Through the eyes of a child

I just had the sweetest conversation with Amaia...

Although it's been months since she last saw Monsters Inc, she suddenly decided to talk about it in the bath. If you haven't seen it, the monster above (Celia) becomes contaminated while out on a date, hence the veterinary cone. When she first meets Mike afterwards (who she'd been on the date with), she is somewhat irate and shouts at him. Amaia had totally misunderstood the cone, given we have no large pets, so she'd taken it to be a megaphone!

"Remember that bit mummy, when Celia is so mad at Mike she puts on that shouty cone so she can shout louder at him?"

How adorable is that?!

Marcel at 17

I was trying to think about what to write about Marcel today. But I think this (doctored to remove candidate numbers) speaks for itself:

Despite having to cope with a fair amount of upheaval in his 17 years - my divorce, the death of his beloved Pumpa over two of the most important years of his schooling, his abandonment by three members of his French family, the complete breakdown of his relationship to his father, who he hasn't seen in over 2 years, our own financial difficulties since the start of the economic downturn and their effect on him - he was one of very few kids in his school who had to work every morning before school since the age of 13 and who now works weekends and evenings in a shop to support himself, he has managed to achieve school results, the likes of which I have never seen. The brightest Scottish kids take 5 Highers in their 5th year and uni entrance is based on these results. Very, very few get 5 As - so few they make the front pages of local newspapers. Marcel decided, completely of his own choosing and determination, that he didn't want to take 5 Highers, but instead to take 6 and also schedule in one Advanced Higher (something you don't sit till a year later). Of course the school timetable only allowed time for classes in five, so he took it upon himself to teach himself both Spanish and Chemistry from a book, with no tutor and no teacher. A few times we asked if he hadn't bitten off more than he could chew, especially given his work commitments and because he's a popular and sociable kid too, who enjoys a great social life but he stuck with it and got not 5 As, which was the best possible result in the country but 5 As including an A in the Spanish he taught himself and a further C in Chemistry (how you can teach yourself that without a science lab is beyond me!) and an A in his Advanced Higher too. Seven exams in one sitting, six at grade A is not something I have ever read about any pupil in Scotland achieving, so what can I say? Proud doesn't come close. 

I love my little boy, even though he's now my big boy. I imagine this transcript will open many doors to him at the end of school next year. I hope that whatever he chooses to do with these results will bring him peace and happiness in his life. Well done!

Food for thought

Have a read at this if you're not already a YES. There is no status quo to go back to.

Cute quotes

We've had some fantastic quotes this week from the little people so I thought I'd log them here for posterity.

After Marcel had been missing from the dinner table for several nights, Amaia finally noticed:
Amaia: Where's Marcel gone?
Me: T in the Park
Amaia: I thought he preferred coffee.
(She's obviously imagining her biggest brother serenely sitting on a gingham table cloth, his right pinkie raised, drinking tea from the finest china mug! I have my suspicions that was not what he was up to!)

Then we had Léon on Sunday morning. He comes down dressed in an Argentina football strip and the conversation continues:

Thomas: Are you supporting Argentina tonight then Léon? 
Léon: No, why? (Looking down) Oh! So is it Argentina that Germany's playing?

The boy's on the ball!

Following on from the World Cup theme, we had Thomas, ever the optimist, remarking that Copa Cabana beach was really quite similar to Largs! In your dreams!

And cute little Léon asking innocently if Scotland always used Hampden we we hosted the World Cup... Emmm, that's probably in your dreams too!

And finally Amaia enjoyed the final but was unimpressed with the trophy itself which she thought looked like a 'scrunched-up piece of wrapping paper!'

Through four-year-old eyes

I've just had a very sweet conversation with my youngest:

Amaia: When's Catriona coming to play?
Me: Later
Amaia: Is their whole family coming?
Me: No, just Amanda and the three children.
Amaia: Ahhh - they've got three kids too.
Me: We have five kids, not three kids in our family!
Amaia: No we don't! We have four adults and three kids!

A wee rant about Vote No Borders

This has seriously been pissing me off since I saw it last week, but I haven't had the time to rant!

