Pride and (snow) falls

 Parenting.  It's a roller coaster.

One minute you're blow away by your teens' maturity and grace in the times of Covid.  You thank your lucky stars that they have adapted reasonably well to the ridiculous times we find ourselves living through, and even congratulate yourself - a little - on the fact that you must be doing something right.

The next minute, you're standing in your garden late at night waiting for the dog to deliver, and you notice that one of your children has walked the outline of a huge penis onto your snowy lawn - and that it's in a location clearly visible to all your neighbours.

Lockdown; too many hats and fattening the curves

Yesterday, Husband asked me to do a very simple financial task.  No problem, I thought.  Should take me 15 minutes, tops.

When I sat down to do it however, it seemed overwhelming.  The information I needed wasn't where it should have been, and the prospect of going through lists of emails was enough to push me to the brink of tears.  Why, I wondered, was this easy job so bloody difficult?  It shouldn't be; I should have breezed through it - but I couldn't face it.

I shut my laptop in disgust and went outside to try and gather my thoughts.  As I did so my phone rang; a friend was calling in to check on me, and she couldn't have done so at a better time.  She asked if I was OK and for a change I gave the real answer: not really.

As I explained why I suddenly realised that it wasn't about the poxy task.  What had pushed me to the brink were some of the same issues many parents are facing in Lockdown, starting with - but not limited to - home-schooling recalcitrant teens.  Sounds quite straight-forward, doesn't it?  But that requires a host of skills over and above those we would normally need if our children were in full-time education: teacher (I knew that was a difficult job but my god...), internet provider, tech expert, interpreter, police officer, authoritative parent, design & technology expert, 10.00am pt instructor.

Then there are the other, non-school based tasks that have become important during isolation...

Mediator.  Between my sons.  Between my sons and their father.  Between my sons and their teachers.  Between the dog and the cats next door.

Cheerleader.  Cheerer-upper, putter-on of a brave face.

Chief cook, bottle-washer, organiser of shopping lists, stock checker & rotator.

Laundry supervisor.  Domestic engineer & household tasks time-tabler.

And, finally, let's not forget, nutrition expert - though not for right now; it's more of a planning role at present.  I mean, diet in Lockdown?  Take a hike - this is hard enough already.  So whilst some are getting through this situation fuelled by wine, gin, beer, vodka and so on, I personally have chosen chocolate.  Consequently once this is all over, if I don't want to have to go out and buy and entire new set of clothes, I will also be trying to flatten the curves I have been working so hard on fattening over the Lockdown period.

It could take a while.


For more Lockdown musings, check here

Quietly celebrating.

Yesterday evening my son came home from school, took off his tie and blazer, sat down at the table, had a snack, and did two pieces of homework. Just sat down, and did them.  Dinner followed, and then he chilled out in front of the television.

Whilst this might not seem remarkable in itself, I can tell you that in this house, it is.

For various reasons that I'm not going to go into, homework can be an issue for him - and consequently for me, too.  And if it's an issue for me, then of course it follows that that spills over into the rest of the family's lives, too.

Looking back over the last three years or so it seems as if 99% of school evenings have featured some kind of confrontation about homework.  The weekends too, if I'm honest.  I'm of the belief that if there's homework to be done it might as well be dealt with on a Friday night or a Saturday morning; that way, we can relax for the rest of the weekend.  My son, however, is of the opposite opinion; as far as he's concerned it's best ignored until the very last moment at which point, amid much shouting, stamping around, obfuscation, and wailing and gnashing of teeth, it is tortuously completed.

It's frustrating to watch; both my husband I know this is what will happen and consequently try (usually fruitlessly) to circumvent it by encouraging him to break the pattern and instead complete the tasks sooner rather than later.  Unfortunately this sensible approach is not one our child subscribes to, so the resulting confrontations often lead to the entire weekend being held hostage to the completion of the damn homework.

If your child is of a similar profile you might recognise these statements: 'In a moment...  I'll do it later... Just let me finish this lego model/chapter/episode/game/toilet trip (delete as appropriate)...' and so on.  Then, of course, when he has finished whatever it is he's using as a delaying tactic, instead of just dealing with it, he uses another.

Looking at it from the outside you might ask yourself why we don't just force him to sit down and get on with it.  I know that some of our nearest and dearest have wondered the same thing over the years, but some children, they just learn differently.  Some children are such perfectionists that they can't face their homework not because they don't want to do it, but because they can't face the possibility that they might do it wrong, so they hide, they ignore, they act out.

It's not a recipe for relaxed family life, that's for sure.

So what was different about last night?  How was he able to just get on with it, to the extent that I watched in quiet wonder and asked myself if this is how things are on a typical school night for those families whose children get less anxious when faced with their own very human imperfections?

Partly, I think, it's the fact that he's getting older and more mature, is better able to deal with the swings and roundabouts of everyday life.  Also impacting may have been the fact that the task he chose to do first was one he didn't find difficult and which, because it was online, he was given instant feedback on, so knew that he had completed it perfectly.  That buoyed him up to deal with the second task, which he was less keen on, but still able to do well.  Or perhaps he just had the right thing for lunch, or I said the right thing when I met him from school, or another of the million things that might have affected his mood.

But I don't really know; kids don't come with a manual, no matter what the parenting gurus out there might say.  And if the last few years of dealing with the fallout of my son's learning style have taught me anything, it's that we need to be grateful for those moments of calm - because there might not be another one along for a while.

Breaking out of stasis

Tick, tick, tick...

