'Mom jeans'. Really?

My blogging mate Toni Hargis posted the following comment this morning on fb:

'Mom jeans, M&S???
What fresh hell is this?'

Well, quite.

Has the world gone mad?  There's so much wrong with this concept I don't quite know where to start.  But let's begin with the fact that obviously, Mom's DON'T WEAR JEANS.

Of course we don't - we're far too staid, frumpy and downright out of touch with current fashion to want to clothe our aging bodies in denim.  I mean, what are M&S thinking?  There are perfectly suitable floral print mid-calf length skirts readily available in most supermarkets to clad the lower parts of our bodies (I would say 'legs' but obviously we don't mention those.  Far too vulgar).  And if we want to change it up a bit for high days and holidays, we can always venture into Laura Ashley, surely, and pick up a lovely patterned skirt with a matching pie-crust collared blouse to go with it.

Of course, I do appreciate the sentiment.  It's good to know that if some poor deluded mother should decide to go beyond the pale and consider a foray into the world of - shudder - denim, that M&S are there to help her make the correct purchase decision.  It would be awful for her to inadvertently buy something that is clearly only meant for those without children - straight fit, slim fit, god-forbid-skinny fit and so on.

No, much better to be able to walk straight to the 'mom jean' section of the store, where we're meant to shop.  I imagine that we'll probably be able to find wincyette nighties, big pants and housecoats in the same place.

Thanks, M&S.

Most embarrassing motherhood-related experiences #573

Went to town on Friday - literally.  When I say 'to town' I do, of course, mean that it should be pronounced in true Celia Johnson styley - 'to Tyne' - and am referring to London.  Husband and I were due to attend a swanky dinner, so I thought I would treat myself to a haircut first.

Luckily - LUCKILY - the lady cutting my hair has known me a long time.  (Parents reading this - you've already guessed where I'm headed, haven't you?).  Because otherwise I suspect I would have been thrown out on my ear just off Regent Street shortly after the following conversation took place.

Hairdresser:  'So, what am I doing with this today?'

Me: 'Not quite as short as last time, thanks - I think I like it a little longer.'

Silence whilst she fusses about (technical term, obviously) with clips and scissors etc .  Then, a little more silence whilst she closely inspects my hair.  I watch her and wonder if she is finally going to tell me that it's about time I got the grey seen to.  She would be right to - but no...

Hairdresser (in a low voice): 'Potty...'

Me:  'Yes?  Is it the grey?'

Hairdresser (clearing her throat as she ever-so-slightly backs away): 'Um - no.  Is it...  do you think...  could you have... lice?'

Ah, parenting.  The gift that keeps on giving...

I can't bear to part with...

In preparation for our impending move back to the UK, I am slowly forcing myself to go through all the cupboards so that we only take with us what we actually want and need when we arrive.

This follows what I can only describe as our rather chaotic exit from the UK over 5 years earlier, when I wrote this post following the foolishness of having left Husband in charge of the packers whilst I ferried the Boys from one set of grandparents to another whilst we moved out of our London flat.  My favourite excerpt from that post is this:

'2.  Packing enough bed linen for 4 double beds and 2 singles - twice over - is a somewhat pointless exercise when you are currently living in what is basically a 2 bedroom cottage.

3. Likewise towels. What were you expecting PM, to be training as the local midwife?'

So this time around, I'm trying to be ruthless.  It's tricky.  I'm not good at throwing stuff away.  I mean, who knows, we might need that weird shaped  metal... thingy when we get back to England.  Or the broken Dyson hand-held vacuum.  There will always be a use for that, surely? Tell you what; let's just charge it up and see if there's been some terrible mistake and it does actually work?  (It doesn't).  Or that collection of instructions on how to put together the ikea shelving units that we plan to donate to charity before we leave here - surely they might come in handy?

You can see what I'm up against.

But I'm trying my best, which is why this morning I went through the Boys' clothes for the third time in 3 months and still managed to find 2 large bagfuls that no longer fit them and which I probably could have got rid of last time but which for some unaccountable reason, I missed.  Probably because I was too busy cooing over the clothes that I REALLY can't bring myself to get rid of and which I have stored in a special hamper to take back to England and pull out in 5 years time to marvel at. What's in the hamper?

Well.  I was hoping you would ask that (if only so I could write it down here to remind myself of the reasons why I kept this motley collection)...

• A collection of hats (sun, baseball, and cold weather hats) - were my sons' heads EVER that small?
• A collection of long-sleeved t-shirts that have featured in photos of both boys over the years (my favourite, for obvious reasons, must be the Trans-Siberian Express one from Gap, although the fleecy polar bear one and the bright blue rhino one tie for a close second)
• The kilt that Boy #1 wore for his kindergarten extravaganza back in London (as featured in this memorable post, here)
• A swiss prehisto t-shirt featuring dinosaurs in cow print, and a bright striped short-sleeved t-shirt (retained for the same reasons I held on to the long-sleeved ones)
• Boy #1's first school jumper (No idea why that one made the cut other than perhaps to remind me of what a god-awful colour it was)
• A smart dress shirt in a gorgeous pale blue and cream print that both Boys wore about, oh, twice, but which again I have strong memories of and so can't part with.
• A teeny-tiny pair of socks and a cuddly pram blanket that did service for both Boys #1 and #2 (no explanation needed).

