Culture shock

This is not my story, but I am allowed to tell it...

One of the refreshing things about Russians is that - probably as a result of such a long time being a communist society - just about everybody feels equal to everyone else. I don't mean in terms of income, obviously; the disparities here are huge, far greater than I've seen in most European cities. No, more that we all on an equal footing. People speak their mind.

This can, however, be a double-edged sword, as a friend of mine found out this week. Like me, she has recently arrived in Moscow from a western city. With 3 children spanning the years from primary school to 3 months old and no local family support structure, she hired a nanny to help her through the tricky school / nursery pick-up / witching / bath-hour time of day. All was going well with the Russian nanny she had found, until Olga (not her real name) expressed shock that my friend's 2 1/2 year-old son - Alex - was not yet out of nappies.

"In Russia, all children are potty-trained at two" she said.

My friend didn't really want to start with this; the nanny only works from mid-afternoon to early evening, leaving her to deal with the resultant accidents and a practically newborn baby for the rest of the time. She thought, however, that perhaps she might give a shot and see how it worked out.

Of course, with the nanny watching him like a hawk Alex had no accidents that first afternoon. But one evening trying to deal with breast-feeding her baby and wipe up wee changed my friend's mind. She decided that potty-training could wait until the summer when things were a little more settled, the weather was warmer, and the laundry would dry more quickly.

She informed Olga of her decision next day. The nanny was not impressed.

And the next time Alex filled his nappy, she found my friend and said: "He had a poo. You change him."

Of Easter Bunnies and conversation

Ladies, I would like to raise a toast. A toast to a shy, retiring individual who brings pleasure to many and relief (in his role as Fall Guy) to countless more. A creature who brings manna from heaven in one hand, and dispenses justice with the other. Who's rather large feet are at odds with his cute little nose, and who's only fault is to leave raisin-like droppings on my parents' lawn...

You know who I'm talking about, don't you?

Yes, let us thank the lord for the existence of the Easter Bunny. Because - and if you have kids, you know this - the Easter Bunny is not just for Easter Sunday, oh no. His shift starts earlier than that; pretty much as soon as those purty foil-wrapped eggs appear in the shops and make their existence known to small Boys.

This angel picks up where Father Christmas leaves off, in fact. Since around the beginning of March he's been checking that toys are tidied away, and books are put back on the shelves. He's been policing the brushing of teeth and the using of napkins at the table. He's quite strict in his own way; if he says 'just one story tonight' he means it. And woe betide the Boy who climbs out bed and runs woohooing round the flat when he's meant to be dropping off to sleep at the end of a long day. (Although admittedly it seems he took an early night yesterday and Boy #2's rampage passed under the radar).

However.

Just in case you've been living in a cave for the last few days and haven't noticed the chocolate frenzy going on in shops, with grown women fighting over the last Barbie and Ben 10 licenced eggs, Easter Sunday is tomorrow. And the Easter Bunny will have come good on his side of the deal with the Boys - chocolate for good behaviour - by around midday.

What the hell am I going to use to incentivise them after that?


And in other news (and as a tribute to Millenium Housewife who I really hope doesn't mind):

Things I have said to Boy #2 today...

Let's go and use the loo.
No, not me, you.
OK, I will too.
But I just sat down!
OK, let me just... Right, you go now.
Do you need to sit that far back?
Doesn't it hurt your legs to sit like that?
But if you sit that far back you'll wee on the...
OK, off you get.
Yes, I know that your bottom is wet. That's because you sat so far back.
And don't stand there, you'll get your socks wet too...
Take them off, then.
Now, are you finished?
Completely finished?
Come over here and pull up your trousers then.
Off you go.
What do you mean you need a poo too?
What do you mean 'it's too late?'
No, don't tell me. I know what 'too late' means.

Hoist by my own petard...

Whisper it softly but it seems that the potty training is finally - FINALLY - working. We're down to one accident every 2 or 3 days, and Boy #2 seems finally able to 'produce' (for want of a less graphic word) on demand. Which is nice. With even his night nappies showing considerably less strain in the morning I can finally see the day when, some time in the future, this will be a 100% potty-trained house. Hurrah! (Although if you have shares in Pampers, due to forthcoming decrease in demand, now would be a good time to sell. You heard it here first.)

You might be forgiven for thinking then; 'Well, what is Potty going to write about now? Where will her source material come from? Will we subjected to a litany of gripes about the gym, the supermarket, and parking outside the nursery by those Yummies in big black 4x4's who STILL DON'T KNOW HOW TO DRIVE THE BLXXDY THINGS?' (Sorry, got carried away there...).

Fear not, that won't happen. (Or at least, no more than usual).

Boy #2 has the situation under control.

It appears that he has been pondering the forthcoming change of subject matter for some time, and is currently in the process of coming up with a smorgasbord of 3-year old delights for you to partake in.

Because this brave new world of potty trained boys is something of a double-edged sword. It seems that encouraging him to be independant in loo-related matters has also resulted in him discovering his teeth in other areas too. "OK" I can almost hear him thinking. "You want more independant thought from me? You'll get more independant thought! No more Mr Nice Guy..."