I think the world might be trying to tell me something.  On facebook this last week I've been assailed with suggestions that I might like to look at posts featuring activities for Empty Nesters.  Has someone told them both my children are away on activity weeks with their school?  And if they have been told, why would fb then think it a good idea to follow up that suggestion with a link to a new scary movie; 'It Comes At Night'?  Why, fb, why?  For all they know, I'm alone in the house this week.  And even though I'm not (alone, that is), I am SO not going to click on a link to a movie that will make it even more difficult to get to sleep in a draughty old house on the occasions that I am...

And then, to add insult to injury, when I checked my email this morning there was an ad in the sidebar from Boots, inviting me to 'Stay Dry and Confident' with incontinence pants.

I used to like you, Boots.

The thing is, I don't actually feel my age.  Yes, I'm 50.  But I feel somewhere in my mid 30's. Having kids a bit later can do that for you, I think.  Well, either that, or it will make you feel somewhere around 70 when they roll their eyes with embarrassment as you try unsuccessfully to stay relevant and up-to-date with their latest musical crush - but let's not dwell on those moments.  (Is it my fault I didn't react in a suitably outraged manner when Boy #1 confronted me with the news that Justin Bieber essentially stole all the credit for 'Despacito' from Luis Fonsi?  Is it?  Well, apparently, yes...)

Here's an interesting thought; when I was 13 (as my older child is now) my mother was only 37.  And I STILL thought she was out of touch.

Boom.

Just do it... (writing as therapy)

I've always been a firm believer in the truism that 'A writer writes'.  Except, I've not been doing very much of that recently - either here on the blog or elsewhere - which begs the question; am I still a writer?

I'm not sure.

Life has got in the way recently.  It's drained the energy from me; any creative spark I have is easily snuffed out.  I get inspiration for a post, or a story, get excited about it, start to plan, maybe even begin to write, and then bam!  Out of left-field it comes; another metaphorical body blow knocking me sideways.  Just like that the idea - and the impetus to put pen to paper - is gone.  A brief flare of the match and then, before the flame has even had the chance to take hold, nothing. I know I had it, I could almost touch it, see the words on the page, feel the satisfaction of having written and created something just for myself but now... it's gone.

I'm not sure if it's the life-stage I'm at (that pesky menopause is knocking on the door at the very time I need all my wits about me), or the external influences surrounding me, but for the last few months I've felt about as creative as a worn-out floor mop.

It occurred to me recently that perhaps I should just let this blog go.  I've been writing The Potty Diaries for ten years now, perhaps it's time to move on.  Other bloggers I started this activity with have - perhaps I should follow suit.

But then, why should I?  It's not that my life has become less eventful or that I have nothing to record.  In the last two years I've moved countries, re-assimilated to my home country (or at least, have tried to.  If' I'm honest that's still something of a work in progress), moved house - twice - excavated and sifted through 20 years of the detritus and leaf litter that's accumulated as the result of modern living, coped (yet again) as a week-day widow whilst Husband continues his work abroad, and kept the family more or less intact as we deal with the short-term impact and long-term ramifications of understanding newly diagnosed learning difficulties in one of our children.  That last one's still a work in progress too, actually.

Frankly, I'm exhausted - never a good state to be in if you want to be creative.  But I've been here before, years ago, when I started this blog to - literally - make shit funny, and back then it helped enormously.

Maybe it will again - watch this space.

You think your parenting duties keep you busy?

Last week the Boys and I walked past a pair of swans and their nine cygnets.

I'll say that again; their NINE cygnets.

Don't believe me?  Here's a photo.



You might be forgiven for assuming this was some sort of swan creche - I know that I did - but I checked and no, it's not; those swans really do have nine little beaks to keep fed.

Is it just me, or do the parents look a little... harrassed?  Somewhat beset?  A little bit, 'can I just have 5 minutes to myself to go to the loo in private?'  Or slightly 'well, it seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that all those eggs have hatched I'm not sure this was exactly what I intended...'?

Captions in the comments box, please...

Today's Task: Write a Blog Post in 10 minutes...

I'm putting together my writing cv.  It is, shall we say, a little 'thin'.  It's not that I don't have any experience in writing, you understand - over a thousand posts written on here alone are testament to that - it's just that I don't have so much experience in writing for publications that actually pay.

As I reached the end of this still-as-yet unfinished cv I realised that perhaps, if I'm going to refer to this blog, I probably should write something.  You know, like, a post.  It's been another month, after all...

So here I am.  With the ten minutes before I have to leave to collect the Boys from school the only time I'm likely to find in the near future.  What to tell you?

Well, Boys #1 and #2 are now ten and twelve years old.  How did that happen?  I was reminded of how far we've come today when I took them both to our local - excellent - hospital for their first allergy test in seven years.  It went smoothly, no problems (and yes, they are still allergic to nuts, dammit).  Now, the last time we did this was in London and it was something of a seminal experience for the three of us.  Boy #2 - three years old at the time, still chubby and toddling around - handled the whole experience with aplomb and dignity, whimpering a little as they scratched his arm, but generally behaving well.

His older brother?  Not so much.  There was a visit to the paediatric ward 'Quiet Room' involved, I remember, to allow him to calm down.  There were chocolate buttons (well - I can't remember the chocolate buttons, but since there were usually chocolate buttons or smarties involved in times of stress, I'm thinking I'm pretty safe in assuming they made an appearance here).  There would also have been wailing and gnashing of teeth, no doubt - obviously, since we were banished to the Quiet Room, I suppose.

