advantage as long as you keep track of what you've sent.

(Note to self #1; next time, keep track of what I've sent. I imagine we now have enough shower gel to last until some time after we eventually return to the UK).

(Note to self #2: the next time you buy a blender - or indeed any electrical appliance - and send it on ahead with a Husband in his useful role as advance party sherpa taking your purchases to Moscow before you get there yourself, remember; Test the damn thing before you send it. )

On the Washing

Thank heavens I did so much laundry whilst I was away with the children. At least I don't have that to deal with now...

In that case though, what's that overflowing over the top of the laundry basket?

Jesus. Did Husband wash one single shirt whilst I was gone?

OK, yes, that's true. Two is more than 'one single shirt'.

I suppose I shouldn't really wonder if he washed the sheets...

Ah. Well, at least stuffed down the back of the laundry basket (because it's unable to fit into it due to the Great Dirty Shirt Surfeit) is better than still on the bed. I suppose.

On the contents of the Kitchen:

Now, milk... Let's have a look in the fridge. Oh, you've got to be kidding me. How out of date is that ham?

And those eggs...?

And the butter?

And the - sod it. Let's just throw the whole lot out.

Damn, it's good to be home.

And actually, it is.

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...

Question;

Starter for Ten...

If you are a supplier of a service that might require your customers to hold whilst waiting for one of your operators to become free, and if you decide to put - for a change - mildly acceptable music on for said customer to listen during this period, do you really think that breaking into the tune Every. 5. Seconds. to announce 'Thankyou for holding; one our operators will be with you shortly' is really necessary?

Don't you think that we might know we are holding? And don't you think that we might have a longer memory than a goldfish and have remembered from the first time time you said it that you really are trying to deal with our call as soon as possible? Or do you worry that if we don't hear whichever of your employees has won the 'most acceptable telephone voice' competition constantly reassuring us of your continued interest in us, that we might assume that everyone is off at the coffee machine swapping tales of yesterday's Krazy Kwizz Nite down at the Bull and Bush instead of dealing with our calls?

(Oh yes, I worked in a call centre as a student - I know what goes on...)

Just wondering, anyway...

Life on the edge

So, I'm sure I just heard gunfire. Not a single shot, but a series of short, staccato blasts, in total lasting around 30 seconds.

It's probably nothing. But this 'nothing' sound came from the direction of the Boys' school and nursery.

I call Husband, just in case. "Is this a significant date in the Russian calendar?" I ask. "Can you think of any reason why someone might set off fire-crackers in the middle of the day?"

I expect him to laugh me out of town and tell me not to be so paranoid. But he doesn't. Interesting. Instead, he suggests I call the school and check that everything is OK.

This is where being an expat, away from your usual support structures, norms and expectations (however blinkered they may be), can get a bit raw. I know, rationally speaking, that even if Moscow is currently a target for terrorists, there are 16 million people living here and the chances of any of that trouble coming knocking on our door are incredibly remote. But I also know that my sons attend a reasonably high-profile establishment which, whilst it has fantastic security, could conceivably be on someone's List. And the fact that my Russified Husband didn't fall on the floor in hysterics at my ridiculous suggestion makes me realise that he may think that too.

I push images of Beslan, various high schools in the US and god only knows where else to the back of my mind, take a deep breath, and call the school.

The receptionist who answers the phone sounds as if mine is not the first call she has received in the last few minutes. (That's the problem with having a host of over-anxious parents out of their comfort zone living on the school's doorstep; you might have a captive audience of potential students but you also have to deal with calls like this one.)

"Everything is fine" she says somewhat wearily. "Don't worry."

So I'm not doing. Much.

Note: in the last few minutes I've just remembered that some of the older children are celebrating 'Wacky Day' today - just the sort of event when fire-crackers might come in useful...

Update:

It seems that perhaps I wasn't being totally paranoid after all. Apparently there's an army base in the woods near the school, and it's not unusual to hear gunfire from that direction. It's possible that the only reason I never heard it before is because it's only now become warm enough to have the windows open in the house. However, I'm told that this afternoon it was particularly loud, to the the extent that some of the teachers actually came outside to investigate (rather them than me!); not only could they hear the shooting, but they could smell it too...

Should that make me feel better or worse, I wonder? Discuss...

Why? Just... Why?

You can't get proper sausages in Moscow. Not British sausages, at any rate. I know it's not just in Russia that this is the case since I'm not alone in this particular expat lament: I have a girlfriend who left the UK for the US a few years ago and who comes back with her family every summer, not only to reconnect with her roots and family, but at least in part to gorge on home-grown sausages.

And frankly, who wouldn't? They're all the things one shouldn't eat; fatty, full of god-knows-what, cholesterol-raising little bites of heaven. And for some crazy reason, they don't seem to be available over here.

Oh, there is talk of sausages, yes. But they're either frankfurters or salami-type creations, not crispy-on-the-outside-melting-on-the-inside-deliciousness occasions of culinary sin like they are back home. And whilst I would hate to give you the wrong impression of our usually healthy diet consisting only of processed food and convenience snacks (who, me?) I do believe in moderation in all things so in the UK, once every few weeks, sausages would show up on the menu at Restaurant Potty.

Since we've been in Moscow, however? Just the once. Let me tell you why.

In the absence of our beloved British sausages I decided to give frankfurters a try. Well, the Boys had eaten them at a friend's in the UK, and from what I could see they were quite easy to cook. Just grill or boil them, right? Not ever having cooked them at home I had no experience here so it was by pure chance that I decided to go with the boiling approach rather than grilling them. If I had done the latter I think the first time I would have realised they were encased in a coat you are supposed to remove before eating would have been when the hot plastic hit the roof of my mouth (or, even worse, the Boys'). Don't panic though - for the speed readers amongst you who didn't follow that sentence completely, I did not grill them. No, I boiled them, and luckily spotted - and removed - their plastic jackets (which I'm afraid to say reminded me unfortunately of - well - you know) before the sausages made it onto a serving plate.

But no, it's not the plastic coating that inspired the title of this post. That comes from the moment I cut the frankfurters open before giving them to the Boys, just to check that eyes and teeth weren't too much in evidence. (What? What do you think goes into these things?). And, no, I didn't find any visible identifiable remains. But what I did find was mayonnaise.

Inside the frankfurter. Speckled through it, actually, like little lumps of fat.

I dry-heaved - and you have my permission to do the same.

(In fact, you'll be in good company if you do, as if Footballer's Knees is reading this I know she will already have done so because she did exactly that when I told her this sorry tale at our family lunch last weekend).

This being zero-hour, however, and having no other dinner options for Boys #1 and #2, I'm ashamed to say that I did serve these abominations up - de-jacketed, obviously - along with steamed veggies and baked potatoes.

And in the usual way of things, these frankfurters being hideously 'wrong' and just about as revolting a thing as I have ever cooked, the Boys loved them.

What it is to have a discerning audience, eh?