Exhibit One

Last week I was stopped on my way into his nursery to pick him up. "Is anything wrong with Boy #2?" his class teacher asked me. "Noooo. Why?" I answered. "Well, he's been really naughty today. Refusing to do what he's told and shouting at all the teachers. It's really not like him." she answered. Swallowing my initial retort that it was exactly like him (at home), I promised to have a word - involving the threat of with-holding tv-watching privileges - and went on my way.

The talk worked, he's been good as gold ever since, but I can't help wondering if he was simply showing them what he is capable of, that's he's not afraid to use it, and preparing the ground for...

Exhibit Two

'You are invited to a Celebration of Spring' the invitation from Boy #2's nursery read. My heart sank. We already had a 'Celebration of Christmas' this term (yes, late, I know), which it had been decidedly tricky to get Boy #2 to participate in. Bribery by chocolate was involved in the end. And now, having thought that was all behind us for another year, we were to be treated to a repeat performance where, to cap it all, we were requested to dress our children as lambs, chicks, or bunnies.

Great.

Now Boy #1 'does' dressing up. Lions, knights, police-officers, pirates vets; he has even, on occassion, been known to put on the harness of his hobby horse and prance around the flat. Boy #2? Not so much. He will of course stamp around dressed up as Fireman Sam, Bob the Builder (aka 'Fixer Man' in our house), and any other suitably macho character, but ask him to put on anything that he doesn't consider manly enough and mayhem ensues. And so it was yesterday when I picked him up from nursery and started discussing the Spring Show we were going to later.

Me: "So it's your Spring Show this afternoon. Are you looking forward to it?"

Boy #2: "Nope." (Quite where he has picked up 'nope' from I don't know, but he seems to feel it is suitable for someone of his bloke-like qualities, uttering it in a deep 'don't mess with me, I am Fixer Man, have a toy Bosch power drill and am not afraid to use it' voice which he uses when he wants to be particularly emphatic).

Me: "Right. Well, are you going to sing us some songs and stuff?"

Boy #2: "Nope."

Me: "OKaaaay. Gran and I have made you a great rabbit costume. It's got a pompom on your bottom, a set of ears, and I've found the facepaints to finish the job. Isn't that exciting?"

Boy #2: "Nope."

And so it continued. When presented with the outfit at home, 'nope' deteriorated into 'Nooooooooo!', accompanied by many tears, body-stiffening, shouting and general chaos. The venue for the show was only around the corner from our flat and I had planned to walk there but within 5 minutes of getting home I knew it just wasn't going to happen, and shamefully, caved.

And before you think that I'm giving in to him and teaching him the wrong lessons about misbehaviour getting him what he wants, think of this; I get a similar - though shortened - reaction every time I try to brush his teeth. Now, teeth, I will fight for. Teeth is a battle I will not let him win; it's non-negotiable, even if I have to capture him and force him to open his mouth through tickling or other nefarious means so that I can do it myself.

But the 'Celebration of Spring'? When my little macho man had to dress up as a rabbit and hop around the church for nobody's good except making his drama teacher feel she had achieved something?

Not worth fighting for.

So I gave in. And five minutes later, when I found the victorious Boy #2 in his room playing with cars, what was he singing?

"I'm a little bunny, see me hop..."

Hand-holding

Am steeling myself to take the boys for a haircut before the end of the week.

I remember the last time I took them, I saw the woman’s face fall when we walked in. Not that Boy #1 is difficult at the hairdresser’s or anything like that. I remember his first visit to the barbers aged around 1 year; in fact, I think the whole neighbourhood remembers it. So normally (well, who am I kidding, usually. No, always) I give in to bribery and placate him with a chocolate lolly (and then a chupa chup – nothing like a sugar rush to keep kids occupied, I find), and he just about tolerates it – albeit with a lot of grumbles and mumbles under his breath. (It rather reminds me of my dad when he has to get into black tie).

Boy #2 – thank god – is much more equable and usually watches his brother misbehave with a questioning look on his face. He's probably wondering ‘when do I get to be rewarded for making such a fuss?'


Potty Training: Thursday 31st August 2006

I don’t really know what to say about my experience with Boy #1 this morning.

He announced that he wanted to sit on the loo after breakfast rather than any of his other assorted potties, so I settled myself in for a long session of ‘3 little pigs’ (he demands stories when he’s on the loo, particularly that one for some reason. Hope that in years in to come it doesn’t act as a subliminal trigger; he may find himself in difficulties when he reads to his children).

However, instead of asking for his usual entertainment he wanted to hold my hands and proceeded to pull on them whilst he had a poo. I didn’t know quite where to look… and was trying desperately not to laugh and break his concentration. Is this how midwives feel? (Am reminded of when I was in labour - both times - and produced poo rather than a baby for what seemed like the longest time. It’s perfectly natural, apparently. But I didn’t know this at the time, and my embarrassment was made much worse by the fact that NOBODY MENTIONED IT. We all knew it was there, but no-one could quite bring themselves to admit it… Sorry – have I grossed those of you who haven’t had this experience out?)

Anyway, back to Boy #1. Of course the end result was a poo in the toilet, which only a month ago was something I never thought I’ld see, so should be grateful for that. But have to ask myself; is this hand-holding something I’m going to have to keep doing, and for how long? And if so, is he going to demand the same service of his teachers at nursery? Could be embarrassing at parents evening…

And finally; where on earth did he learn the trick of it?