But the thing is, I actually don't remember that many of the details.  I guess that may be due to having blanked it out as not having been our finest hour, who can say?  But whatever the reason, it's interesting to realise that however awful a parenting experience might be at the time (and I do remember that at least; it was awful), you actually are unlikely to remember the details in the future.

Which is a comfort, I suppose.  Especially as I look the teenage years squarely in the face.

And of course the other comfort is that whatever happens, and whatever the years ahead hold, there will, of course, still be this blog to refer to, to remind me that there were some difficult times before, and that we made it through those.  And there will still be smarties and chocolate buttons.  Or Green &; Blacks.  Whatever comes to hand, really...

There you go - a blog post in 10 (no, 12, actually) minutes.

Carry on Regardless

Sometimes, I wonder if pushing kids to try things they don't want to do is a pointless task, and more trouble than it's worth.  But then something like this happens...

With only a couple of months left before we leave Russia for the foreseeable future, we're trying to cross a few items off our bucket list.  One of the things we've wanted to do for a while was to take the Boys to a classical concert at the recently renovated Great Hall at the Moscow Conservatory, because, well, whilst it might not seem like the obvious entertainment choice for two very normal 9 and 11 year old boys, it's an experience they may well remember for the rest of their lives - if we could just get the event right.

Yesterday Husband spotted that Andrei Pisarev was due to perform various piano pieces by Chopin that evening so at the last minute we decided to go for it.  We sorted the tickets and excitedly announced to Boys #1 and #2 what the evening's program would be.

Oh good grief.

The problem with raising two children to have independent thought and ideas, it seems, is that some of their thoughts and ideas are completely independent of your own.  And one of those ideas, in this case, was that going to a classical concert is akin to having your teeth pulled without an anaesthetic.

This is not the first time I've made this observation on raising individuals, but I was forcefully reminded it of it yesterday.  As the wails and yells rose up from the back seat of the car, you would have thought that instead of the opportunity to sit and listen to a world-class performance of beautiful music in a hall with some of the best accoustics in the world, we were telling our children of our plans to make them clean out a septic tank with their toothbrushes before spending the night in it wrapped up in jute sacks.

Which, to be honest, was something I was prepared to consider as my younger son went into a Force 6 tantrum and kicked the back of my car seat to demonstrate his unhappiness with our plan.  Frankly I was considering suggesting to Husband that we call the whole thing off.  Maybe it would just be simpler to stay home in front of the box...

So, did we go?

Of course we did.  Husband is made of sterner stuff - or at least, is more stubborn - than I am, and rapidly came up with a plan to stop the rot.  There may have been just a little bit of a carrot dangled to get them there.

OK - we took them to Macdonalds first.

But from that point on, they were a credit to us.  Boy #2 in particular was entranced, clapping like a mad thing the moment the performer finished each piece (and, once, when he hadn't), and excitedly joining in with the applause at the end when the audience was - oh so politely, this was a Russian concert audience, after all - angling for an encore.  (They were SO polite, we got two.  Result).

As we left, Boy #2 asked me what I thought of it.  "I thought it was wonderful," I said honestly.  "Me too," he said earnestly.  "And you know Mum, it was so different to be there and to see it and hear it at the same time.  Because when you listen on the radio, really, it's just, so much... pfffff."

And there, with a huge smile on his face, an expressive wave of his hand and a vowel-less word, my younger son perfectly expressed why sometimes, as a parent, you do know best - and have to carry on regardless...

21st Century Learning

Who can place this quote:

"... your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not that they could, they didn't stop to think if they should."*

I remembered this quote today when I was having a conversation  with a friend and we found ourselves pondering this question: how much screen time do our children get each day?

In fact, how much screen time does YOUR child get each day?

I'm asking this not because I'm trying to make you feel guilty about the kids flopping down in front of the tv the moment they walk through the door at the end of their school day, or to make judgements about the games they may be playing on the ipad, x-box or pc in their room right now.  No, I'm asking this because I suddenly realised during the conversation I mentioned that I don't know the answer to this question myself.

That is because the amount of tv / computer time that my children get at home each day is, in fact, only one piece of the jigsaw; for 8 hours of every weekday during term time my children are not at home.  They are at school, in an educational environment where, more and more, online resources are an integral part of the teaching lexicon.

And that's fine, that's wonderful.  There are now ways for teachers to enhance our children's learning experiences to a degree that was never even dreamt of when we - the pre-Internet generation - were at school.  Want to know about the recent landing on the comet?  It's there in glorious technicolour, tattooed genius engineers and all, at the click of the button.  Need to teach your class the life-cycle of whales or the migratory pattern of puffins?  Instantly accessible, engaging, and entertaining footage is only the correct search engine term away.  Want your class to research the history of the US War of Independence for a project on national autonomy?  Well, there's no need to send them to the school library or ask them to turn to the relevant page of their dry and dusty text book any more, is there?  You just get your pupils to reach for the nearest handy electronic device (be it school or parent supplied), and ask Dr Google (or the school-approved safe content guaranteed equivalent) to provide the relevant information.

And this is great, this is liberating, this is what the internet does brilliantly.

Except.  Scientists frequently tell us that there are limits to the amount of time that a child - with their growing, emerging, fragile brain and all the establishing neural pathways and synapses it consists of - should spend in front of any kind of a screen each day.  Guidelines vary with each new study but that's immaterial since how are we, as parents, expected to gauge what actually is a 'safe' amount of time for our children to spend using a laptop or similar at home when we have no idea how much time they have already spent doing the same thing at school?

