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...

When you know you're doing something right...

After school today, Boy #2 and I were waiting for his brother to arrive before heading home.  One of Boy #2's classmates was also there, waiting to be collected.  They were shooting the breeze about how Classmate had just been given the i-phone 5 by his mum (note: this is not impossible, even for a 6 year old, in Russia) when Boy #1 arrived.

Boy #2 to his brother: "HIIIIII."

Classmate:  "Who's that?"

Boy #2:  "That's my brother, Boy #1."

Classmate:  "Oh.  I thought he was your friend."

Boy #2:  "He is my friend."

Classmate:  "But I thought he was your brother?"

Boy #2:  "He is my brother."

Classmate:  "But you said he was your friend?"

Boy #2:  "He's my brother, and my friend."

Obviously, they were still niggling each other and wailing loving remarks like 'don't look at me!' all the way home.  But it was glimpse, and that's enough for now...

On Growing Up

'Boy #2 has some listening issues' one of his PE teachers wrote in a report some time ago.  'He must learn to engage more and participate in class and he will get a lot more out of his PE sessions.'

Oh dear.  And yet, not.  My son is an independent individual, and if he thinks someone is wasting his time or that what he's being asked to do is without point (racing non-competitively from one side of the gym to the other, anyone?), it can be hard to convince him to get involved.  I have to admit to a sneaking admiration for his attitude; even at 5 - when this comment was written - he didn't suffer fools gladly and there's a certain element of character in that, I think.

But we spoke to Boy #2 about it, put it behind us, and in the next module he had a new teacher with whom he got on better.  And with whom, if I'm honest, I got on better, too.  The guy who made the original comment was not easy to deal with, and I felt he lacked sympathy with the children's point of view and certainly used the 'critical parent' model of motivation for the kids rather than the rewarding them for good behaviour.  He seemed very quick to assume the worst about the pupils - and my son didn't deal with that well. But we all moved on, and last year there was different teacher, so it all worked out fine.

This year?  Back with the original sports teacher.  I must admit to being a little concerned when I realised this and when, on Monday, Boy #2 admitted he had been put in time-out during his PE lesson for not looking at his teacher when he was supposed to be listening to instructions, my heart sank a little.  My son did have an explanation for this of course; he even went so far as to demonstrate that he could hear me perfectly well whilst looking in the opposite direction, but after a conversation about being respectful and how it was polite to look at people when they are speaking to you, he seemed to catch on.

Yesterday, there was another PE lesson, and this morning in the playground we ran into Boy #2's teacher.  "Is that Boy #2 under that hood?" he asked.  "I just wanted to say how much he's matured this year.  Better at listening, better at taking instruction; I have to admit that when I checked the attendance list after class I was actually surprised to see his full name on there because I did not expect him to behave so well."

Hmm.  Praising the kids (even in a back-handed way), admitting he was wrong, and doing it in front of the child concerned so that they can hear it too?

It looks like Boy #2 is not the only one who's done some growing up in the last year...

On Mixed Blessings

Sometimes it feels as if you'll never be free of them.

Your children, I mean.

From the moment they're born it's as if they are surgically attached to you, needing feeding, cleaning, comforting, every waking hour of the day.  You rarely consider it a burden, of course (or at least - rarely during daylight hours.  At 3.00am it's a different story altogether - it can seem pretty burdensome at that time of the morning).

And when you do think about it, you remind yourself that this is not going to be for ever.  "It's only until they can crawl / walk / are potty trained / can talk / start nursery / start school" you think.  But for each milestone they pass - going to the loo unaided, feeding themselves for a whole meal without requiring a complete change of clothes (for them and you), describing for themselves which book they want to reach down from the high shelf - it seems as if there is always a next one to be reached.

There IS always a next one to be reached.  And few of them seem to result in your being needed less; they simply result in your being needed in a different way.

For example; you may not need to wipe your child's bottom clean any longer, but you are required to come up with new and interesting ways to get them to eat their vegetables - or new and interesting ways to keep from exploding with frustration when they won't.  You may not need to push them in their buggy when you walk down the street, but you need to help them understand how close they can be to the edge of the kerb on their scooter and still be safe at the same time.

Or, you may not need to play peekaboo for four hours straight to stop them kicking the back of the seat in front on that long plane journey, but you need to be able to come up with some kind of reasonable explanation for why you aren't emptying your entire wallet into the pockets of a homeless beggar hanging around outside your hotel when you reach your destination.

