Ouch!!!!

So, even in the prosperous area of Kensington and Chelsea, the credit crunch is starting to bite.

Exhibit 1

Walking along the Kings Road on Saturday, I popped in to SpaceNK to buy a birthday present for a friend. I spent a good ten minutes mosying around before deciding that the amount I wanted to spend and what I could get there for that money were not adding up to a decent 40th birthday offering.

My hand was on the door to pull it open and leave when the manageress accosted me. "All our gift boxes are half price today."

Half price? But there were no signs, nothing to tell me this. Could it be that they were so desperate for a sale she just decided to be proactive with a customer who looked like she was about to leave? In any case, the sort of present I wanted to give was suddenly a lot more accessible, and what do you know, I spent my money in that shop.

Exhibit 2

Then I walked over the road and looked in the window of a jewellers I've always liked. Not fancy schmancy, just decent costume stuff, all made on the premises and pretty in an unassuming way. Guess what? 'Credit Crunch Christmas Sale - 70% Off!' The money I had spent in SpaceNK would have bought an even better present here, I thought. I walked in, had a look, wished I had gone there first, and left empty handed (Husband has started asking me to keep reciepts, if you know what I mean...).

But I went back there on Tuesday and bought 6 very respectable family Christmas presents for only £90. And nothing for me - which nearly killed me. (I LOVE that shop). Still, we're keeping receipts - if you know what I mean... (which I guess should feature as Exhibit 3).


Clearly, however, the powers above don't want me to save money. Because yesterday afternoon, beset by two wailing boys, what felt like 57 bags, coats, umbrellas, and in the pouring rain, I parked up outside out flat and didn't notice that that particular resident's bay was suspended. This morning? No car. It had been taken to the pound, where a £260 bill awaited us.

Ouch!

And so, the end is nigh...

You'll never guess. Well, you probably will, but I'm going to tell you anyway.

Boy #2.

Had.

A.

Poo.

IN THE POTTY!!!!!!

My work here is done. So long!

OK, you didn't think you were going to get off that easily, did you?

I know, I know, you want all the details, but in a fit of motherly reticence I'm not going to share with you his assertion that no, he was not having a poo (despite the all-too evident smell and effort that convinced me otherwise), or the family rejoicing that followed the discovery of the wonderful gift he had made us in what has in many ways been a shxt week (nice of him to stick to the theme, don't you think?), in case in years to come he should be embarrassed by such revelations.

Let's just say that he was probably in the right place at the right time, and I'm not holding my breath (though perhaps given this morning's performance I should be) that we will see a repeat tomorrow...

And in non-potty news...

It's coming up to my grandmother's 95th birthday.

95 years! My grandmother is an amazing woman. She still lives on her own in a bungalow on the south coast of England, still does all her own cooking, shopping, and cleaning, travels by bus, and has a bit of a thing for a nice sweater from the Scottish Woollen Mill. She's happy to spend an entire morning at the garden centre, planning next year's displays of hardy annuals (she gives very good pansy and begonia), and remarking on how cheap the set roast lunch is in the cafe there.

When she visits my parents in Somerset she changes her outfit around 3 times a day; it doesn't do to let the side down just because you are rurally impaired, she believes. She visits the hairdressers every week for a 'wash and set', and despairs of my mother, who in most people's eyes is the epitome of style and elegance, because she wears trousers occasionally and puts highlights in her hair. At one coffee morning when Mum was visiting her, Nana commented to a mutual friend "Don't mind G - she lives in the country, you know." This was because my mother was wearing a trouser suit. And there was also the notable time when, whilst mum was growing up, Nana discovered that she wore her vest over rather than under her bra, and called her a trollope, but I think that 50 years later they've both put that behind them now.

She's a remarkable woman. She's lived through 2 world wars, lost a brother to a tragic accident as child, worked 'in business' (as she charmingly calls it, rather like a Russian Mafia-Wife), borne 2 children, built up a successful caravan park group with her husband, lost that much-loved husband to leukemia only a few months after he retired, with one exception lost her 4 siblings, seen 6 grandchildren and 11 great-grandchildren (so far) arrive, and still doesn't touch a drop of alcohol.