Even if we ignore the manipulative use of the photo of a sad three year old as the image discussing the views of a child who is supposedly 'ten and a quarter' (I have enough kids of my own to be able to tell the difference...), the opening line sums up everything that is wrong with the far south at the moment for me and indeed the great divide between the UKIP-lovers and the great, warm and accepting Scottish people I am surrounded by. It actually says: "My grandson in England, aged ten and quarter, looks utterly baffled and very sad at thought of  his Grandparents being in danger of becoming foreigners."

Let's analyse that language and its implications - having a foreigner in your family isn't just confusing, it should make you feel extreme sadness and worse still it is a danger! What is wrong with these people? Let me explain to Dr Richard Marsh - my children have foreigners in their family - their grandfather is German, their grandmother is Danish, they have cousins, aunts and uncles in Copenhagen and the East of France. They even have family members who speak no English - shock, horror! Does that make them feel sad, scared, confused or anything else? No, it makes them feel special, happy and thrilled. My six year old daughter proudly takes her Astrid Lindgren book to school to show she can read Danish, my eight year old son volunteers to sing the birthday song in Danish for his friends, my four year old daughter skips into nursery full of excitement announcing she's getting a visit from a cousin or grandparent abroad. She was absolutely overjoyed last year when they did a stamp collecting project to bring in the stamps from her foreign letters to share with her classmates, and her classmates in turn listened, not baffled or scared but actually excited and even a tiny bit jealous. My oldest boy has sat all his French exams early and takes delight in helping the teacher by sharing cultural anecdotes about France. The thing is, having a foreigner in your family, or indeed a dozen foreigners isn't a bad thing, when you have them it is simply normality. They aren't scary, they are family. And you love them just as you would if they lived next door, or for that matter in Australia!

Let's take my daughter's school class - she is six. She is half Scottish, quarter Danish, quarter German. She has friends whose parents are from (amongst others) India, Pakistan, Japan, China, France, Nigeria and Northern Ireland. Are they all scared of each other or offering each other condolences in the playground because of their foreign connections? Or are they simply thrilled to ask what things are like when they visit their grandparents back home, or what they bring when they come for a visit? Take a guess! That is why this ad from No Borders, and presumably the Westminster government, is so wrong. Things will not change while people are being taught to fear instead of embrace others' differences and that is one of the top reasons I want my multicultural family the hell out of the UK long before the in/out referendum of 2017ish.

I won't even bother to analyse the rest of the nonsense in the article, except to say firstly that I'm sick of hearing that it is a one-party push for independence - there are many political, and non-political people voting Yes, not simply Alex Salmond. I've never had any connections to the SNP. I simply know that Westminster is failing my country and we have a way to offer our kids a better future. As for: 'A wonderful country and people in the grip of a narrow, divisive, arrogant, controlling and insular creed called Nationalism.'You can only come out with a line like that if you have never engaged in any conversation with the amazing people at National Collective, Academics for Yes and similar, or if you are deliberately lying. Let's hope it is simply the former (though I suspect not). Never in all my 46 years have I had the privilege to witness the coming together of a less narrow, divisive, arrogant or controlling group of people. My friends in the Yes camp are diverse, multicultural and indeed multinational, (many are even English - they never mention that do they?) They are thoughtful, full of aspiration, forward-looking and not flag-waving nationalists. Whatever your nationality, religion or political leaning you are welcomed with open arms. 

And another thing while I'm on the rant. Since when did my flag become demonized? I seem to remember when the Olympics was in England everything, from your phone case to your pants had to have a Union Jack on it, but if anyone dares to show a Saltire, it is offensive suddenly! Why the double standard?! Maybe we should take a leaf out of Denmark's book. They stick flags in everything just to mean they're happy, not in a nationalistic way. Here's my (Danish) husband's and my birthday cake from this year:

A national Collective video

A powerful speech: and as someone who considers my family to be Scottish, Danish, French, German, European and even a tiny bit English, on my dad's side(!), I can really relate to it. Hear, hear...