And when you do these things you know progress is being made, and that you're passing milestones, but you don't seem to get any closer to your ultimate destination as a loving parent; that of raising a well-balanced, responsible and independent  human being who can live without you.

This week, though, it happened.

I no longer need to drop my younger son off at his classroom door in the morning, or pick him up directly outside it.  It's not that I have absolutely needed to up until now; he's capable of getting there by himself from the front of the school and has been for a while, it's just that until now, we both preferred it when I walked him to the door.

But this term, his older brother has started to do it.

And I'm not needed.

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?

In the swim - or not...

I just put together a post for Tara's Gallery this week only to realise, just as I was about to hit publish, that she's had the temerity to take the week off (what, is it half term or something?), so have shelved that post and instead put before you this Mummy dilemma.

Boy #2 has had a nasty cough for the last 3 days. He has no temperature, no runny nose (yet, at any rate), and is perfectly well other than the frankly awful noise he keeps making. So he's ill, but not really ill enough to keep home from school (especially since two thirds of his class are making the same noise). Consequently, I've been sending him in for the last couple of days. I'm not asking for ratification on that; I know my child well enough and he's more than capable of a school day in this state of health. And for those worried about the other children in his class, well I'm afraid the damage was done last week by whichever child brought the virus in with them then...

No, what I'm asking is whether I should have allowed him to join his class swimming lesson today. Generally the rule is; if they're not well enough to swim, then don't bring the child in to school. If they can't swim, they get to sit on a bench with the Teaching Assistant either reading or watching the other kids in the pool; they don't get the chance to stay in the classroom as they would be unsupervised.

I knew this, but still decided this morning that I would not take Boy #2's swimming kit in with us. Whilst he's generally fine, and certainly not ill enough to stay home and miss a day, he does have this cough and it seemed foolish to me to push our luck any further. I mean, we've managed nearly 2 years here without having to visit a doctor, and I'd like to keep it that way if at all possible. Consequently, I spoke to his teacher and the TA when I dropped him off this morning, and offered to go in and sit and read with him by the pool during the lesson.

My children go to an unusual school. Parents are allowed anywhere on the premises at pretty much any time, because we give so much support to the teachers. In fact, the parents' help is actively sought in getting children ready both before and after their swimming lessons (and the amount of time spent drying and styling the little girls' hair by Russian mums panicking about the slight possibility their child might leave the pool area with one wet strand of hair verges on the ridiculous - but that's a subject for another post...). But when I offered to come down and sit with my coughing five year old on the benches by the edge of the pool, thus freeing up the TA to look after what I knew would be at least 4 other children also not swimming for the same reason, I was told no thank-you.

Boy #2 - according to the TA - would have to sit watching the other children swim for 45 minutes. No books or colouring allowed.

This seems to me to be inflexible, unnecessary and also, frankly, to be making a rod for her own back since she's the one who's going to have to deal with probably 4 or 5 bored five year olds. I imagine that this is aimed entirely at making me feel guilty for not following the party line and sending him swimming whatever. And the frustrating thing is that it's not as if we are on record as a hypochondriac family; last school year Boy #2 had only one day off sick, for heaven's sake.

However, I stuck to my guns and for all I know the intransigent TA stuck to hers and made Boy #2 sit without anything to do for 45 minutes.

But what should I have done? Kept him home all day for the sake of avoiding a 45 minute swimming lesson, or sent him in and dealt with the consequences of his being in the water?

What would you have done?

So long, farewell...

Being an expat can do strange things to a person, I've discovered. This time last year, I attended the end of year 'Ringing of the Bell' ceremony at the Boys' school, and last week I did so again (for yes, believe it or not we have already reached the end of term. Read it and weep, sisters; we have 10 weeks of summer holiday to get through. My joy knows no bounds...).

Now, last year, whilst I enjoyed the ceremony, I have to admit that it all seemed - to my jaundiced British eyes - just a little over the top. Sure, the parade of the flags of pupils' nationalities was amazing in it's diversity. The speeches by the principals were uplifting. The performances by the dance troupes, and choirs, the presentations to notable departing personnel, and the ringing out of the school year - with the final bell rung by the school director and representatives of various communities within the school - were affecting. But I have to admit that it all struck me as a bit, well, excessive. I mean, it's just the end of another school year, right? Why make a fuss? We'll all be back next August, won't we?

But here's yet another sign of how far down this expat road I've come, because of course this year I understand properly that we won't all be back next August. Friends (mine, and the Boys') are leaving, either to return to their country of origin or to move on to the next posting in their expat life, and their departure will leave sizeable holes in our existence. This time last year the same thing happened, of course it did, but we had only been here 6 months at the time. Now we've had another 12 months to build friendships and attachments, so to say that this year's ceremony was emotional for me, as I stood next to a good friend who is leaving soon, was something of an understatement.