Every Christmas she visits my parents and good-humouredly puts up with the crowds, the noise, and not being able to hear us all speaking at once through her hearing aid, though when there's a programme she wants to watch on television it is advisable to find ear-plugs. She walks to the end of the village and back for her daily constitutional, stoically ignoring the mud of the 'working countryside', and when the weather is bad she simply walks around my parent's house instead, counting her steps until she feels she has reached a respectable total.

She is a redoubtable lady, who takes no messing about, and puts her longevity down to good genes and a slug of olive oil in a sherry glass every day.

I'm pulling together a photograph album for her birthday, which is why I have the picture below to hand. In my mind it's a piece of history. The fact that a person in such a dated and clearly Edwardian photo is still here with us today is astounding to me.

My wonderful Nana is the little girl on the left.

Don't mess with the messer...

Being mother to a nearly-three year old can be a pretty frustrating job at times, especially if you also have an older child. The temptation is to assume that your younger child is just as emotionally and mentally advanced as their older sibling.

For example, my mother tells this great story of how, when I was tiny and playing up in the supermarket she found herself barking "For heaven's sake Potty! You're behaving like a two year old!" at me. And then stopped herself, as she remembered that actually, I was. Two years old.

I try to keep that in mind on the rare occasions (ha!) when I'm shocked at my younger son doing two year old stuff. Spilling drinks. Messing things up. Throwing tantrums. You know, all the things that sound perfectly normal child behaviour whilst it isn't actually happening to you. But whilst he isn't as grown up as his brother in many ways, in others he's more than a match for his parents. New parents, be warned. Don't try the same tactics on your second child as those that worked on your first. Big mistake.

This evening at the dinner table, Husband and I were trying to encourage our younger son to eat his dinner by himself. Some mothers would no doubt be shocked to encounter a child who prefers to have his food spooned into his mouth at the great age of 2 years 9 months. Others simply roll their eyes and mutter 'been there, done that, am wearing the filthy t-shirt'. I'm one of the latter.

Don't get me wrong, Boy #2 can feed himself. If he's hungry enough, or if he likes it enough, or if it's finger food, no problem. Quite often though, he just can't... be.... bothered. And whilst I would like to be of the 'if you don't feed yourself, you don't eat' school of mothering, I don't have the time, the inclination or frankly the hardness of heart to carry that through. So, around 20% of the time, there I am, playing mother hen to a baby bird.

This evening, after fruitlessly trying to encourage him to eat solo, Husband decided to try some reverse psychology on our little angel. It worked - and still works - on his older brother, so why not?

Husband: "Actually, don't do it Boy #2. I don't think Boy #2 can feed himself, do you Mama?"

Me (it's risky, but let's try it): "No, you're probably right. I don't think he can either."

Boy #1 (catching on fast, as ever): "And neither do I."

Boy #2 looked around the table in amazement. What were we all saying? Could he hear us correctly? He reached for his spoon. Grinned. And handed it to me. "No. Can't. You. Do. It. Mama."

Snookered.

It's a Mystery

Some of life's great mysteries (to me, at any rate):

Whatever happened to Shergar?

How can it be that so many men swear blind they like the natural, non-surgically augmented girl-next-door look, and yet Pamela Anderson is a star?

Did my older son really believe that the bogies he's wiped on to the wall next to his bed would never be spotted?

Why can't I walk in reeeaaaaaallllly high heels without doing myself and anyone around me an injury?

Did anybody actually properly understand the novel 'Sophie's World'?

Who decided that black and blue don't go together in a fashion sense?

Will I ever manage to wean myself off Diet Coke?

Backcombed hair, 80's style. Why did we do it? Actually there are a whole load of 80's fashion crimes I could ask that question about. Ra-ra skirts. Robotic dancing. Jumpsuits. Legwarmers. Pantaloon trousers. Batwing shirts. Knickerbockers. Ruffled necklines. Fluorescent bead necklaces...

