Well, would you look at that?

It's been a month since I last posted.  A month. How did that happen?  Actually, scratch that question; I suspect that all I need to say is 'Easter Holidays' and anyone who has, has had, or ever plans to have, children attending school will probably understand.

The little darlings are back in class today though, so life has resumed it's normal rhythm.  Which is to say, I have been kicked out of the office because Husband is 'working from home' this morning and so I've been banished to the dining room table.  Not, in itself, that much of a hardship since it's closer to the tea and biscuits.  And the chocolate.  And the left-over Dutch Easter bread.  And - oh, jesus, I have to stop this right now.

*casts desperately about for a change of subject*

You might have noticed that productivity has fallen off a cliff as far as this blog is concerned.  That's because I have been 'finishing' The Great Work, aka My Novel.

*pause whilst tumbleweed rolls through the streets of 'Oh, Who Cares?'*

(Apologies for the gratuitous use of caps in the last couple of lines; they are of course totally unmerited, but, you know, it's My Blog.  So...)

An explanation now for the use of apostrophes around the word 'finishing'.  (A few of lines above  this - come on, keep up...).   Anyone who has ever spent *mumbles incomprehensively* years attempting to write a novel will probably know how difficult it is to actually finish it.  Especially a first novel.  An un-comissioned, un-represented, probably un-wanted first novel...

But, you know, that's just detail.  The difficulty that I'm trying to communicate here is in the finishing.  Because every time you think you've completed your ms (short for 'manuscript' - get me with the writer talk), you spot another typo.  Or a novice mistake.  God, the novice mistakes...  For example, if you're writing an observational passage in which a man has an unspoken thought, is it necessary to write '... he thought to himself.'?  No.  Of course it isn't.  Because that would be foolish.  I mean, who else would he be thinking it to?

It is, therefore, worth bearing this in mind whilst editing your ms (cough) down to the requisite sub-100,000 words.  If you don't you will just have to go back through the damn thing again to take the offending phrase out, each and every time you've used it.   And during this exercise you will of course find a million other phrases that sound trite, unconvincing or just down-right unnecessary and which will also need to be removed from the narrative for the sake of your sanity and more importantly, to avoid sounding like a 12 year old.

So, when I thought I had finished the ms (feel free to substitute 'damn thing' for ms if that seems appropriate - it did to me), it turned out that actually, I hadn't; there was still a fair bit of weeding to go.  And whilst I was at it, it seemed like a good time to drop in the additional narrative from another character's point of view that not one but two people Whose Opinions I Should Have Taken More Seriously At The Time suggested almost a year ago.  Which of course required a fairly hefty rewrite of about about 30% of the book if I was going to keep it under the 100,000 word limit.

Anyhoo...

It's done now.  And just to make sure of that I've taken a couple of precautionary measures.

1.  I've started on the next one.  Well, when I say 'started' (again with the apostrophes), I mean I've drawn a few spidergrammes and written the first chapter - the one that I will no doubt edit out in time but which seems essential to the plot right now.

2.  I've submitted the first Great Work to a couple of competitions and a couple of agents.  Will anything come of that?  Who knows.  But nothing ventured, nothing gained, and at least the ruddy thing is finished.  (Well - until I open it back up and decide to start tinkering again...).

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...

Summer Learning Loss: should I be bothered?

I may have mentioned on here - once or twice-  how long my sons' summer holidays are, but just in case you missed it due to having been uninterested in our goings on over the last month (hard to believe, but I'm prepared to consider that possibility), here it is again;

Ten weeks.

Or, if you work better in figures: 10 weeks.

That's 70 days. 50 school days.  Or, to put it another way, 350 hours (based on the average amount of hours they spend in class on a school day).

In fact, over the summer, the Boys are off on holiday for a longer period of time than any when they are continuously in school throughout the school year, once you take into account half term and other holidays.