Self-portrait

Amaia's done a self-portrait today at nursery. I can't help but wonder if she's imagining herself in middle age when I look at it... Or are those not two saggy boobs popping out the bottom of her t-shirt? ;-)

Auto-correct errors

I'm often amused by my phone's attempts at understanding me. Because I often text in French too, for instance, it likes to auto-correct the word remember to t'émmener, which is a tad bizarre, but nothing beats this week's photo caption...

Amaia was taking photos in the garden and she took this one. I tried to caption it 'A very dignified photo of me blowing bubbles on a space hopper thanks to Amaia.' as I uploaded it to facebook, but had to laugh when it corrected 'blowing bubbles' to 'blessing bibles'! So if you happen to see me in my garden, do check if I'm blessing bibles on a blue space hopper!

Definitely our child

It's been one of those days when you really don't need a DNA test to check you brought the right baby home from the hospital...

Thomas was out in Glasgow so I was doing the bedtime routine. I often sing Léon 'Hush Little Baby' with the obvious alteration of 'Papa' to 'Mummy'. Anna usually prefers other things so hasn't had that one for a while. But tonight she was still awake when I started Léon's song...

Hush, Little Baby

Hush, little baby, don't say a word.
Mummy's gonna buy you a mockingbird

And if that mockingbird won't sing,
Mummy's gonna buy you a diamond ring

And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Mummy's gonna buy you a looking glass

And if that looking glass gets broke,
Mummy's gonna buy you a billy goat

And if that billy goat won't pull,
Mummy's gonna buy you a cart and bull

And if that cart and bull turn over,
Mummy's gonna buy you a dog named Rover

And if that dog named Rover won't bark
Mummy's gonna buy you a horse and cart

And if that horse and cart fall down,
You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town.

She listened happily right through to the end then said quite matter of fact at the ripe old age of 6 'The tense is wrong you know - it's not 'broke'. Only question is - is she her mother's daughter or her father's?!

Scottish voting in the Euro elections

I don't know about anyone else, but I find this level of apathy in the face of a swing to the right absolutely abhorrent. We hear the UKIP polled 10% but look at this pie - UKIP didn't poll anything like 10%, apathy polled about 65% and that's a whole lot more troubling.

More than ever, yes!

Presumably London isn't following for UKIP because they are less affected by the economic downturn so less in search of a scapegoat. Scotland, however, despite the hardships is the least taken-in in the country. I don't know about you, but I certainly don't want the south east voting in my next government on the basis of this map. At least we have a viable alternative.

Glasgow School of Art fire

It just so happened today that I was in Glasgow with my DSLR when I heard about the GSA fire so I dragged all the four kids I had with me along.

I've always loved the art school - my first trip round it was with my school back around '84 and of course I've had friends study there while I was at Glasgow uni. Most recently Thomas and I first lived together in Rose street and for that reason all of Garenthill feels a bit special to our own story. It was hard not to be moved to tears today watching the windows blow out as the flames took hold of the roof. And everywhere many, many young people were walking around with tears streaming down their faces, their hands clutched to their mouths in shock. Others sat resigned on the pavement in the sunshine drinking beer in complete silence.

It seems 70% of it has been saved which seems beyond belief given what we witnessed first hand. 

Teacher's pet

I know I'm her mother so I'm probably not meant to bitch but Anna is something else at times! Every day in life she comes out with a story of how many 'house points' she's earned for knowing this, that and the next thing, for sitting quietly, for not misbehaving like whoever 'got on amber', or god forbid 'red' today. She would unashamedly take the teachers flowers and an apple every other day to curry favour and likes to make them jewellery when she has the time. Anything that can endear her to Mrs McDougall makes her happy. She even volunteered to sing Danish songs and read Danish books to the class. As a mum, I'm very proud (as a fellow classmate, I'd probably have wanted to trip her up in the playground!)