How come Tracey Emin's unmade bed is 'art' and mine is just messy? (Or rather, would be, if I didn't bother to continuously remake it after my sons have snuck in and used it as a tent / hiding place / jungle / trampoline / train ten times a day).

And finally...

How can a man reach the grand age of nearly 40, excel at just about everything he does, be a wonderful husband, father and friend, and yet still not be able to put a cover on a duvet?

To Russia, for Love - Part 2

Back in March I wrote this post.

You probably forgot all about it. No, let's scratch that. You definitely forgot all about it. But I couldn't, and didn't. The possibility of a family move to Russia has been there continuously, ever since, at the back of my mind. And once Husband started a consultancy stint in Moscow this summer, I decided that it was time to step out of denial and find out what living in Russia would actually mean.

This is not because such a move is imminent, however. It's not. It may happen early next year, it may happen next summer, it may not happen at all (though that last is probably the least likely scenario of the three). It's just that I prefer to be as informed as possible before I make life-changing decisions.

So, Husband and I have spent the last 5 days on our own in Moscow, investigating. And here is what we found out...

That amazingly, there are schools in Russia. Who would have thought it?

That just like everywhere else, some schools are good, and some are not. No names, no pack drill, but the school where the kindergarten teacher rushed past us on her way out during her break and, finding it impossible to shake the 3 year old clinging onto her, simply pressed his little hand into mine and left him crying before disappearing through the playground gate - without locking it behind her - is not on our list of possibles...

That, also just like everywhere else, expats can live as involved or detached a life as they like.

That a detached life can look pretty attractive when it includes a driver, a picturesque house in a secure compound, and the chance for your children to roam free inside that compound.

That a detached life can also look pretty lonely if your husband is spending his 'normal' amount of time in the office.

That Moscow has changed a great deal since we last spent time there. Though of course when we last spent time there we were without children, so most of what we saw on this visit had as much relevance to us then as a conversation about whether disposable nappies were better than non (they are), and whether or not you will use a washing machine more once you have a baby. (HA!)

That whilst Moscow has changed a great deal, it still has a lot of the same characteristics. Amazingly prompt trains (never more than 2 minutes between metros), incredibly entrepreneurial people, and more dust - a fine layer of it that seems to get everywhere - than you would expect in a capital city.

That I still get a buzz just from walking around it.

That I haven't actually forgotten all the cyrillic I learnt back before my first visit in 1995 - but also that since a large number of signs are now printed in the Roman alphabet, the letters I have forgotten are not that much of a problem.

That there are fewer cars you can hail as taxis by simply standing on the kerb and holding your arm out at a 45 degree angle than there used to be. (Husband muttered darkly that there is clearly too much money around if you can't find in a cab in the good old-fashioned way). Personally I was just delighted not to be on the road and in the Traffic, which is...

Awful. To the extent that what would be a 20 minute journey in London - not, as you may know, the world capital for successful road layouts and polite drivers - will take you at least an hour in Moscow, and if you make the mistake of looking out of the window will also decrease your life expectancy by about 10 years.

That Russian drivers love their tinted windows. This could account for their sombre mood in Winter as it is quite gloomy a lot of the time, and so looking at the world through dark glass is not advisable...

That sometimes though the sun will come out and tint the city a shining, misty blue, making you disregard the dust and the traffic, and notice instead the domes, the spires, and the possibilities.

That I would still prefer to be safe and cosy in reliable London, with the school we've chosen for our boys, the friends and family we have nearby, in the neighbourhood we have made our own.

But with that said, actually, I think we could do it.

Civil Disobedience...