I had taken tissues, and was not afraid to use them.

As I left the school building I bumped into someone who had recently moved here from the UK. She made the comment "Wow, it was all a bit 'God bless America', wasn't it?" The interesting thing was that at no stage was America - or God, for that matter - mentioned during the ceremony, and yet I knew exactly what she meant. She was right; this 'goodbye' ritual did seem very American to me - last year.

This year, though, it just seemed... right.

I must be turning into more of a softy than I realised...

Settle down, children...

So the Boys and I are shortly to attend what their school optimistically calls 'settling in conferences'. For any British readers out there, or for anyone else who has not come across this term before, it refers to a 20 minute session where parent(s), child and teacher sit down and discuss progress during the 4 week-old school year to-date, chat about any issues that might have reared their ugly heads, and agree on goals for the next 9 months or so.

What?

I'm sorry, but - What?

I guess what are really talking about is a parent / teacher evening with the child in attendance. Which seems to me rather besides the point. I mean, what teacher would be able to speak frankly about a child with them sitting next to the parent? In fact, what parent would want them to? I mean, maybe, perhaps, this would be a useful exercise if the Boys were a few years older, but at 4 and 7 I'm not convinced that this is anything other than window-dressing of the 'look how much we care about your child' kind.

However, I'm going with a (partly) open mind, as is Boy #1. I'm sure his settling in conference will be fine. Boy #2, on the other hand, has decided to treat this occasion with his usual devil-may-care attitude. For some reason the reception class (that's PreK, if you live across the pond) were provided with a questionnaire for their parents to fill out for them. This consisted of two key questions: Q1: What am I good at? and Q2: What do I want to learn this year? Each was accompanied by a box for the child to draw a picture that might illustrate their answer.

Well, we tried, we really did. But my younger son - never a sheep - flatly refused to follow instructions on the pictures and instead drew his favourite form of transport in each box, using feather-light pencil strokes that are almost invisible to the naked eye (I wonder if his teacher has CSI-style enhancement techniques available to her for use in such cases?). And when it came to actually answering Q1, he decided the only thing he was good at was 'playing'. I doctored this slightly and added 'making friends' (both things, I'm sure you'll agree, are key to a 4 year-old's success, and which - in my considered opinion - he actually is good at).

Q2, on the other hand... Well, you try getting a testosterone-charged PreKindergartner to tell you what they want to learn at school this year. Short of shining a light in his eyes and contravening the Geneva Convention, there was no way I was going to get any answer other than 'But I don't want to learn anything, mummy! I just want to play!' So I did what all of us creative-types would do in that situation; I changed the question.

Out went; 'What do you want to learn at school this year?', and in came 'What do you want to learn... this year?' Funnily enough, that yielded results. Once mandatory attendance at school was no longer part of the equation, Boy #2 showed his true colours and admitted his real ambition.

And I wrote it down. (Well, why not? They did ask...)

What remains to be seen is how his teacher deals with the answer. Oh, and what I wrote down was: 'This year, I want to learn to drive a motorboat, and ride a quad bike.'

At the very least we'll find out if she has a sense of humour or not, I suppose...

Note: In Boy #2's defence, these ambitions are not as far-fetched as they might seem. We're living the expat life and things that might be an impossibility living in central London seem to happen disconcertingly often out here. For example, 3 weekends ago he was on the water next to the driver of a motorboat (who was, in his considered opinion, not making half as good a job of piloting it as he - Boy #2 - would have done), and 3 older children in our compound do have quad-bikes and frequently offer him rides. (He's only managed to take them up on it the once, when my back was turned - but that's a story for another post).

Observations #102

It doesn't do to make too good a job of it when you are asked to write the minutes for a PTO meeting. Otherwise all future written communication will suddenly become your job...

Getting a group of lateral-thinking women together to plan a school event (like, for example, a Craft Fair) is all very well and you will end up with some very creative ideas. Just bear in mind that when you try to translate your notes to write up the minutes it may take some time to join up all the dots, what with all the jumping around from subject to subject that you will do during said creative discussions.

There will always be one woman who is as much concerned with the colour & design of the team t-shirt as she is with making sure the event runs smoothly.

The 'C' word is not a four letter one in the school my son attends. The 'C' word, never to be uttered in the school for fear of upsetting the authorities who have chosen to ignore it (along with, let it be said, all other religiously based festivals no matter what the faith), is 'Christmas'...