And so we come to Maths. Anna was working on the above last week when I came in to inconsolable hysterics. Obviously it isn't because it is too hard. It's way too easy now she's 6... But when Charlotte and I finally managed to calm her down enough to get what was wrong out of her, not laughing was a hard task. She was appalled by the messiness of this mathematical technique. The thought of handing in work with things scored out was too much for her to bear! She was trying to insist that once she had filled in all the answers on her worksheet, she should then rub out all the workings. She needed to rid her beautiful jotter of the scorings-out, the rogue little numbers on the sides because otherwise Mrs McDougall might take house points from her for not handing in clean, neat work. Charlotte, who is now going into her third year at high school, mentioned that working was worth 90% of the marks by her age and that erasing it was practically punishable by suspension from school (she likes to exaggerate for effect). At this, Anna dropped to the floor, a blubbering wreck, trying desperately to argue she should at least be allowed to copy it out on a second sheet to prove her ability for neatness to her teacher. Poor wee soul.

Cyclamen

For as long I can remember cyclamen have made me think of my granny. I'm not sure why as I am pretty sure she didn't have any in her garden - it was all rhubarb, peonies and purple alpines with a lilac tree. Did she have them in pots in her house - I can't find any photographic evidence for that... or did she just tell me she liked them, perhaps? It's funny when you have partial memories like that.

Anyway, for what it's worth, I decided back around last November to buy one in B&Q just in her honour and I planted it in the garden, expecting it to last about a week in the Scottish climate but to my surprise it has flowered non-stop over a period of nearly seven months. I know it wasn't the coldest of winters, but it is definitely worth the money. Next winter I'll be supplementing my garden with a few more.

Inside the mind of a 6 year old girl

Inspired by something they found on Youtube, Anna and Amaia have taken recently to using Play-Doh to make outfits, shoes and accessories for their dolls. Given Lots never had a Barbie (she'd threatened anyone who bought her one with a painful death), this whole Barbie role play is a fascinating new experience to me.

I was pottering about the hall and could hear Anna and her friend Emma playing with Barbies in the dining room. I'm not sure what the conversation I overheard says about what kind of teenager Anna is one day going to be!

Anna: 'Emma, pretend this Barbie's boyfriend is coming over to visit her. Let's say she's invited him over to have a bath with her! She might not want him to see her privates when she's in the bath, so you make her a bikini, Emma!'

OMG!

One of those conversations

The three smallest kids currently share the biggest bedroom (as the master bedroom has been turned into the home office). As they are getting bigger, they are taking up more space and have more things. The chaos is becoming overwhelming. ( I need to get a DIY book on how to build your own extension!)

They'd been off for two weeks over Easter and every toy each of them possessed was strewn across the floor. Amaia's chest of drawers is in the far corner of the room but I couldn't even see a path to it as I went to put the washing away. I'd had enough. I snapped.

'I want this floor tidied now! I want a pathway cleared from here to the window before anyone goes out to play today!' I stormed out and downstairs to our room. I was sitting on the bed when I heard Thomas (who hadn't overheard our chat) enter their room. I heard him tell them in Danish that their room was a pigsty and that we wouldn't be doing anything fun until there was no longer a single toy on the floor and everything was back in each of their three toy boxes.

Anna then came out with a classic 'Well mummy said we only needed to clear a pathway, not clear the whole floor and since mummy is older than you she must be the boss so I think we only need to clear a path!' I'm not sure that was the best way to endear herself to either of her parents!

If only we were Danish

Years ago I blogged about the odd Danish habit of single duvets. I'm a hugger. I can't think of anything worse than being under a different duvet in the same bed as the partner I am trying to sleep with. For years I have not been able to find a single justification for such an odd cultural trait... that was until I found my dream duvet last week on ebay... They don't make it any size other than single! Arg! That's discrimination - Danish couples can have lovely minion duvets while we Scots are stuck, unable to use them on our marital beds ;-)

Snails, anyone?

We always feed the kids the same food as we eat ourselves. I can't think of any exceptions. From they first taste solids chilis and spices are added to slowly build them up to the same tolerance as the rest of the family - you can't be making seven meals a night, can you? So on Sunday we had decided to start with snails. Marcel and Lots had had them years ago in France but 3, 4 and 5 had never been subjected to them.