Sure, the on-screen content they have been looking at in school may have been 'educational' - but does that actually make any difference?  Does the part of the brain that deals with cognitive development analyse the information that's coming in from the screen in front of it and make a judgement call on whether or not the length of time the child has been looking it is harmful, saying to itself  'Oh, it's about the lifecycle of an amoeba.  That's educational - part of the National Curriculum.  No need to worry about that screwing with the formation of my synapses, then'?

So when he got home from school this afternoon I asked my 11 year old son how much time he had spent in front of the computer today.  He reckoned 45 minutes in his maths lesson, 45 minutes in foreign language, and 30-45 minutes doing research for a current school project.  Unusually there was no writing on computers required for language arts today, so that was it - in school hours.  But add on the approximate 30 minutes he spent online this morning before school catching up on homework, and the 30 minutes doing the same thing this evening, and we are at, let's see, more than 3 hours on the computer today.

And that's without any screen-based game time or watching any tv (because we simply didn't have time for that), so I reckon it's actually a light day.

Which leads me to my ultimate question, I suppose.  Parents are constantly being asked to take responsibility for the amount of electronic input that their children's brains receive, and I'm happy to do that; I want to do that; it's my job.  But is anyone asking schools to factor the same calculations into their lesson plans and to take a similar level of responsibility in safeguarding their pupils' brain development?

Technology is the future.  It's the way ahead, an inescapable fact of life.  But schools need to work with parents on this whole issue of screen time, because it seems to me that there's a disconnect between what they consider acceptable educational practice and what we at home are expected to allow in terms of safe amounts of access.


*Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park - you can see the fantastic scene where he uses this line here.  Vintage Spielberg.

Let them eat cake...

Boy #2 left home on Sunday afternoon.

This happened following an argument about how much lunch needed to be eaten to qualify for a piece of cake for dessert.  On being told that it was more than he had consumed, he announced that he wasn't hungry for pudding anyway, so didn't need the cake thankyou very much.

Five minutes later, of course, when what was left on his plate had been tipped into the bin, he changed his mind - but the damage had been done.  There WAS no more lunch for him to eat to qualify for the cake.

Oh dear.

What followed was one of those classic parenting moments that you see happening but are powerless to stop if you have any hope of showing a consistent approach to discipline.  We were treated to a downward spiral of disbelief and outrage that he was being treated so much more unfairly than his older brother, lots of railing against the fact that we are always, ALWAYS, so strict with him, and then, when none of this changed the fact that no cake had magically materialised on the table in front of him, horror that we were going to carry through.

So, after stamping upstairs, slamming his bedroom door a few times, and throwing himself around a bit, my 8 year old son packed a rucksack with 2 pairs each of socks, pants (underwear), and t-shirts, a spare pair of trousers, and a spare pair of trainers, put it on his back, and cycled off up the road*.

And we let him go.

Friends tell me that they too did this sort of stuff around his age, and I know for sure that my sis did, but crucially, I never did - so this was very hard for me to let happen.

However, Husband - from the sofa, where he appeared a great deal more sanguine and relaxed about the whole experience than I was, mainly due to the fact that he too had hoisted his backpack on his shoulder at about 8 - told me I had to step back and let Boy #2 make his protest.  Although he did agree that a phone call to the guards on the gates to make sure they didn't let our son 'out' onto the streets would be a good a idea.

Of course, Boy #2 never got that far.  He cycled about 100m up the road, thought better of it, doubled back and went and hid in a hedge for around 15 minutes.  Then he got back on his bike and cycled around the house a couple of times.  Then, he abandoned his bike, and snuck around on foot for a bit longer.

Finally, he reappeared at the back door, where I met him and welcomed him home, before he proceeded to empty his rucksack to show me just how well he had packed for himself.  I congratulated him and commented that perhaps the next time we go away he could do the same thing, he agreed, and then we kissed, made up, and he took his supplies back up to his bedroom.  His Big Adventure (as my sister in law called it through her tears of laughter) had lasted about 30 minutes.

And then, an hour later, he could be found sitting at the kitchen table eating the cake that I gave him.

Bugger.  So much for consistency.


* For the record, I would like to state that we live in a gated compound with between 30 and 40 houses.  There was nowhere for him to go, other than the playground.  Not that that made it any easier to watch him leave...

Sunday morning snapshot

Husband and I are sitting downstairs; I'm blog gardening, he's indulging in a spot of voyeurism on the London housing market.  Boy #1 is out, and Boy #2 is upstairs beetling around with his lego.  Suddenly, from upstairs:

Boy #2:  "Ow!".

Silence.  Husband and I are used to these outbursts, so we carry on with what we're doing.

Boy #2.  "OW!"

Still, we say nothing.  If he wants us, he knows where we are, right?

Boy #2:  I said, OW!!"

Husband and I look at each other and start to crack up.  (Any child who can say 'I said, OW!' is clearly not in mortal peril.)

Boy #2:  "Did anyone hear me?  I said, OW!!!"

Me, giving in:  "Yes, we heard you.  Are you OK?"

Boy #2  "Yes.  I'm fine.  I just wanted to check you heard me..."

I wonder...

... will it be different for our children?

I know my parents love me.  They have shown me - and my siblings - that they do, in a million different ways.  The effort that they put in to giving us the right opportunities, the unceasing support, the sacrifices that they made for us; what child who benefited from these and so many other unspoken, unnoticed and un-recorded actions could ever doubt that they were loved?

So I don't, not for a heartbeat.

But parenting, when my parents - themselves products of the austere post World War II years in 1940's, '50's and 60's Britain - was different when they were thrown into it, barely out of their own teenage years, to how it is now.