What items of your children's clothing can't you bring yourself to part with?

'Tales from the Land of the Lost... Property' continued...

You know how sometimes bloggers use a little poetic licence when writing their posts?  I have to admit that the post I wrote yesterday - about Boy #2 losing his coat - was actually about an incident that happened the day before.  So sue me.

What I'm writing about now, though, happened this morning - honest, guv.

So, in an effort to communicate to Boy #2 how much of a pain in the backside losing his coat is, I have made him come with me to the Lost & Found cupboards at school 3 times since he mislaid it.  We went there yesterday morning.  We went there yesterday afternoon.  And we went there again this morning.

No sign of it - the coat is still lost in the space-time continuum.  But I figured that if nothing else, as a result of the hassle of going backwards and forwards to L&F, he would take better care of his belongings from now on.

This morning, however, after another fruitless expedition to the cupboards, I walked him to his class.  We were almost at the door, when THIS happened.

Me: "Have a good day darling.  See you later..."

Boy #2: "Bye Mum!"

Me (with a sinking feeling):  "Wait.  Where are your hat and gloves?"

Boy #2 looked at me with a dismayed expression.  "Um.  I left them at the Lost & Found?"


Well.  That lesson in taking responsibility for his possessions really worked, then...

Marking time

Today I have:

• Got myself and both boys up and ready for school
• Acted as referee when Boy #2's antics got too much for his older brother (no children were harmed in the making of this blog post.  My sanity, on the other hand...)
• Made two school lunches and ensured they actually reached the right backpacks
• Checked the Boys had the correct musical instruments, sports equipment and homework with them
• Walked them to school and kissed them goodbye (still allowed to do that - and yes, I know how lucky I am)
• Spent an hour volunteering at the used uniform exchange
• Had two stitches removed (ouch)
• Put away two loads of laundry and washed and hung up another (shoot me now)
• Arranged a follow-up medical consultation in a different time zone
• Tidied up my clothes cupboard and drawers, and the same for my children, making sure that Boy#1's outgrown clothes are safely put away for use by Boy #2 in a year or so's time.  (Thank god I don't have children who are fussy about wearing hand-me-downs)
• Been through various boxes of clothes and selected an embarrassingly large amount to go to charity (and yes, some of them hadn't been out of the box since we arrived in Moscow over 5 years ago.  Oh, the shame.)
• Eaten lunch.

So tell me; at 1.30pm, why does it feel as if I haven't actually been very productive so far today?

Today's definition of 'Embarrassment'...

We are in the Netherlands at the moment, and both the boys are at (field) hockey camp.

Note:  I put the 'field' there in brackets for readers who might think I was talking about ice (ice) hockey.  I'm not.  Yes, there IS another game using sticks with 'hockey' in the name...

Yesterday, the weather was glorious; 21degC, sunshine, a few clouds; perfect hockey weather, but today we have driving rain.  Undaunted by that, the coaches at the camp have the children outside doing circuits, playing games and practicing.  I shouldn't know that, of course.  I should have dropped the boys off at 9.00am, hung around for a few minutes to let them show off some of their newly acquired skills from yesterday, and then come back to where we're staying to spend the day working on The Novel (first draft now finished - let the hard work begin).  However, as I turned to leave, Boy #1 admitted tearfully that he had forgotten his mouthguard; rather than returning it to its' case in his rucksack at the end of yesterday's session, he had tucked it into his sock (because, duh, where else would you put it?), and then left it on the shelf in their bedroom when he got changed at the end of the day.

When I was playing hockey at school, mouthguards didn't exist.  We just, you know, played.  In fact, at school, we didn't even wear shinguards.   Man, those balls hurt when they hit your ankle bone, I can tell you...  However, time moves on and mouthguards on a hockey pitch are now just as important as helmets are on a ski slope and the kids aren't allowed to play without them, so disregarding my feelings of despair at our nanny state*, I drove the 20 minutes home again to fetch Boy #1's.

Obviously, I couldn't find it.

This necessitated a trip to a sports store to buy a new one which I then took back to the hockey camp where one of his trainers kindly fitted it for him, no doubt doing a much better job than I would have, what with her actually having used one herself and everything.

So yes, on my return to the club I saw the kids outside in the drizzle, playing hockey.  Good for them, I thought, and headed off for the second time.  But that's not why I'm writing this post.  After finally reaching home an hour and a half later than planned I was happily working my way through my inbox (yes, I know I was supposed to be working on The Novel, but displacement activity is All), when the phone rang and the camp supervisor's number popped up.

Oh god.

Which child has taken a ball in the face / broken their leg / been whacked round the head by a stick, I wondered nervously as I answered it.

Neither, as it turned out.  The camp supervisor told me that Boy #2 wanted to talk to me, and put him on the phone.  I readied myself for a tirade of 'I'm wet / it's raining / I want to come home / have you bought me a model boat yet?' and instead heard this:  "I thought you were going to put 3 cookies in my lunchbox.  I only found one.  Did you forget?"

I'm not sure who was more embarrassed: the camp supervisor for calling me (she hadn't known what Boy #2's question was going to be and thought it was probably something VERY important), or me, for raising a child for whom a shortfall in the number of cookies in his lunchbox was so distressing.