...Consequently I am planning on making a trip to the Christmas department in Selfridges on my next trip back to England to buy as much offensively festive kit as possible, and may even do the school run from end November onwards in a Santa Claus bobble hat.

Keep your head down and take a step backwards when your son's class teachers ask for helpers. Do not under any circumstances stand there waving your hand in the air, admit to having written some children's stories and then offer to read them to the class. Or you will find yourself nominated 'Writer in Residence' and in charge of steering the children's first creative writing lessons. (It's 'put your money where your pen is' time...)

That low key party you've planned for your son's 7th birthday? There ain't no such thing as a low key party for a 7 year old...

In which I admit my involvement with the PTO...

Yesterday evening I spent a very pleasant hour or so catching up with some neighbours over a glass of wine. All of our children go to the same school so it wasn't surprising when that entered the discussion.

I can't quite remember how it came up, but one of my friends mentioned the PTO - a force to be reckoned with, and not an organisation you mess with at this school.

Many expat communities these days are full of ladies (and they are mostly ladies, though I hate to generalise) who formerly had quite high powered jobs and who now as 'trailing spouses' (god I hate that term, especially since it applies to me) find themselves with plenty of time on their hands and no project to use it for. So when these ladies are looking about for something to do, if they have school-age children they often fix on the PTO as a place to expend their excess energy and creativity. This can only be to the advantage of any organisation on the receiving end of their attentions, of course; the women concerned are often highly organised, no-nonsense go-getters who make things happen. And Moscow is no exception.

However.

From the outside I have to admit that these ladies can seem a little... intimidating... at times. Which is why I had to laugh when my friend and I had the following conversation...

Friend: "And then of course, there are those dreadful things organised by the PTO. Like the children's Craft Fair, for example. It's awful! All pre-fabricated stuff, no proper creativity involved at all. Stick on a sequin and you're done. Where's the craft in that?"

I start to laugh, somewhat hysterically.

Friend: "What? What?"

Me: "Guess what I'm doing over the next couple of months?"

Friend: "...What?"

Me: "Organising something for the PTO. And guess what it is?"

Friend (the awful truth starting to dawn) "...What?"

Me: "The children's Craft Fair..." (more laughter)

Money can't buy these moments.

Note: I did then get some very helpful hints on how not to organise a craft fair, and also some tongue-in-cheek suggestions on how to manage my PTO 'career' (their words, not mine) to ensure world domination in the shortest possible time. Suffice it to say that I was quick to explain that was not my objective; the only reason I got involved with this particular event was because I was told that as the first fair in the school calendar it was over quickly and I could then rest on my laurels for the remainder of the year. I'm not kidding myself, of course. Like that's going to happen...

Crazy Fonts and Mixed Emotions

OK, firstly I need to apologise for the crazy font sizes that seem to have been going on over the last couple of posts. It's when things like this happen that I wish I paid more attention to operating instructions. No doubt those Mac enthusiasts out there will tell me that I really should be using one of their babies because it's so much more 'intuitive' and 'creative' and other artsy buzz words that get right up my nose. Yes, Dad and Little Brother, I'm talking to you. And no, I'm not going to come over from the Dark Side - aka PC World (geddit?) - to join you in White Heaven because, well because... I'm just too dam' stubborn...

Anyway. Where was I before that rant took hold?

We're reaching a crossroads here in the Potski household. Since the beginning of February I've been buckling Boy #2 into the car twice a week and driving him through the Moscow traffic to nursery. It's been stressful, I don't mind telling you, and has made me totally rethink the way I am behind the wheel (basically, just let the idiots go; the assholes who drive like assholes are going to do that no matter how cross it makes you, so just ignore them and concentrate on defensive manouvres to stay alive).

The mornings that he and I negotiate the highway are classified now in my mind as four, five, six or seven lane days. There are in fact only 3 lanes marked on the road (with a fourth feeder that peels off to the right shortly after we join it), but invariably this is not the number of lanes of traffic that greet us as we join it. Every day, some drivers get increasingly frustrated by the slow moving traffic, and a bright spark always thinks 'Hey! There's some space between those two lanes! Let's just see... Oh yes, I can! I CAN squeeze through!' And then before you know it someone else has snuck in behind him, and suddenly, 4 lanes of traffic become five, become six, become seven...

On the plus side, at least when this happens it's likely that any accidents that take place are too slow moving to cause any real injury. (Find that silver lining PM, find it!).