And one of the things that was different was the frequency of use of the phrase 'I love you'.  Looking back on my childhood, it wasn't something we heard very often.  We knew we were loved, but mum and dad didn't bandy the verbal expression of that fact around.  Our very existence, our lifestyle, how our parents behaved to us, was seen by them to be enough proof of their feelings for us.

I know that my experience may be unusual, but I don't think so.  Back then, 'I love you' was just not something many parents said to their children (or even, I suspect, to each other that often).  It was almost as if by saying it out loud, they might cheapen their emotions, put them on display.  As if they were risking bringing the wrath of the gods down on their heads by using the words.

Thirty years later, however, I don't stint with the verbal expression of my love for my boys - and as far as I can tell, neither do my friends, to their children.

I tell them I love them when I drop them off at school in the morning, and I tell them when I tuck them in at night, and on a myriad occasions in between.  I even manage to shoe-horn it into disagreements sometimes, especially with Boy #2 who has recently begun to state (as I insist on his getting dressed / leaving his lego upstairs whilst he comes downstairs for breakfast / tidying up / doing his homework) that he doesn't like me 'very much at the moment, Mum' - to which my stock answer is 'I can see that.  But I still love you...'  (which of course infuriates him still further...).

So I wonder, by wrapping our kids in this knowledge - this security blanket - that whatever else goes on in their lives we love them: are we changing the way they will view they world?  Will they be better or worse off for our constant assurances?  Will they be more self confident well-rounded individuals as a result, or will we have turned them into egotistical monsters?

It's a rhetorical question, you understand;  I love my kids, and I plan to keep on telling them that.  Because I'm the mum.  And it's my job.

Things no mother should have to say before 8am...

On walking into my sons' bedroom first thing...


Good morning!

None of us really needs to see that, do we?

Well, if you want to see it, I suggest you look in the mirror.

No, I won't hold the mirror for you.

And your brother is not interested, either.

Well - if you're cold, getting dressed might help sort that out.

Into your clothes, not your dressing gown.

Yes I know your dressing gown is warm and cuddly but you're supposed to be getting up.

Yes, getting up now.  And then come in here and brush your teeth.

Now, please.

I've left your toothbrush on the basin in the bathroom.

Aren't you dressed yet?

NOW!

No, I don't like Shouty Mummy either.

No, she's not very lovely, is she?

Well, maybe if you did what you were asked to do the first, second, or third times, she might not make an appearance.

Yes, that is a good idea.

So, shall we try that?

I love you too, darling.

Yes, even that bit of you.

Yes, you do still need to get dressed...


*Disclaimer;  not all of the above may have been heard in the Potski home this morning.  But all of the above has been heard in the Potski home at some point before 8am on other, unidentified mornings...

Parenting Dilemmas: When your children do something wrong - but you totally get why they did it.

Boy #2, now aged 7, had a friend of the same age over to play today.  All was going swimmingly, until Friend noticed two girls that he knows through the fence that runs along the back of our garden, playing on a trampoline.  Friend has a bit of an eye for the ladies.  Not in an inappropriate way, just in a 'I like to chat to girls' way.  The boy is going to be a smooooooth operator when he gets a few years older, I can tell you.

Anyhoo.  Friend decided that chatting with the girls was far more interesting than playing with Boy #2, and nothing that Boy #2 said - no offers of lego, no car games, no suggestions to go to the compound playground - could persuade him otherwise.

Boy #2 put up with this for a while.  But then, the injustice of the situation - as he saw it, you understand - got to him.

He waited until the grown-ups were safely out of sight, and then proceeded to cool the situation down.  By turning the garden hose on his friend.

Friend was soaked - right down to his underwear - and unsurprisingly, not impressed.  However, after a quick change of clothes (and shoes - Boy #2, when he gets an idea in his head, likes to do things properly), they made up and retired to the compound playground far away from distraction.  And girls.

So, here is my admission.  I was cross with Boy #2.  I made him apologise, not only to his friend but to his friend's mother, who had to deal with the soaked clothes and trainers (after I had put them in the washing machine on a spin cycle, they were so wet).  I listened to his explanation for doing it in the first place - that he thought it would be funny - and suggested that a) it wasn't, b) perhaps it had more to do with his not wanting his friend to ignore him than trying to be funny and c) if he wanted his friends to continue to come over to play, behaving like that was probably not in his own best interest, and finding alternative solutions - not involving freezing cold water - would be preferable.

I think my remarks registered.

But, in spite of all that, I have to admit to a sneaking admiration for his actions...

Is that wrong?

Conversations with children; not for the faint-hearted

If anybody had told me about the conversations I would have with my children before I had children, I must admit that some of them might have made me pause - just for a moment - and ask whether or not joining the baby race was such a good idea.  Well - that, or I just flat out would never have believed them.  Edited highlights include (but are not limited to):

Conversations about lions and sharks and which would win in a fight (note; remarks regarding the incompatibility of these animals natural elements are usually ignored).

Conversations about dinosaurs and terror birds and which would win in a fight (note: thinking about raising the issues of these creatures hailing from different periods in pre-history?  I refer you to the lion and the shark conversation).

Conversations about whether it is possible to build a bespoke A380 airplane with a swimming pool and vegetable garden along-side.  Because why not, really?  All you need to do is include a mobile airbubble around the garden and bob's your uncle - freshly grown produce at 30,000 feet.

Conversations about why women (specifically, Mum), feels the need to lengthen her eyelashes with mascara everyday (I don't know, child!  I just do, OK?).