*Yes, I KNOW I would be singing a different song if the Boys came home missing a tooth because they weren't wearing a mouthguard.  Say it with me; mouthguards are a good thing.  It's just that, well...

Bribery and Corruption, Potski Mansions-Style

It's Spring Break here for all of 1 glorious week.  I know - not long enough, but I try to console myself with the longer summer holidays we get in recompense.  Doesn't work, but I do try...

Unlike many of the families at the Boys' school (if I see one more fb posting showing pristine beaches or water parks I will be driven to... to... more chocolate, probably) we are staying put for this holiday, which is, I remind myself frequently - mainly when looking at fb - a Good Thing.  We've had a crazy start to the year, and the chance to stand still with no hard and fast schedule to maintain is welcome.

However, that does mean I am now dealing with my own preconceptions about what a school holiday should look like.  And I am nothing if not a product of my UK upbringing, so much to my sons' disgust that includes their not only getting out of pyjamas and into proper, you know, clothes, but also a minimal amount of study and even - gasp - practicing their musical instruments.  Every day.

Yes, m'lud.  Torture, cruel and unusual.

I know, I know.  Am I crazy?  But I have secret weapons in my arsenal and I'm not afraid to use them.  Namely, the promise of movie nights, the use of my laptop to access Netflix, and the indiscriminate application of popcorn during said movie.  And crucially, they don't get to choose what to watch until their tasks are done...

Too... much... writing...

... and none of it on here, it seems.

So just to keep things moving, here's a brief excerpt from an ongoing conversation with my younger son.  Boy #2 is, as ever, obsessed with all forms of public transport.  His current passion, following a weekend trip to Karelia (click for link if - like me before our visit - you have no idea where or even what that is), is sleeper trains.

His latest plan is to design the ultimate sleeper train that will run all the way from Britain to New Zealand.  He is undaunted by the existence of such fiddling annoyances as the Pacific Ocean; this train will simply use the underwater tunnels that are to be built for it, which will have the added benefit of allowing the passengers to view the undersea world around them as they travel.

He has already decided on the placement of the restaurant in the train (in the middle, between 2 of the 2nd class carriages, to allow easy access for all), the location of the offices of the company that will operate it (on the train, natch - why run it if you don't get to travel on it?), and the power source (this will be a maglev, it goes without saying).

He has even decided on his customer base (people who want to travel to New Zealand - duh).

It all seemed very well thought out - until I asked him how long this incredible journey would take.  Oh, he answered airily.  About... 16 days?

Hmmm.  Without wanting to quash his enthusiasm, I asked him - gently - what it was that he thought would make people want to travel by the train for 16 days when they could do the journey in less than 2 by plane.  He thought for a moment.  How much would an air ticket to New Zealand cost, he asked me.  I pulled a figure that seemed likely out of thin air - £800.  Well, there you go, he said.  It will be cheaper to travel by this train.

Really?

Oh yes.  I think it will probably cost - how much did you say the plane was, Mum?  £800? - I think it will probably cost about £700 to take the train.  Or maybe - £799.

Perhaps it's time to start giving him pocket money in GB£?

And in other news...

... there were unconfirmed reports today of sightings of the Bottom of the Laundry Basket at Potski Mansions, a mere 11 days after the family's return from holiday.

Potty Mummy (46), a work-at-home mother of two, was unavailable for comment due to what is believed to be a severe case of exhaustion having reached the top (or bottom) of Laundry Mountain, although her neighbours stated that at approximately 11.00 this morning they had heard the popping of champagne corks and witnessed a blizzard of chocolate bar wrappers being thrown like ticker-tape from the upstairs windows.

Reliable sources, however, discounted the claims as premature, commenting that the Bottom of the Laundry Basket, like Shangri-La,  the Yeti, and the Loch Ness Monster is in fact a figment of somebody's over-active imagination, and that a nice sit-down with a cup of tea and a dark chocolate digestive should quickly restore a sense of reality and proportion to the residents of the property.

Indeed, following the return from school of the children known affectionately as Boys #1 and #2, along with their assorted paraphanalia of dirty socks, ripped jumpers, sports kits, and muddy trousers, the earlier claims have been withdrawn.

Potty Mummy remains unavailable for interview.

It's been a while...

... so I figure the best way to get my blogging thang on again is to simply jump back into it.

You know that expression 'the best laid plans...' (of mice and men etc etc)?  Here, your honour, is a case in point.

It's Monday today.  I thought we were fairly well-prepared for it.  The Boys were rested after a relatively relaxed weekend, I had chivvied them out of bed in enough time (although, really, is there ever enough time on a Monday morning?) to walk to school instead of making a last minute dash in the car, and everyone had on the right gear for the -12degC outside.

What?  -12degC?  Minus 12degC is for sissies.  It's only when it hits -18degC that it starts to feel properly cold.

We were about to leave the house.  Boy #2 had forgotten to pack his lunch box.  He packed his lunch box.  Boy #1 hadn't put on his sweater under his coat (don't get me started - the boy is a regular walking immersion heater, anything warmer than -18degC seems not bother him).  He put on his sweater.  Boy #1 hadn't packed his ski socks for skating.  He ran upstairs to fetch and pack his ski socks.  Boy #1 left his gloves upstairs.  He went back to fetch his gloves.