Thomas brought them through. Léon and Anna stared at them in with a mix of fear and horror while Amaia laughed and smiled. I was surprised as Amaia, though great with very spicy food, tends to be the hardest when it comes to tasting new things. I told them I wanted them to try one each. Anna just looked disgusted, while Léon clasped his mouth firmly with both hands. Amaia poured the garlic and herb butter onto her plate and immediately started to dip her finger into it, delighted with the flavour. Again I was surprised how easy she was being. Anna eventually gave in and tasted one sliver, deciding they were vaguely similar to mussels, Léon pulled off a chunk with one hand, gagging dramatically as he put it to his mouth. But we got there. I happened at that point to notice Amaia was still only eating the sauce. Absent-mindedly, I pulled her snail out with a cocktail stick as I thought she couldn't manage it. She looked on completely shocked. 'What on earth is that?' she squealed. 'It's the snail! That,' I said, pointing 'is the snail sauce.' Without a single word she jumped in the air, somehow rotated through 180 degrees, landed cross-legged under the table with her arms folded, her nose in the air and her bottom lip sticking out. 'I've eaten the sauce, but there's no way I'm eating that!' 

I guess we're going to have to work on snails...

Lost phone

Thomas lost his phone today. He asked Anna to look around the house to see if she could see it. Eventually she came and asked me if she could phone it with mine to save her looking.
'What's daddy under on your phone mummy? Thomas? Or 'My dear?'
Hahahaha - don't you love kids?

Eye colour

I'm a DSLR man so have never really been a great fan of mobile phone photos but just occasionally I find they capture something completely right. And this is one of these occasions: Amaia's eyes often look monotone brown but in reality they are caramel brown with a fairly large ring of pale green around each iris. I was more than surprised yesterday to see the Samsung had managed to capture all that detail. It gets a thumbs up from me today.

Age

While watching a documentary about the history of Scotland in the year 980 last night Anna asked: 'Were you alive then, mum?' Thanks, Anna!

Maybe I'm doing something right

Sometimes the smallest comments can blow you away. That's one reason you can't blink for a minute as a parent. If you let your mind wander, you miss the gems that reassure you that you must be doing something right.

Marcel will be 17 in a few months, Charlotte is two years and five months younger. By all accounts they should be at that very age where they can barely stand the sight of each other.

Instead they often return from a friend's house puzzled by their friend's conduct towards a younger or older sibling - the snide comments, the ignoring, the pushing, poking, and all the petty one-upmanship.

My two have a solidarity that is wonderful to watch. Of course, it was in part borne out of watching out for each other at their father's house when they still had a relationship with him. They only had each other to talk to about their experiences there and that meant dropping the sibling rivalry. Still two years have passed since that issue was resolved and their bond has become closer, not weaker. They are often found laughing together. Marcel advises Lots on high school etiquette, on studies and just generally gets joy from her company. And she listens to him, trusting. She cares how he's doing and strives to emulate him and his achievements. Because it was Charlotte who ultimately solved the issue of their father, there is a great deal of respect from Marcel towards her. He defers to her in a way that underlines his gratitude and a certain awe in her silent strength of character. It isn't something you often see from older to younger - not when they are as young as this. They've probably been through a bit more than many of their contemporaries with our divorce, the breakdown in the relationship with their other family and my dad's long illness and those things have made them closer than teenage siblings often are.

So what inspired this? Charlotte came in yesterday with a form from school. She cast it nonchalantly onto the dining table muttering that they were running a French school trip to Paris next summer but at nearly £700 she had already worked out that there would be no point in discussing it. When you are self-employed and have five kids £700 is more like the annual family holiday budget, than the school trip budget. Desperately sad, as I always am to deny them what would be lifelong and wonderful memories, I started to agree with her when Marcel looked up from his dinner and said, completely genuinely 'If there's anything I can do to help - I could, like, give her all my earnings from my job for a month or something if that'd help?' How many 16 year old boys would work every Monday, Wednesday, Friday night and every Sunday morning from 5am in a shop and then offer to give up all their earnings to try to pay for their 14 year old sister to go on a school trip - no strings attached? His generosity, his selflessness and his love just blew me away. Of course, it might not get her to Paris, but it melted my heart a little, that's for sure.