Conversations about funnel-web spiders and dung beetles.

Conversations about dandelion tap roots (which, I can tell you, I was pretty damn proud of myself for being on the ball enough to be able to discuss at 8.15am in the morning).

And of course my particular favourite; conversations about childbirth, and how it may be more painful for the baby than for the mother (note; this point of view is strictly that of my children, and without prejudice...).


But now, someone has come up with the perfect way to highlight the sort of ridiculous conversations parents have with their children every single day.  Matthew Clarke has - in a stroke of genius - transferred words that  have issued from his 2 year old daughters' mouth into that of a fully grown man.  The results are hilarious - and more than a little bit creepy.  I suggest that you don't show this clip to any parents-to-be that you know...

A Parenting Purple Patch

I feel as if Husband and I have hit a sweet-spot in The Boys' development.  We are having a moment of calm, in parenting terms.  We're through the nappy years, through the toddler and pre-school years, through the trauma of the first years of school.  Our sons are working hard, playing hard, developing well.  They are healthy, open, affectionate, and - mostly - still listen to us.

It can't last.

There are so many reasons why I blog.  To give myself a mental workout - can I still string two words together?  To stay sane - if I put it down on metaphorical paper, maybe I can organise my thoughts and convince myself that no, I am not crazy...  To reach out - surely, it's not just me?  To pass the time - because oh, I have SO much of that...  And to record moments of life; the good, the bad, the ugly and downright ruddy hilarious.

This is one of those posts.

Being a parent it's easy to get bogged down by the details of everyday life.  What kit do the kids need for school today?  Did I ever get round to washing their swim towels after last Tuesday's session?  Should we take the car or cycle this morning - is it going to rain by this afternoon? Have I got enough bread in the house to make lunch for them tomorrow?  Do they even need lunch tomorrow or is it one of the days they get to eat in the school cafeteria? And so on.  From the moment they arrive in this world - tiny, shouting, blood-smeared and demanding your attention - raising a child, whilst rewarding, fogs your focus.  The volume levels may alter but the end result for parents can be constant static and white noise.

That white noise - it can be very distracting.  You become so busy dealing with it all that you forget to celebrate the good stuff, the moments that remind you it is all worthwhile, that you are living this life for a reason and that two very large parts of that reason are standing right in front of you.

Where to start on how wonderful my sons are at this moment in time, at 9 and 7 years old?  I almost don't dare.  I don't want to jinx it, you see.  I don't want to look back on this post in the future when the world is collapsing around my ears - as no doubt it will when they hit adolescence, if not before - and think 'Ah.  That's where it all started to go wrong.  When you wrote about your love for them, and brought the wrath of the gods down on you for being too proud of them.'

Because I AM proud of them.  I am.  They are not the product of mine or Husbands' endeavours, they are not our projects, they are not mini-me's who's successes or failures are something to be trotted out to friends and family in 'didn't I do well as a parent?' anecdotes and point-scoring exercises.  They are individuals in their own right, with their own personalities, likes and dislikes, passions, faults, moans and gripes, talents and friendships.

They are funny, loving, infuriating, smart, cheeky, affectionate, frustrating, hardworking, tenacious, clumsy, loyal, adventurous, forgiving, ambitious, intrepid, and grounded.

They are loved beyond their understanding.

And they are amazing.

I've been nominated for a BritMums 'Brilliance in Blogging' award in the 'Writing' category.  Click here to see the full short list - and on the badge below to vote.  For me please, if you're feeling moved to do so...

Update: Parenting with Love & Logic. Some of it even works...

One week or so on from this post, I'm still trying to introduce the 'Parenting with Love and Logic' principles into the Potski home.  How have we made out?  Well, here are a few things we've achieved;

1.  A (mostly) drama free piano lesson for Boy #2.  (Click here to see details of last week's fiasco) Sure, he did show some reluctance to start the lesson but when I reminded him his pocket money privileges would be cancelled out for a second week running (never mind the cost of his lesson being deducted from his savings once again), he pulled himself together and went in.

Mind you, if I'm honest? What really clinched it was his being put in charge of the alarm clock I put in the room to make sure his lovely - but somewhat over enthusiastic - piano teacher did not follow her usual pattern of over-running the lesson by 20 minutes or more (which it turned out was his main bugbear).  The result was that when the alarm sounded 30 minutes later, he actually said "That was a short lesson!" and was happy to continue for another 5 minutes whilst she went through his homework with him.  Although of course the extra time required resetting the alarm clock - himself -  took almost all of the 5 minutes more he'd agreed to.  (Note to self; dig out an alarm clock that's easier to operate)

It's all about the technology.  Boys and their toys...

2.  A smooth transfer of responsibility - from me to the Boys - for packing completed homework into rucksacks the same evening it's been done.  Yes, I'm still prompting them to put it away (and admittedly their Dutch school homework somehow managed to escape everyone's notice), but the prompt is now less of the 'Put it away now!' and more of the 'Do you think it's a good idea to leave that lying on the table when we're about to have dinner and it could get food or drink on it?' variety.  (Admittedly, this was very much helped by Boy #2's knocking over a full glass water on his 'Non-waterproof, Mama - NON WATERPROOF!' folder only moments after he had told me he would do it later...)

3.  More help laying the table in the mornings.  Also still prompted, but once more along the lines of pointing out that if they take responsibility for doing that, then I can take responsibility for making their school lunch...