Now, I recall my 6 week summer holidays - whilst I was at primary school - as stretching out seemingly for ever.  I know I can't possibly have lived the 1950's Enid Blyton style existence I remember, but when I look back I see weeks spent on the south coast (foreign holidays didn't feature for us, particularly), cream teas, late evenings, and after breakfast the next day, packing up sandwiches and heading off for days of adventuring in the countryside around home.  We would wave goodbye to Mum at around 10am and turn up in time for tea later that afternoon.  There were books to be read, camp-outs in the garden to be had, and of course not so infrequent spats with my younger sister to fit in.

What I can't remember is any pressure to do school work over the summer break.

And yet, here I am, 35 years later,  with 2 children of my own, determined that whilst we are all going to have fun and relax over the holidays, Boys #1 and #2 will not fall prey to Summer Learning Loss*.

This does not mean I have enrolled them in maths camps and science seminars (although we did all have fun at the Holland Park Ecology Centre on Monday spending a couple of hours pond dipping in the name of learning about amphibians), but it does mean that they each spend half an hour every Monday to Friday morning doing something approaching school work.  Boy #1, who's reading is more than fantastic, gets to practice some basic math problems (not his preferred school subject) and to work on his handwriting, (sometimes by writing letters to friends which I scan and email to their parents), and Boy #2 and I 'discuss' (for which read, 'battle over') sight words and number bonds.

We have a reward structure in place; at the end of a 4 week period when they've done 30 minutes or more for 5 days in those weeks, they get to go and pick out a reasonably-priced toy.  Negotiations on what 'reasonably priced' actually means are currently underway; since the first 'reward day' is this Friday, I think we need to reach an agreement on that sharpish...

Having come this far - we're now nearly 6 weeks into the summer break** with only 4 left to go - I'm hoping that we'll manage to maintain momentum for the next month and that the shock for them of returning to more structured learning come the end of August won't be as great as it might otherwise have been.  Every now and again though, as I cajole Boy #2 to 'look at the word' in the hope he might remember 'had' next time (yes, it is like that), I do ask myself if this is the right thing to do.

It's 30 minutes in a day.  That's not so much to ask them to do, surely?  Or am I just being an over-anxious mother; should I instead just chill out and let them do whatever they want over the loooooonnnnggg summer break?

Discuss.

If only all biology lessons could be like this...

* In case you're not familiar with this term (ha!),  it refers to the loss of children's academic skills and knowledge over the summer break.  See here for Wikipedia's entry on the subject.

** Yes, you did read that right. We have already had one and a half months of summer holidays.  How the hell did that happen?

You can lead a horse to water...

We are lucky enough to live in something of a paradise for kids.  There are 2 playgrounds, a tennis court, a football pitch, roads quiet enough (most of the time) for them to scoot and cycle to their heart's content.  There are no fences, so no impediments for explorers and adventurers.  I never imagined when I moved to Moscow that I would be able to open the back door and just set my sons loose, but there it is, I can.

Today, the weather is glorious; not too hot (around 22degC), almost cloudless skies, a light breeze.  School is out for the next 9 weeks or so.

I have arranged playdates for both boys.

The barometer, you might say, is set fair for a day of outside fun.

And yet where do they all want to be?

Inside.

Give me strength...

(I am now going upstairs with my 'nasty mummy' head on to bodily throw all four of them out of doors whether they like it or not...)

Staycationing is the new Expat black...

It's half term here in our corner of Expatville and unlike most of our peers, we did not head for the hills the moment the school bell rang last Friday afternoon. We stayed put, brave and trusty souls that we are and have been forging our way through the wasteland that is Moscow without school, scheduled activities or - crucially -playdates.

Oh, who am I kidding? It's been brilliant. We have got up late, hung out, unpacked boxes (for yes, Potski-watchers, we have moved house), and generally had a really really relaxing week. When I think of the alternative - packing suitcases, rushing for the airport, flights, picking up hire cars and moving from pillar to post for 6 days - I am so happy we have just stayed put.