I am one proud mummy.

Logic that's hard to argue with

They've been back at school two days now. They aren't overly happy to be getting up at 8am again and consequently breakfast is a constant argument: who should get bowls, spoons, cereal, who's had too much milk, who can get dressed quickest - whine, whine, grump, moan for a solid half hour. Amaia just sits shell-shocked, looking exhausted, while these two battle it out to the death. Tired myself this morning, I shouted at them to stop arguing.

Me: 'Will you two just all stop arguing and get dressed NOOOOW!'
Anna: 'It's your fault we argue, mum!'
I quickly ran a search in my head of my own behaviour to work out if I was too grumpy, shouty or argumentative myself, but before I'd analysed all the data she elaborated: 'You had us - if you hadn't had us, we couldn't argue!'

Well that's a bit drastic, if technically true...

A wicked sense of humour

So Charlotte, Amaia and I went shopping in Asda for dinner. Charlotte was in her school uniform, Amaia in normal clothes. Charlotte goes to the local school so everyone knows the uniform. Moreover the school has a colour-coding system of ties to show where in the school a child is - red ties for 12-14 year olds, blue ties for 15 and 16 year olds, black for 17 and 18 year olds. Those whose kids attend the school are obviously aware of this. I had to go to the Internet order pick-up desk for a skirt I'd ordered Amaia so I gave Lots the shopping list and Amaia opted to go with her. I'm not sure what got into Amaia's head but Charlotte said that every time they stopped to pick something up and there were other shoppers nearby Amaia turned to her in a very loud voice and called her 'mum!' 'Mum, can we get crisps?', 'What's for dinner, mum?' Lots was affronted! She said she's never had as many dirty looks in her life! Wee besom!

My first car

With Marcel reaching 17 this summer, he's started talking about saving up for driving lessons, a car and insurance. Many of his better-off friends will be given a car but rather than being down in the dumps at that prospect, Marcel just sees that as another challenge. And obviously given he's just worked enough in the corner shop to pay for a trip to India and a few other outings this summer, that possibility isn't as far-fetched as it could be (well if you ignore the potential insurance quotes anyway!)

So we got onto the topic of first cars. Somehow Marcel had managed to miss all references to my first car over the years so I hunted through some old photos till I found one of it. It was a 1988 Fiat 126. He looked surprised that something that small could actually get you anywhere. When I pointed out that Linda, Gillian, Shona, Sheina and I had been on many day trips to the coast and the likes in that little chuggy, he nearly fell off his seat in surprise.

I have fond memories of a trip to Edinburgh once: I had noticed in the handbook that its top speed was 68mph so with a tailwind on the M8 we'd tried our hardest to break the 70mph barrier - ambitions were small back then!

There was the time I had taken it to Mull on holiday with my then French boyfriend. We'd phoned ahead and booked into a bed and breakfast calling ourselves Miss De Beauvoir and Mr Sartre and they hadn't seemed to get the allusion! We drove onto the ferry, or rather we tried to but the chuggy got stuck as it was too little to drive on. Four men had had to carry it on rather than leaving it wobbling on the on-ramp - how embarrassing!

And finally in the early years in Collins, a German colleague asked me for a lift into town as his car had broken down. I'm not sure he'd have asked, if he'd seen what I drove. He was about 6'8" and I had serious trouble getting him in and out. I thought at one point I might have to drive with the sunroof open!

 These days I may be seen more often than not in my big seven-seater people carrier, but to be honest I will always be a chuggy owner at heart. One day, when all the kids have left home, the economy permitting, I'm going to buy myself a new Fiat 500!

Egg obsessed

For the past six or seven years Thomas has been obsessed with making the perfect Easter egg. I can only assume this is a hang-up from his childhood (with German aunts and uncles) rather than a new-found religious streak...