We were still on time to walk to school.

We reached the end of the drive; I glanced at Boy #2 - no rucksack.  We walked back to the house to fetch his rucksack.  Boy #2 put on his rucksack.

We were still on time.

We walked to school - still on time.

We got to school.  I glanced at Boy #2's rucksack, which suddenly appeared suspiciously light.  Did he have his indoor shoes with him?  No, Mum - but I'm sure they're in my locker.

They were not in his locker.

That would be because they were sitting on the floor by the back door, at home.

And since the children are not allowed to wear their outdoor shoes indoors at school (or, indeed, anywhere inside during the snowy messy Russian winter), guess who had to then walk home again to fetch said shoes?

As I said - the best-laid plans...

On the 3rd Day of Advent...

...I found myself going through some old blog posts, and chanced across this rather lengthy little Christmas-related number.  Reading it took me straight back to life as the mum of a pre-schooler and a toddler when, it seems to me, I was much funnier than I am now.  Perhaps that was the result of the heady cocktail of those days; part the aroma of pure panic (I'm in charge of two small children and How the Hell did THAT happen?), part steamed vegetables, part Calpol, and part nappy...

Enjoy!


The Twelve (Interminable) Days of Christmas (December 2007)

So, yesterday was the big day. Now don't be coy - I know you're just desperate to find out how the hottest event in Kensington and Chelsea went down, but fear not, I'm here to pass on the good bits...

I suppose I should explain what on earth I'm talking about. Yes, it was Boy#1's Nursery Christmas Show. For reasons known only to themselves (I think they have a new and slightly over-enthusiastic - no, scratch that - a completely over the top drama teacher. But then again, when aren't they?), the theme this year was 'The 12 Days of Christmas' and each class was required to go up and represent one of the verses. Boy #1 was a piper. Hence the kilt. Yes, you heard me - kilt (just in case you missed that nugget a few posts ago). But frankly, looking at the line-up yesterday, I think we got off lucky.

Verse 1; The partridge looked as if the costume had been ordered from Angels Theatrical Costumiers, it was so professional. Except, of course, the partridge was 3 years old...

Verse 2: 2 turtle doves - bulk standard coat hanger wings. I think the ground-swell of parent opinion was 'compared to the partridge, could do better'.

V3: 3 French Hens. Except it wasn't 3 - it was 9. Dressed in breton t-shirts, berets, strings of onions, and doing a turn singing La Marsellaise...

V4: 20 calling birds. Lots of room for variation with 20, as you can imagine. And not much room on the stage, so for healthy and safety reasons there were actually 2 'hits', so we got the same 'show' - 10 children dressed as robins, dancing to Rocking Robin - twice. Hmmm.

V5: 12 gold rings. Lots of gold lame, probably the easiest option as most mums seemed to have simply made a poncho out of sparkly material. Can't remember the turn they gave as I was struggling with Boy#2 who was trying to make a bid for freedom at this point, scattering raisins as he went...

V6: 16 geese a-laying. Hilarious incident with one little boy who's mum had clearly gone to town with his costume, even giving him a padded stomach for authenticity, hogging the limelight and elbowing all the other children out of his way to give himself centre-stage. He was eventually restrained by the teacher and given a good talking to on the sidelines. Was rather losing the will to live by this stage, to be honest.

V7: 8 swans a-swimming. This provoked naked envy on the faces of all the mummies whose little girls did not form part of the 'swan' tableau, as they arrived dressed in tutu's, twirling a pirouette or two to the famous bit from Swan Lake. Sometimes I'm so glad I have sons...

V8: 11 drummers drumming. This did what it said on the tin. Yes, the power-crazy drama teacher had instructed hapless parents to go out and find a drummer costume for their boys. To their credit they had made a pretty good job - and the imitation beaver-skin headwear had to be seen to be believed. Mind you, this being Kensington & Chelsea I was rather disappointed that there was no real fur on stage...

V9: 8 maids a-milking. Consisted of the girls from Boy #1's class complete with mob caps and sand buckets, singing 'Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary' and crying because they had lost their cow. This segued seamlessly into...

V10: 6 pipers piping. Boy #1 and classmates following an honest-to-goodness Scots piper, bag-pipes wailing, up onto the stage. (All sense of proportion had clearly been lost by the drama teacher when she planned this one). They did a little dance and then tried to help the milk-maids find their cow and followed up with a Scottish reel. Boy #1 was grabbed at this point by one of the girls (who was half a foot taller than him), and they then capered around the stage dancing the reel. Not sure who instigated the choke-hold, him or his partner, but it was a relief for all when the dance finally ended without injury...

V11: 7 ladies dancing. Dressed as flamenco dancers and performing that authentic spanish number - you guessed it - the Macarena. By this stage the audience had been flagging, but this perked them up. Or got them riled - not sure which...

V12 (Thank the lord): 7 Lords a-leaping. Boys dressed as frogs, capering onto the stage, leaping around and then dancing with the flamenco-clad lovelies. I was past caring by now, as were Husband and Boy #2...