4.  Both Boys remembering to put their own lunchbox into their school rucksacks.  On the one hand, I know this seems like a paltry task.  Why should it be something that bothers me, doing it for them?  Well, maybe because I can see this still happening in 2 years time. Or 5. Or when they are 18 years old and heading back to uni with their duffle bag of clean laundry (note to self - start training Boys how to sort colours from whites now...).

Please note: we have some way still to go.  There is plenty of work to be done, not least by me in controlling my inner drill sergeant and putting her back in her box when she tries to take control, instead of  sitting back and letting my sons find out for themselves what happens when they don't take responsibility for themselves.  But today something happened that gave me hope.  At the end of school, whilst waiting with me for his younger brother to finish what he was doing, Boy #1 and I had the following exchange:

Boy #1:  "Do I have to wear my snow pants home, Mum?"

Me (thinking you're just getting over flu, you've got a horrible cough, of COURSE you have to wear your snow pants home): "Not if you don't want to, no. But if you don't, no complaining if you get cold."

Boy #1: "Oh.  OK.  But it is still snowing, right?"

Me: "Yes, it's still snowing."

Boy #1:  "Do you know what temperature it is?"

Me:  "About minus 4 degC."

Boy #1: "Alright."

Puts on his snow pants.

Now.  If only I can get this to work with Boy #2...

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?

Parenting, 21st Century Style. I hope.

Sometimes, being a parent is just. plain. exhausting.

Before I even start this post properly, I want to say that most of the time my Boys are a delight.  I look around me, at the issues and problems some other parents face with their kids and think; we haven't done so badly.  No, actually, forget the British understatement; we've done bloody well.  We won the lottery when we were gifted with two such wonderful sons, and I will never - NEVER - forget that.

But.  They are still children.  They are still boys.  They are still extremely normal - along with all that goes with it.  

Recently I've been solo-parenting for most of the working week.  I take my hat off to those who do it full-time and permanently; I've been doing it most Monday-Fridays since August (holidays excepted), and it's hard work.  The smallest fly in the ointment at 7.30 am can alter the tone of an entire day, and to avoid that, I have to admit to have fallen back on trying to be super-organised.  A place for everything, everything in it's place.  Snow boots by the back door, library books always on the same table, school bags packed with homework the night before, school clothes set out the previous evening's bathtime, etc etc.  We're like a well-oiled machine, the Boys and I.

Except, of course, we aren't.  I am.  In my quest for a simpler life, I have to admit to having picked up 90% of the slack on tasks that probably should be responsibilities of my sons.

It makes life smoother, I chose to tell myself.  Sure, I probably shouldn't be the one to pack Boy #1's lunch box into his school bag in the morning - he is 9, after all - but what if he forgets it?  I'm only going to end up having to go back into school with it, an extra journey I can do without.  No, I'll just do whilst he's lying on the sofa snatching a last few minutes with Harry Potter before school;  at least then I know it's done.  And as for Boy #2, what of it if I'm the one to pull his snow pants off the hook for him, lay them out on the floor for him to meander up to when he's finished messing about with lego and slowly pull on whilst the rest of us are waiting at the front door?  Does it really matter who gets them out as long he has them on?  It's minus 10degC out there, after all - he can't go out without them...

But deep down I knew that I wasn't really doing the Boys any favours.  Sure, I was doing myself a favour in the short term - putting my mind at rest that Boy #1 had his lunch, getting Boy #2 to school on time in spite of himself -  but in the longer term, will I still be doing these things for them when they are 11 and 9?  15 and 13?  18 and 16?  It doesn't bear thinking about.  

I can't help thinking that it's time to let go a little.

Last week I went to a seminar that used 'Parenting with Love and Logic' as a tool to help us do that.  It's an interesting book that has as one of it's central tenets the fact that unless we give children the opportunities to make choices - including, occasionally, the wrong ones - and to try, succeed and sometimes fail all on their own merits, we are not allowing them to 'own' their choices, to develop confidence in themselves, and are not giving them the best start in life.  

The writers of the book argue that those of us who are helicopter parents (not me), or drill sergeants (regrettably, sometimes me) are not helping our children become healthy successfully functioning adults in the way that we would be able to do if we adopted more of a consultation approach.  If we would stand back, and let our children do the thinking.  Yes, we should give them firm rules and guidelines, guidance when required or when they ask for it, and a safe and always loving structure from within which to do that, but we should let our children make their own informed decisions and deal with the consequences (excepting, of course, when they put themselves in life-threatening situations).  Essentially, the book suggests that if we can help children learn to rely on and trust their own inner voice from a relatively young age - by not deafening them with our instructions and commands from outside - then they will be better equipped to rely on and trust their own sense of self-worth when they get older.  When we won't be there to give advice or to suggest that perhaps climbing into the car driven by their friend who's sunk 5 pints of lager at a party might not be such a good idea.

For example...  So, Boy #1 might forget his lunch.  He'll probably only do it once.  And Boy #2 might get cold when he sets foot outside.  You can be damn sure he'll rush into his snow pants the next time I ask.  Right?

It's an interesting theory.  Today was the day that I started to put it into practice.  

Boy #1 was ill and had to stay home (the best laid plans, and all that), but other than that we had a good start without quite as much moaning and complaining I usually get from Boy #2 ('Love & Logic approach to getting into the snow pants; 'Oh look, it's -9.5degC this morning.  Do you want to put your snow pants on inside, Boy #2, or in the car?  If you're going to take your time that's fine but then you will need to put them on the car...' Unsurprisingly inside - and putting them on quickly - was chosen).  

But then we crashed and burned spectacularly after school.  