And the best thing?

The Boys are loving it. Sure, there have been a few utterances of 'I'm bored!' but judicious application of board games, stories, football, monster sessions in the playground (guess who was the monster...) and yes, the odd session of playing on ds's and watching dvd's (don't judge me - there's only so much roaring and racing around that a monster-mother can do) has soon sorted that. It's been a fantastic example of how children really don't need their time scheduled to the nth degree, and how well they can react to needing to entertain themselves.

Obviously I'm not intending that we should never go on holiday ever again. But on Monday, when my sons return to school rested, delighted to be back with their friends and ready for the second half of the term, and are surrounded by jetlagged and exhausted children who have spent the last week racing around the globe, I have to admit that I won't be sorry we stayed put this time around...

Potski and the road to Cybermummy...

At the parent's in law, still in London. The sounds of 'Chitty Chitty Bang-Bang' drift out from the sitting room where the boys are spending a glorious morning ensconced in front of the box... (don't judge me; it's week 3 of the school holidays. WEEK 3! And it's only July 6th!) Every now and again Boy #1 bursts out into the dining room where I'm tapping away on the lap top to ask pertinent questions like 'It's the same man in this as in Mary Poppins. Does that mean that Bert has two jobs?' and to exclaim 'No! No!' when the pirates sail over the horizon. I'm currently on standby for when the odious Child Catcher appears since I have no doubt my presence will be required to ward off his advances...

It's all a very long way from Saturday when I joined 200 other delegates at the Cybermummy event in Earl's Court.

Nixdminx summed up the day pretty well for me in a post yesterday when she asked the question 'Cybermummy or Womanhood?' So many different women, so many different lifestyles, but all part of this phenomen and all giving a voice to their experiences of being a woman and a mother.

Before I started blogging I have to admit that I thought of bloggers as people who sought solace and companionship in cyberspace because they couldn't find it in the real world. Bloggers, I thought, probably didn't wash very much. The curtains on their homes were usually shut. They played fantasy games on the internet, and ate a lot of take-aways. They certainly didn't do the laundry, the school run, hold down a job,or juggle a family's schedule. Then - almost by mistake and entirely thanks to Pig in the Kitchen - I became a blogger myself, and suddenly the preconceptions that I had previously had became those of others about me, others who knew nothing about this new and vibrant world that I had stumbled into.

To start with, I didn't really tell anyone about my on-line life. I was worried what they might think of me (given my own previous prejudices, for example), I was worried that they might - the horror! - read what I wrote. But over time, I gained confidence and started to share with close friends what I was doing. I even told my Husband the address after a close friend of his took the trouble to find the blog on google (never forget; you might think your blog is anonymous but if it contains even a kernel of truth about your life, you're not. Bear that in mind when you hit publish...).

And then I took the final leap into linking my real-life with my on-line life; I met another blogger.

As I stood and waited for her to arrive I have to admit that I did wonder what the hell I was doing. One of the issues that seems to come up time and again for bloggers is the hypocrisy of repeatedly warning your older children about 'the weirdo's on the internet' and the absolute no-go of ever meeting them in person - and then going to do exactly that yourself. What if she turned out to be some sort of psycopath who bore no resemblance to the warm and witty person I knew online? What if she turned out to be some kind of internet stalker? What if this meeting turned into a special feature in The Daily Mail, a tale of horror, the apparently sympathetic tone of the article heavily underscored with the unspoken suggestion that 'she should have known better; no good can ever come from the interweb?'

Of course, that's not how it turned it out at all. Frog in the Field and I had a great time; so great in fact that when she roped me in to a special screening for mummy bloggers of 'Chuggington' a few weeks later I didn't hesitate to say yes. And that's where I met 'A Modern Mother', and Jo Beaufoix amongst others. A couple of weeks later when the former asked us to be part of a new ning she was setting up, instead of replying 'what on earth is a ning?' I answered yes, and that's how I ended up in Earl's Court on Saturday, surrounded by yet more warm and witty people who I had also met on the internet.