All this took around an hour and a half, by which time the audience of eager parents had had enough, stampeding out of the venue before the final hymn was even finished. Never has 'O little town of Bethlehem' been treated so caverlierly outside Midnight Mass...

Other Points of Interest:

Boy #1's kilt stayed up. Thankyou, Mother-in-law. Your skills with the needle know no bounds. Really, I mean this; my home ec teacher at school used to just tut and walk past my table as I struggled to make a patchwork cushion, so I am grateful, grateful, grateful, that you were able to step into the breach. 

Just to put my sewing abilities in context, Husband and I once had a huge falling out when he asked me to sew on a button. He was horrified that I refused. I was horrified that he had had the nerve to ask me. Really - if he wanted to ruin a perfectly good coat he could just have let the boys at it with a pair of pinking shears.

I also had a fit of the giggles whilst standing in the queue waiting to be let in to the church where it was all happening. (Oh yes, they couldn't let us in early. I mean, who knows what might have happened? We parents could have ended up throwing pews and everything. Lighting the votive candles, using the holy water, you name it. There is no end to the devilry that could have ensued).  I was having a perfectly normal conversation with the parents of one of Boy #1's classmates when a mutual acquaintance approached us and asked them "Do you like caviar?" Well, that's a conversation stopper if ever I heard one. And more to the point - why wasn't I invited to this apparantly swanky dinner party? Obviously, had she asked me, my answer would have been "only Beluga, sweetie - and of course it does rather depend on which champagne you are serving..."

I choose to be happy. (Well, most of the time, anyway)

It's grey here. Grim November has arrived, and hot on it's heels will come the Russian winter. The laundry needs hanging up, there are toys all over the floor, and I have a million jobs to do which - post half-term - can no longer be put off.  The dishwasher in our UK home is broken & needs to be replaced (although god love it, it has just celebrated it's 13th birthday, so I'm not judging), Husband is travelling most weekdays, and it's raining, just in time for the school run on my bike.

On the other hand...

It's not snowing.  The temperature is above freezing.  My family is happy and healthy. We had a great 4 days somewhere sunny and warm last week.  The house is clean.  There is enough food in the fridge, and before I put on my raincoat (in a jaunty colour I have christened 'In-Your-Face-Winter-Orange') I have five minutes to myself, a whole scope of creative projects I can dip into, the Man Booker Prize winner on my kindle, and the whole of NetFlix to explore later this evening.

See what I did there?  It's called (my version of, anyway), CBT*

Because, without wanting to come over all PollyAnna about it, life really is what you make of it.  I learned this not through having a naturally carefree disposition but during 2 years of counselling after I stopped work outside the home following Boy #2's birth - and fell apart.  It took a while but my lovely counsellor slowly showed me how to reprogramme my results-orientated, work-obsessed, what-am-I-if-not-my-job?, brain into one that could turn my mental inclinations around.  It takes self-awareness, that's true, but the feeling of control when you look at what could be quite a shitty situation and decide not to let it bring you down - in fact, to turn it to your advantage and learn from it - is empowering.

Yes, the days in my mental landscape still seem long and grey sometimes.  But I know, when that happens, that it's not forever.  In fact, if I choose, it doesn't even have to be until tomorrow.

Now.  Off through the rain to do that ruddy school run.  Where's my in-your-face-winter orange raincoat gone?


*Cognitive Behavioural Therapy

Hoist by my own petard...

You want to know what's galling?

When you make the following statement to your 7 year old son whilst trying to help him with his homework; "I am 46 years old, Boy #2.  I think I know how to answer questions on using a ruler.  Please try it my way - if it's wrong, I will send your teacher an email to explain it was my fault."

And then, the next day, having to write said email.

Dammit.

I'm having a moment...

It's going too fast.

I look at my boys - now 10 and approaching 8 - and I think this almost every day.  What with the whirlwind calendar of school, music lessons, sports fixtures, after school activities, social engagements and just - well - Life, the weeks whiz past and suddenly what was the chaos of the beginning of term at the end of August is now a well-worn routine.  The alarm bell rings on Monday mornings and before I know it, I'm cooking Sunday lunch, without having had a moment to stop and smell the roses in between.

And all the time, my boys are growing up.

A few days ago, in an uncharacteristic fit of organisation, which may or may not have been prompted by the fact that Husband was working from home and inspiring me to show a sense of industry (of the 'Jesus is coming.  Look busy' variety), I cleared out a set of drawers that have probably had the same stacks of papers in since we arrived in Moscow nearly 4 years ago.

My reward - apart from the sense of achievement that always results in moving annoying piles of paper Out Of The House - was to come across some school photographs taken of the boys when they were 3 and 5 , the autumn before we left London.  They look, quite frankly, adorable.  If I'm honest it was bit of a relief to discover that my memories of them at that age were truer than I had imagined; I can't be the only parent who, when they look back on photos of their babies, is a little disappointed to discover that actually they look pretty much the same as everyone else's babies at that age, with the same rubbed out bald patches from when their birth hair falls out around 2 - 3 months, the same flushed dry cheeks from teething, and the same patches of dribble around their collar, surely?  I mean, Boys #1 and #2 were lovely at that age, of course they were.  Just not the beauties that I imagined them to be at the time, if the photographic evidence is anything to go by...