However, in only 2 weeks time, this schedule of drop-offs and pick-ups draws to an end because then Boy #2 will stop going to nursery prior to our summer holidays, and from the end of August will be joining his older brother in Big School, only a 15 minute walk from us.

Like all mums I imagine, I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand I know that with a more settled schedule working to standard school times, the opportunities for me personally to experience Moscow during our time here are going to completely open up. I have a long list of things I want to do and places that I want to see and visit which just aren't feasible with a 4 year old (and his trusty scooter) in tow.

In addition, I'm hoping to get a little more serious on the writing front, and to use my creative impulses for more than just typing diary entries onto the blog. And I'm going to become the world's best filer, for another thing. All those cooling towers of paper currently sitting on our window sill? Adios. I will be a whirling dervish of productivity when it comes to getting administration sorted (Husband, if you're reading this, don't hold me to it. Remember, a declaration made on a blog does not hold water in family court...)

On the other hand, however... Once Boy #2 starts school, who is going be Tonto to my Lone Ranger? (Or, if I'm honest, who is going to be Lone Ranger to my Tonto?). Who is going to sit in the back of the car issuing instructions on our way to the supermarket as to which one we should shop at based on his preference for pushing his own miniature sized trolley or riding in the car trolley at that particular moment? Who is going to demand book-reading with menaces and cuddle into the crook of my arm on the sofa when I agree? Who is going to push the start button on the washing machine to hear the beep?

Who is going to build complicated train tracks around the sitting room that make hoovering a nightmare and which cause me to have scabby knees from sitting on the floor to walk my fingers onto the top of the next wooden train to reach Knapford station? Who is going to listen to birdsong with me as we toil back up the hill from school, and point out - before squashing - the insects on the path? Who is going to retire to bed 5 minutes before the school-run in reverse in the certain knowledge that a trip to the school canteen will be offered as bribe to get him out of bed in time to meet his brother?

Who will demand a pull-along on his scooter and then fit their hand so neatly into mine as I oblige?

Now I know - I know - that all these things will continue. But they will be different. As will he - and I.

Life on the edge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I'm not doing. Much.

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

Update:

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

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

Of Mice and Boys

A lot has happened over the last couple of days. A LOT. Where to start?

First off - the Mouse is back, dammit. After lying low for a couple of months (aka; being smart enough not to be spotted but still having free run of the place when my back was turned or I didn't have my contacts in), it declared itself this morning when I got back from the gym. Boy #2, having been left with his father for the incredibly long hour and a half that I was away, was tearing the place up with gay abandon as I walked through the front door. The Mouse, clearly having had enough of the madness, was throwing itself physically against the shut kitchen door in an attempt to make a getaway under the kitchen cabinets.

A Mummy made of sterner stuff than I would have dealt with it on the spot, but not I. Oh no. What did I do? I politely opened the door so it could dash for it's escape hatch and resolved that Husband can deal with it this evening. I hope it likes tuna. That's what the trap will be baited with...

Secondly, Boy #1 had his first school assembly. They're held every Wednesday and parents are always welcome but since his timetable precludes his attending we haven't been before now. Yesterday, however, he had an award to collect (along with most of his year), so the Potty Family pulled on their best bib and tucker (clean jeans, in my case), packed my handbag with bribes to control Boy #2, and trundled along to watch Boy #1 collect his certificate. It was a surreal experience, and made my experiences from last September seem an awfully long time ago.

Along with the rest of his class he trotted happily up onto the stage and was applauded by the whole school and various parents. He seemed so grown up - and yet not. He's still small enough for me to gather close (it's getting harder and more uncomfortable, but I do it whenever I get the chance, remembering countless pieces of advice to make the most of these moments because they won't last), but I'm starting to get flashes of what he might become - given fair weather and a following wind.

Yesterday evening I went into my sons' room and watched them for while as they slept. As a parent, it's such a priviledge to be able to do that; to watch their features in repose. I often find myself thinking that if I could curl up on a mattress on their bedroom floor then that would be true luxury. Forget fancy holidays and jewellery; sleeping next to my children would be enough.

Never going to happen though. Because then, before I get carried away, I remember the Mouse. And immediately, the prospect of sleeping on the floor becomes impossible.

Drat that rodent.


I was also going to post about our fun and games at the hospital this afternoon when both boys had scratch tests to check on their allergies, and follow that up with a review of the Disney movie that we watched subsequently to calm one of them down (no prizes for guessing which), but I'm out of time. It's the last episode ever EVER of ER this evening.

The phone is coming off the hook.