It was wonderful. For a start, everybody there had washed. There were no drawn curtains, no take-away cartons (at least, not during the day. I can't speak for later after a few glasses of wine had been consumed, obviously...) And I can't sum up my feelings about the day better than to quote something from an e-mail that a good friend of mine - who, whilst I had never met her in person before Saturday most definitely fits that description - sent afterwards, and which I think applies to just about everyone I spoke to at Cybermummy;

'I loved meeting you. You are so very YOU!'

Cheeky...

Note to Self #544...

When Husband dresses the Boys in the morning, do remember to check that everything - clothes-wise - is present and correct.

Otherwise, when you are in a crowded playground with your younger son later in the day and he announces in the panicked tone he reserves for just such pronouncements "I need to GO TO THE TOILET!" and starts to pull his shorts down in readiness for his arrival at the loo, you - and the assembled mummies at pick-up time - might get rather more of an eyeful than you bargained for...

(This was inspired by Little Green Finger's post today. It's been a long first day of the second week of the school holidays - not that I'm counting or anything - and inspiration was running low, so thanks for reminding me about this one Dawn...)

Close Shaves and school holidays - the Beginning...

We're three days into the Boys' summer holidays. I can see any Brits reading this throwing up their hands in horror. Summer holidays? ALREADY? Oh yes, dear reader, al-bloody-ready. The summer holidays at their school in Moscow last a little longer than those I was used to back in Blighty - like, from now until the end of August.

(Cue suitable pause for you to pick yourself up off the floor, open the bottle of sauvignon blanc and pass me a brim-filled glass...)

Actually, believe it or not, it could be worse. The Russian schools have been shut for two weeks already, and will remain so until the 1st September. No wonder vodka is so popular in this country...

Anyway, in those 3 days (because yes, I am counting Saturday and Sunday as days since it suits my purposes for this post), a couple of notable things have happened...

Our house has become Rampage Central for a number of kids in our compound. It seems that playing in our home - by far the smallest on the block, and probably the least well-equipped with electronic entertainment systems - is the new black. This had led me to the following discoveries:

1. We are running out biscuits.

2. We are running out of juice.

3. I am not in the least shy of being a school-marm type with children who are not blood relatives.

4. Seven and eight year old boys are perfectly capable, when being informed that 'in this house we have a 20 minute rule when you're playing with Boy #1's nintendo DS, and your 20 minutes are up' of picking it up, walking out of the door, and saying 'I'll just take it home with me, then...' (Needless to say, Elvis did not leave the building - hence the discovery of my school-marm potential).

What else have I discovered? That a trip to the car wash offers great entertainment opportunities for 6 and 4 year old boys. The key of course is to remain inside it for the maximum experience as the team there cover your car with soap and - crucially - to explain to your younger son not to open the door as they do so...

Oh, and that Boy #2 likes to wander. God help me. The 15 minutes spent fruitlessly combing the compound for him yesterday afternoon are not the favourite moments of my life to date. Of course, he turned up at home having somehow evaded all the searchers hunting for him (some of my lovely neighbours jumped on their bikes and helped us look), toddling straight up to bed and falling asleep. God knows how he managed that; I have images of him crawling commando-like through the undergrowth, maintaining radio silence and ignoring Husband's and my calls until he reached his objective. I know this is not what happened, obviously. He was on his scooter, for starters and it's not an off-road model, and there were no traces of camo-stick on his face when I found him...

Joking apart, this was not a funny experience. It will join a list of other not-funny close-shaves I've had with my sons, most of them still too jagged around the edges in my memory to want to see written down. As is this one, almost, so I'm going to stop writing now, push the thoughts of the unguarded building site at one end of our compound from my mind, and go upstairs to gaze on my beautiful boys and give thanks.