At first he banged his head up against the fact that the UK has become an almost exclusively brown egg country and brown eggs just don't colour. One year we did get six white eggs off our dear doctor (who has a home farm) but beyond that the eggs were the first hurdle.

After that the colouring of his childhood seemed to be unavailable because of all these colouring regulations these days so the first few years saw brown eggs dyed browner and that wasn't very appealing.

Then we started shopping more in ethnic supermarkets and it came to our attention a year ago that Poles love white eggs. So off he went down to Thornliebank and returned hopping and skipping (carefully) with two dozen white beauties from the Polish supermarket.

Added to that the complex plan whereby he'd ordered German Easter egg colouring six months ago, had it delivered to my friend in Cologne and had her drive it back at Xmas - bingo - everything finally fell into place for our first ever brightly-coloured Easter eggs.

It was such a success I had better order next year's already.

I did feel sorry for his other Danish expat friend who had had the same problem. Having not discovered the Polish option, she had forked out for Waitrose's most extortionate pale duck eggs. With no decent colouring to be had she tried boiling them with beetroot in an attempt at achieving pink eggs, only to find out that expensive duck eggs mixed with beetroot gives exactly the same shade of brown as Asda smartprice eggs. I reckon she'll be going down the amazon.de route next year too.

Sometimes it is the innocent conversations that teach you the most.

I was driving into town yesterday with four of the five kids in the car. Charlotte was in the front so the soundtrack from Tangled was chosen to be the in-car entertainment for the trip. We'd just listened all the way through both Mother knows best and the reprise, sung by the old witch Mother Gothel and I innocently commented that she was a bit of a bitch. Still singing along happily and innocently Charlotte stated, quite calmly and unmoved 'Yeah, she always reminds me of papa'. I quietly left her to elaborate. She commented on the way she undermines Rapunzel, the way she builds her confidence and knocks it down in the one sentence, her paranoid fluctuations between loving and downright nasty, her condescending attitude, her mad possessive steak and finally the glee she takes in telling her no one will want her.

Often when I hear how my kids talk about their father, I am shocked that he allowed their relationship to deteriorate to that level. Nothing should have been more important to him than them but by allowing his own madness to become more important than them, he lost them somewhere along the way. I would be devastated if this sort of song reminded my kids of me.

Maternal instinct

We were discussing the differences between boys and girls tonight in the car on the way to the swimming pool and Léon decided he was more than pleased to be a boy as he didn't really fancy any of that giving birth nonsense. Anna seemed more upbeat though: 'I definitely want to be a mum when I grow up' she announced - I was about to comment on the fact that she always seems to love babies when she elaborated, cackling like an old witch: 'I want little people I can use as my slaves, who can do all my cleaning and tidying up'. Patently I must be doing something wrong on the mothering front.

Money madness

I have no idea what made England decide to go down this silly road - they certainly weren't going with the flow, nor do I have any doubt that it will need rethinking once it becomes patently obvious that the majority of loans will never be repaid but given my children are in the 'guinea pig' age-group, attempting to avoid Scotland being forced into introducing this (reduced block grants and all that) will be top of my list of reasons for voting 'yes' this September...

Dream bedrooms

I was driving the kids to school the other day when they started discussing their ideal bedrooms.

Léon's taken to discussing how he'd like his room to look on a daily basis recently. He's had to share a room with the girls since the fifth bedroom became our home office a few years back and he's now getting to an age where he's desperate for his own space. So it started with him asking if we'd consider converting the loft space above Charlotte's room and the home office into two bedrooms for him and Anna, leaving Amaia in the big room they currently share. I agreed that I was happy to do that as soon as I won the lotto, not mentioning I didn't actually play lotto... so they started to describe their dream rooms.

Anna was going to have a pale blue room with dark blue hearts all over the walls and 'I love 1D' written all round the wall just above the skirting in red.

Amaia asked me to paint Mr Men on her walls. That'd be easy as I'd done that once before in a previous house. (see above)

Then Léon told me his dream room was dark blue with life-sized Gandalfs painted on the walls. How creepy would that be?! I'm suddenly very glad he hasn't a hope in hell of getting a room any time soon!