But here, in the photos I found three days ago, they were practically perfect.  Clear-eyed, healthy, smooth skinned and reach-out-and-touch-me gorgeous.  Their open and trusting smiles for the camera warm my heart.  But time has moved on, and whilst they are still - in my eyes, anyway - heartbreakers in the making, they are growing up.

Boy #1, for example, doesn't need help with his homework anymore, and the fine down of dark hairs on his upper lip is becoming more evident.  He's getting taller, no longer one of the shortest in his class, and is even wearing trousers of the correct size rather than a year younger as he was doing until recently.  He's got a great sense of humour and a strong sense of ethics, is working well in school, and is addicted to reading in all it's forms (but particularly to anything from the 'Percy Jackson' or 'Harry Potter' series, which he will read - and then re-read - in bed, on the sofa, whilst laying the table and walking up and down stairs, given half a chance).  He shows a steely determination to take part in team sports, and has a confidence in his physical abilities that I never did at his age.  He's brave enough to face down bullies and to accept an apology from those who have wronged him, and is generous in his levels of forgiveness.

Boy #2 has a mostly iron-clad personality and a wicked sense of humour.  He's nobody's fool, and will not be forced into doing anything he doesn't want to.  At school he is showing increasing confidence in writing and that maths might be his thing, along with all the signs that in the next few weeks he will become a fully qualified bookworm like his older brother (although admittedly of the Asterix and Obelix variety, for the moment at least).  His love affair with all forms of transport continues, but nowadays instead of reading 'That's Not My Car', we've moved onto books about The Titanic and space travel.  He happily jumps on the trampoline and attends football and taekwondoe sessions with his brother, but when all's said and done he would much rather be upstairs in his room building lego creations.  We recently introduced him to field hockey, and were initially surprised by how much enjoys playing it, until we worked out that the stick provides him with a tool he can master, which fulfills a need in his engineering-inclined mind.

Why am I writing all this down?  Because I write less about the Boys these days - for good, privacy-based reasons - but it occurred to me that before I know it the next 4 years will have passed.  By that time Boy #1 will be 14 and Boy #2 nearly 12, and if the experiences of friends with teenaged boys are anything to go by, our levels of interaction may have changed considerably.  They will certainly need me less, and as much as the prospect of that saddens me, that will be as it should be.

Consequently I want to celebrate who they are now, so that when they need me to be less involved and stand more on the sidelines of their lives rather than to be intricately entangled in them - as they need me to be at the moment - I will be able to look back at what was, and remind myself of how our lives once were.  To remember when Boy #2 was unable to let me say goodbye to him in the school corridor without giving me 3 kisses and a hug, or when Boy #1 would still - just - let me hold his hand when we crossed a busy road.  To listen to echoes of the days when they still wanted me to read them stories at bedtime, or when they would still clamber onto my lap for a cuddle whilst watching Horrible Histories on tv.  To remember when 'Mama's pizza' was still their favourite meal, or when a burgeoning tantrum could be defused with the question 'Do you think your reaction to not being able to find that book/sweater/lego piece might be just a little bit over the top?' And when the sentence, during story time '... and a great big bear bottom sat down on the lid.'* would lead to gales of laughter and hiccups.

There's no doubt about it; it's going too fast.  But oh - what a ride...


*From 'It's the Bear!' by Jez Alborough

So accidentally cool...

One of my sons is nearly half way through a week of such an IMMENSELY cool sport-related activity that even I - the queen of no sporting ability - get excited about it when I think about it.

Imagine your child getting the chance to spend a week being coached in a sport he likes, but at which he will never be a world beater, by luminaries who's names send grown men into awed revery.  Like, for example, being shown how to ride a bike by Chris Hoy.  Or how to score a goal by David Beckham.  Or how hit a tennis ball by Jimmy Connor.  You get the picture.

Well, we got the opportunity for Boy #? to do something along those lines, for a week.  He jumped at it, so we made it happen.  He's having a great time, hanging out and playing a sport he likes, being coached in how to improve his performance, and being outdoors all day, every day, in top-class facilities.

There's just one thing.

He has no idea how amazing this experience is.

On the one hand this freaks me out a little.  It's like training at Anfield and treating it like the local rec, or knocking a few balls about at Wimbledon and acting as if it's your back garden.  It's as if you're treating Lawrence Dallaglio like your dad showing you how to score a try, or back-chatting Freddie Flintoff - showing you how to bowl a cricket ball - like you would a visiting uncle.  It's just.  Plain.  Wrong.

But on the other, I'm quite glad my son has no idea how cool this opportunity is.  He just gets to hang out with the other kids in his class, enjoying the experience, with no thought of being intimidated by who the coach is or the location he's standing in.  Mainly because - if I'm honest - as an expat with limited exposure to sports events on tv,  he has no idea of who the coach is, or the historical significance of the location he's standing in.  This situation would be impossible to achieve if we lived in the UK given the exposure afforded to this sport, but due to the fact that whilst we like it we cherry pick the games we watch, and then add to that the fact that where we live most of those games aren't screened at times we would be interested in, his opportunities to soak up background knowledge about this sport are thin on the ground.  The result is a child who is simply there this week to learn and have fun, rather than to impress his heroes.