....Boy #2 Styley

The time: Last Friday evening
The place: my parent's house

It's dinner time for the Boys. Boy #1, delighting in his Granny Food - which of course always tastes so much better than the almost identical meal I cooked for him the previous day - is tucking in with unaccustomed vigour. Boy #2 is being a little more lackadaisical about the whole thing, and I find myself spoon-feeding him in an attempt to get him to eat a respectable amount before bathtime. Despite the fact that we have forgotten the travel high-chair, all is going well, until I notice he is slumped over his plate like a recalcitrent teenager...

Me: "Boy #2. Can you take your elbow off the table please?"

Boy #2 looks at me. If he could raise an eyebrow, he would. He takes his elbow off the table.

Me: "Thankyou."

Boy #2 slowly and deliberately puts his other elbow on the table instead.

Me: "Very funny. Could you please take that elbow off the table?"

Boy #2: "Why?"

Me: "Because it's rude to have your elbows on the table whilst you're eating. Please take it off."

He looks at me, considering his options, then takes his elbow off the table. Thirty seconds later, watching me whilst he does it, he slowly and carefully puts both elbows on the table at once.

Me: "Elbows off the table Boy #2 please. Now."

Boy #2: "Why?"

Me: "Because I'm asking you to."

No reaction.

Me: "And because if you don't, I will fetch the high chair from the garage and you will have to sit in that, rather than in a grown-up chair like you are doing now."

Boy #2 looks at me for a few seconds longer, then even more slowly and carefully, takes both elbows off the table and sits up straight. He glances at his grandmother who is barely holding it together on the other side of the room. He looks back at me, and grins, eyes twinkling. "OK. Love you, mama!"

Give me strength.

The latest reports, after a few days away from my beloved sons (more of which in my next post), are that both of them have behaved like little angels. Of course...

Step in time

Half term starts tomorrow. Which means Boy #1 has been in 'big' school now for just over 6 weeks. Amazing things have happened in that time frame; he's learning at a rate of knots, much more so than I expected given that the school we chose for him is supposed to take it easy on it's pupils for the first couple of years. He still has wobbles now and then when I drop him off in the morning, but overall there's been a great improvement. He's made friends; at the playground after school it's heartwarming to see him running round with a little group of schoolmates as if they own the place.

And this evening, Husband - after a few days away - witnessed one of the more physical manifestions of his growing knowledge base.

It's called 'front-trotting.'

What on earth is that? Well might you ask. I certainly wondered when he first mentioned it last week in association with his 'sports' classes. Boy #1's school is big on physical education, so much so that they have some form of it every day, whether it be gym, swimming, running round in the park, or music and movement. Frankly this last class, inocuously slotted into his time-table between 'topic' and 'break' puzzled me a little. What sort of thing do they learn in 'music and movement', I wondered aloud. So he showed me.

It was one of those moments when you know you should be keeping a straight face. Your child certainly is, there's nothing strange about this to him. But when an activity has a name like 'front trotting', well, I for one suspected before he even demonstrated it that we would be onto a winner in the entertainment stakes.

So let me talk you through what he showed Husband on his return from Moscow this evening:

'Front Trotting' for Beginners

The correct stance to begin your 'front-trotting' is to place your hands on your hips.

• Tip-toe/skip (oh dear, this really is tricky to describe) quickly and exaggeratedly across the room, picking your feet up and pulling your knees up each time as high as you can in front of you, rather like a Monty Python silly walk or an Irish Dance in which you actually move (rather than simply bouncing on the spot)
• Don't walk though; dance your way across the room.
• Hands on hips all the time.
• It helps to have a rather intent expression on your face at this point.
• It also helps to be 'front-trotting' away from your parents so you can't see them trying and failing not to crack up.

For those of you who are interested, 'back-trotting' is when you repeat the process but kick your heels up into your calves behind you rather than to pick your feet up in front of you.

And finally, for added entertainment value, do all this immediately after your bath before you've had the chance to put your pj's on...

I just remembered where I saw this before. The sweeps dancing on the roof in the Mary Poppins movie, the bit where Dick Vandyke shouts 'Kick your knees up!' Though, thank heavens, they had their clothes on.

I've included the link for your entertainment...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yu23HHmOG48