Boy #2 has piano lessons almost immediately after school on Mondays.  He loves them - once I can get him into the room.  Unfortunately, that part - the getting him into the room - is the tricky bit.  Today was no exception as he raced upstairs the moment we got home and started working on a complicated lego creation.  I wasn't too concerned; we'd discussed the fact it was piano today both in school and on the way home, he knew his teacher was coming.  Everything - I thought - would be fine.

Ha.  Ha ha ha.

There was no piano lesson.  I had to send the teacher away without having actually taught a single note.    On the plus side, Boy #2 has now learned that in that situation I WILL take the cost the of the wasted lesson out of his savings and that the lego he wanted to play with WILL stay on the top shelf until next week. He has also learned that not showing age-appropriate behaviour will result in no tv for the rest of the day.  This is the one that REALLY hit home, of course.  

I also managed to stay calm, collected, and sympathetic through the subsequent 'You're not being fair's', the 'I don't like you very much today's' and so on - and most importantly, not to give in and to hold my nerve despite repeated pleading.

But I feel terrible for the poor teacher who came all the way over to us despite the fact that her car was in the garage for repairs; using the tram, bus and minibus to get here.  I feel a hot wave of shame when I think about it, to be honest.  That a child of mine would be so spoilt as to do that to a highly qualified teacher who, quite frankly, did not have to add him to her already over-crowded schedule when I begged her to do so last September.  I have to admit that stings. I think she understood.  She certainly told me she did - but that's not the point.

However, as I wrote to my husband earlier when I wanted to fill him in and be sure we were singing from the same hymn book when he called to speak to the children this evening, this is not about me.  I wrote;

'Am trying a new approach - out of that book I'm reading - where we make these issues their problems rather than ours.  For example, the cancellation of the lesson is his problem. The apology he will need to give her is his problem.  The cost of the wasted lesson is his problem.  Not being allowed to play with the lego that prompted this - f0r a week - is his problem.  We can genuinely sympathise with how that makes him feel - that's a shame - but we don't give in. These are his problems and he must deal with the consequences.'

Watch this space to see how it pans out...

Begging for an answer

What do you tell your children about beggars?

I assume that most people have an attitude much like mine; that giving through registered charities is preferable to giving directly to the man or woman with the begging bowl on the street.  That way we can be fairly sure that the money is put to good use rather than spent on drugs, alcohol, or passed onto some Fagin-type character who controls gangs of unfortunates.  So unless the person with their hand out is offering you a Big Issue (which I guess doesn't really count as 'begging' per se, since you are given something in return), I tend to avoid them.  Walk straight past them.  Essentially, ignore them.

Sounds ugly when you put it like that, doesn't it?

Does to me, anyway.

I remember the first time I saw a beggar - as if it were yesterday.  I was 17, on a school trip to Rome, walking with my friends along a hot and dusty street, dipping in and out of the shade offered by the shop awnings and suddenly, there she was.  A dark-haired child, wearing what looked like vaguely ethnic clothes, messy and unkempt, head down, standing in front of a corner store.

Holding her hand out.

I was shocked.  I came from middle England, from a small town in the Cotwsolds.  Any holidays abroad (and there hadn't been that many in my life until that point) were always controlled by my parents and no doubt they had taken care to avoid such meetings before.  This really was outside my experience.  Surely this couldn't be happening?  Not in Italy?  Italy was part of Europe, surely there weren't beggars in Europe.  (Ah, sweet innocence of youth).  I gave her money - I can't remember how much but since I didn't have a lot myself, it will only have been a few coins - and walked on, wondering how a child ends up in a situation like that.  I wonder now what happened to her.

Let's fast-forward nearly 30 years.  I have a son of nearly the same age as the girl I saw in Rome.  Sadly, he didn't have to wait until he was 17 to see his first beggar; I suspect that he wouldn't be able to tell you when that happened since begging now happens everywhere, even in the middle-London/middle-England we inhabited before moving to Moscow.

And in Moscow, there are definitely beggars.  They wait by the cathedrals, by the church we go to on a Sunday, in supermarket carparks, in the metro.  Unless you remain cocooned in your big 4x4 never looking out of the darkened windows, you can't avoid them.  Most disturbingly, more than 50% of them have young children or babies with them.  How can you turn away from and ignore a young woman pulling a 2 year old by the hand in a wet & windy supermarket carpark, as you cram your week's worth of shopping into the boot of the car?  How can you step over the woman with the baby waiting by the gate outside Mass on a Sunday morning?  What about the elderly lady kneeling and praying by the cathedal, the guy with no legs in the wheelchair waiting by the traffic lights, or the pensioner steering her blind husband through the crush on the metro asking for your help because their state pension isn't enough?

Can you give to all of them?

Of course you can't.  So often, you end up giving to none of them.

As an adult I try to justify this in my head by counting up the hours spent proof-reading and editing documents and brochures for charities, by the money collected and donated to those same organisations, by the awareness I try to spread within the expat community here of the need for their time and money.

But my sons don't see that.  And since they don't come shopping with me, they don't see the apple or banana I hand to the 2 year old outside the supermarket as his mother (if she is his mother) pockets the dollar I just gave her and - more often than not - tells me that's not enough.

I know hand-outs are not the answer.  Give the man (or woman) a fishing rod, not a single fish; that's what we're supposed to do.  Deal with the root causes of poverty, not just the symptoms.  But I want to teach my children not to be hard-hearted and turn away from those in need.  Giving to those who require help now, today, to make it through to tomorrow, does not make them a soft touch, a mug, an easy prospect; it simply makes them human.

So.  I would really like to know.  What do you tell your children about beggars?