Husband, who was here for the first day of this activity, is delighted by how good a time Boy #? is having, and more than a little envious of the opportunity (as is every other man we've mentioned it to).  He told me that he would never even have considered doing this at our son's age.  He would have been too scared; his exact words were 'I wouldn't have dared...'

But there's time enough for hero-worship in our son's future.  For now, here he is:  Daring.  Making us proud, doing the things we never got the opportunity to do, taking them in his stride, just getting on with it.  Learning from it, enjoying it, and not wasting time worrying what anyone else thinks of his choices or performance.

And actually, now I think about it, that in itself may just be the coolest part of the whole experience...

End of term madness, meets BritMums Live!, meets Good Enough Mothering...

I am all for giving children the opportunity to make their voices heard within the school environment.  One of the worst things I remember about being a child was the feeling that your voice didn't really count for anything; adults got to make all the decisions, big and small, so the fact that the Boys' school has a Student Council seems like a Good Thing to me.  No, really, it does.  Just as long as my sons realise that they live in a benevolently authoritative establishment at home.

That means, by the way, that I will listen to their points of view and accommodate them where possible but - when all is said and done - what I / Husband says goes.  Especially on the big issues.  Like, rice or pasta for dinner.  Or whether that crust is going to be eaten up or not (we can discuss 'not' - but then there won't be dessert afterwards...)

Anyway.  The Student Council.  It had decreed that today was Celebrity Day.  (We won't get into a discussion of whether celebrity is something to be applauded here, I think.  I mean, obviously it's not, not really, but when everyone else is participating it seems to be more than a little curmudgeonly to lecture your children on why you are not going to help them pull together a costume when all their friends are dressing up as famous football players or pop princesses).

But let's put Celebrity Day in context.  We are in the last week of term here (do I hear a sharp intake of breath from UK based readers?).  So, you know, I have a question. Whose bright* idea was it to schedule it for this week? (*Add expletives as you see fit).  Because yes, come next Monday my two little darlings will be home all day, every day, until the end of August.

*sighs deeply*

*pulls self together*

Yippee.

So, bearing that in mind, much as I love my sons and am looking forward to spending un-timetabled weeks with them in the very near future, I have to admit that there are just one or two teensy little things I would like to get sorted before that happens.

• Like, finish the copy-editing job I was just sent.  
• Like, finish my novel - a ridiculous dream which is close enough to touch, but not quite - or, in the absence of that, re-read it and come up with an elevator pitch on it's theme.  You know; 'Oh, my novel?  Well, it's sort of Tolkien meets Chekhov meets Maggie O'Farrell...' (It's not, by the way.  Totally different, in fact.  But you get what I'm talking about).  
• Like, gird my loins (as in, work out what the hell to wear) for BritMums Live! this weekend, prepare myself for the workshop and the keynote reading I'll be doing at it, remember to pack my glasses for the opticians appointment I'm squeezing in during my 60 hour whirlwind visit to London, write a shopping list for the same (sleep?  Who needs sleep?), and also batten down the hatches here so that Husband has sufficient supplies (aka pizza and crisps) during my absence.

It's not surprising then that Celebrity Day slipped my mind until Boys #1 and #2 reminded me of it just before their bedtime yesterday evening.  Cue mild panic followed by frantic thinking and creative problem solving.

But, we triumphed.  Well - sort of.  Boy #1 strode into school complete with long brown shorts, white shirt, blue sweater and comma-quiff (courtesy of my Aveda wax) as TinTin, and Boy #2 negotiated the corridors in a dark blue t-shirt tucked into slightly-too short but suitably snug tracksuit bottoms, and wearing his brother's black ski helmet bearing the legend 'Hamilton' written in felt-tip pen on a sticky label across the front of it.

I did spend a few moments last night considering the possibility of covering Boy #2 all over with sponsorship labels so he could look a little closer to the real thing but once I googled a few images and realised that a) we didn't have a yellow flame-retardent jumpsuit to stick them on and b) I would be up all night printing them, it would be much simpler to tell him he was wearing Lewis Hamilton's training kit instead.  (They keep the many-labelled racing kit for race occasions only, didn't you know?)

At the end of term, there was a limit, I decided.  In this instance, Good Enough mothering would have to be good enough...

Am I Cruel Mummy? Boy #1 thinks so.

I don't want to come across as Cruel Mummy but...

I don't let my children sleep in the marital bed.

Does that make me nasty?  Boy #1 thinks - sometimes - that it does.  Mainly he thinks this when his younger brother waves the fact in his face that twice in the last 4 months, he (Boy #2) has snuck in - unnoticed by me, I might add - in the small hours and managed to stay put until morning.  Smaller than his brother by 2 years, Boy #2 took advantage of my natural defense against the freight-train style snoring from the other side of the bed; namely that of shifting as far away as possible from the source of the noise and clinging there, albeit still asleep.  This of course leaves a Boy #2 sized-space down the middle of duvet, which he exploited on these two occasions before bounding back into his own bed at dawn and trumpeting his victory to his furious older brother.

Siblings.  Don't you just love them?

We've been had reasonable luck with the Boys' sleeping patterns so far.  Certainly whilst they were still tiny we suffered the 1 / 3/ 5am wake-ups for breast and bottle feeding, the pacing backwards and forwards rocking a seemingly inconsolable baby in our arms wondering if we were ever again going to get a full night's rest, and the rushing in at 2am to calm a child shouting in their sleep.  In fact, now I come to think of it, that last was almost a nightly fixture for 4 long years; Boy #1 did it from ages 2 - 4, and then just when he stopped, Boy #2 clocked in with his own version until he hit 4 himself.  But nowadays they are good; they go to bed when we ask them to, and they don't wake up much before 7am, which personally - needing my own sleep - I call a result.

Even from the first, when they were only tiny scraps, I was never any good at co-sleeping with them.  At the beginning it was quite simply that I was worried I - or Husband - would roll over and squash them.  And yes, I know instances of this are extremely rare, but try telling your exhausted hormone-buzzing just-given-birth psyche that at 3am.  It just didn't work for me; I would lie there, rigid with panic, unable to sleep myself, next to a gently snoring husband and baby.  So we put each of the boys in a cot next to our own bed - and then after a couple of months, moved them into their own room.  Then, when they were toddling around, they were just too restless when asleep, both of them capable of moving from one end of their cot and back again  between checks, to convince me it was a good idea to have them with us.

And so we settled into a routine where they slept in their beds, we slept in ours, and everyone had a good night's sleep.  I saw no reason to change that as they got older.  Sure, we have Sunday mornings when they bounce all over us and put toes cold from half an hour of playing with toys before we wake up onto our warm hands and legs, but as for spending the night in the same bed - well, I just don't encourage it.

Don't get me wrong, if they're ill I will get as close to them as I can, and if I'm not actually sleeping on their floor I might as well be for the amount of time I pop in and out of their room to check on them.  But aside from the fact that I operate much better when I've had a proper night's sleep myself, it's always seemed to me that Husband's and my bed is just that; for Husband and I.  There is one room in the house that belongs exclusively to us, and I want to keep it that way.

I don't think that makes me a bad mother.  Despite what my son might say...

Just once...

... just ONCE, I would like to be able to go to the bathroom when my kids are in bed, and not have to flush the loo before I use it.

Is that asking too much?

I suspect that it is.

So it turns out I'm not the only writer in this family...

My sister-in-law gave birth to a baby boy this morning.  We are all thoroughly delighted for my brother and his wife (who, by the way, looked like a supermodel in the photo taken moments after the birth which my brother sent me) and right at this moment in time I have to admit that Moscow seems even farther from the UK than usual.

The Boys are equally delighted, and this evening when Boy #1 came to do his homework, which included free writing for 20 minutes, there was only one topic he was interested in. Here is what he wrote;


"I have a new baby cousin today.  His name is James John xxxxx.  He was born 1 minute after 7am.  James weighs 3.2kilos.  He was a good size for a two weeks early baby.  James got a nickname, that was xxxxx.  I do not expect him to play football straight away.  He is very cute.  He only see's black and white things.  James has to crawl on his legs and hands because he is very young. I think he is going to be very smart. My uncle and aunt were very happy but also a little shocked. I think that xxxxx is going to let his beard, when he gets one, grow as thick as his dads. I can't wait to go there at Christmas. Maybe he will have the same colour hairs as his father."


Welcome to the world, James!

The one where my kids ask me if I believe in Santa...

A couple of evenings back, whilst eating dinner with Boys #1 and #2...

Boy #1: "Mum. Do you believe in Santa Claus?"

Oh. My. God.

This is it.  This is the moment when all the carefully constructed lies come crashing down around my ears.  

I should clarify here; I am just about positive that if we lived in the UK, Boy #1 - now aged 9 - would no way believe in the Big Man. But we don't live in the UK.  And it's a well known truth in the expat community that children who live this protected, cossetted existence, often believe in Santa for longer than they do back home.  My son, sensitive, thoughtful and wanting to take things on face value, is one of those.

So.  What to tell him?  And before I share my reply, please take into account the following:

1.  My younger son - Boy #2 - was also sitting trustingly at the table, agog, and waiting for my answer..
2.  Both Boys were - in addition to eagerly anticipating Christmas - very much looking forward to a visit from The Sint on December 5th.  
3.  Deny Santa Claus, and the whole edifice - Sinta Klaas, the Tooth Fairy, elves, peace on earth - it all comes crashing down.
4.  Deny Santa Claus and there is a good chance that what I wrote about here - when a friend's husband became persona non grata in his neighbourhood for spilling the beans on the Santa Myth to his 8 year old son - would happen to me.

It was, in parenting terms, one of those 'life flashing before your eyes' moments.  I tried to buy myself time by asking why he would ask this question (friends at school had prompted him to), and what he thought (why yes Mum, of course I believe*), but we both knew I was putting off answering him.  So finally, I screwed my courage up and answered him fully and frankly.

"Well.  I believe in the Spirit of Christmas.  And isn't Santa Claus the embodiment** of that?"

Alright - I fudged it.  But he and his brother seemed satisfied with that answer, so come on: how would you have answered?



*What self-respecting child would answer otherwise given that replying in the negative might mean no fully stuffed stocking on Christmas morning?

** Yes, I admit it.  I was banking on the fact that 'embodiment' was not a term either of my sons would have come across before, so they wouldn't be able to tell just how much I was fudging the issue...