Proud of my wee boy

It seems like no time at all since I took this photo. I remember taking it like it was yesterday. It was the day France won the world cup in 1998 and also the day Marcel said his first word (pomme) at the ripe old age of 11 months!

He's come quite a long way since then on the talking front... Today his senior school debating team (along with just one other Scottish school debating team) won the Strathclyde uni school debating championships propelling them to the national debating competition in Liverpool in autumn where they will be competing for a place on the team to debate next year in Brussels at the European Youth Parliament in French and English. The head of the school debating team even insisted on shaking my hand as I picked him up and thanking me for 'having him'! I guess I should take pride in my son turning into a bit of an argumentative bugger! ;-)

It's interesting to watch his determination. He works five days a week in the local shop, he's teaching himself two extra Highers (Chemistry and Spanish) from text books without a tutor, sitting an Advanced Higher a year early, trying to shine on the Scottish debating scene and preparing for his World Challenge helping the underprivileged in India. I wish his Pumpa could have seen the wonderful young man he's become. He would be so proud.

Spaceman

I love kiddie conversations:
Léon: How would I become a space man when I grow up?
Me: Well there's always the European Space programme.
Léon: Is there? What channel is it on?

Ian Brown

On Sunday my mother-in-law sent us out for our second childfree meal in a restaurant since we had Anna over six years ago. Thomas opted for the local Scottish restaurant Ian Brown's, as he'd recently seen it recommended on Twitter by Patrick Harvie. What a treat it was to get such exquisitely-prepared and yet reasonably-priced food so close and yet so far from our daily grind. It was a real sanity break.

Happy wee soul

At the weekend Brita invited us to the Science Centre. With such a large family this has long been beyond our means (we last took all the kids in 2006!) Catching Amaia unawares as she looked into the warped mirrors was such a treat for me as a mum and as a photographer. She was so bemused, happy and proud all at the same time, and Anna looked on delighted too.

I have to say though that this one was more to my liking - I might get one for my bedroom wall - it definitely shows a preferable shape to the one that greets me these mornings! ;-)

Sweet little girl

Today Amaia proudly presented me with her first novel!

"Look mummy! I've written a book. It's about me as a princess with red cheeks... I couldn't be bothered writing it with real letters though so I just made up pretend language because that was quicker, and then I signed it afterwards!"

Mummy and daddy are married now!

Apparently according to the substitute teacher Anna had today you can't have kids unless you're married. I do hope she won't be doing their sex education when they're older - sounds like she came out the ark. (Anna of course stuck up her hand to point out she was flower girl at her parents' wedding. Gotta love my daughter!) :-)

Marcel's run for India

With just four weeks to go till the deadline for paying India and five to the big sponsored run I thought I'd redirect anyone who's interested to Marcel's fundraising page one last time
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Here's the sponsorship link! Thanks

Working for yourself

I spent 17 years as and employee, followed by five as a freelance/self-employed person. When I was an employee I thought I knew all there was to know about the freelance life - I dealt with freelance staff every day after all - but I now know I hadn't really begun to understand that life until I had lived it. I'm not saying either is all good or all bad but I often feel the two worlds are actually more like two separate universes. You can never understand the other until you've walked in both sets of shoes...

I remember in my early days in publishing I used to stress about being on a two year contract, now a two month one makes me float with joy because it means I can plan my life, even if just a little bit. A two year contract now would be an unimaginable delight!

Of course working for yourself gives you greater flexibility. If the sun is shining (not that that happens often!), you can, of course, take your kids to the park after school and fit those four hours of work in after the kids are in bed. You do not feel stressed to breaking point on the morning your kid is sent home from school with chicken pox. Yes, the thought of a week of work with a sobbing child on your lap is stressful but you know you can be there rather than wondering where on earth to take them when you have no childcare available, without wondering whether you still have annual leave left and how mad your boss is going to be when you tell him or her you need a week off with no notice (and probably and second week off two weeks later when someone else comes down with it!) 

On top of that, you can attend any meeting your kid's school throws at you, and any hospital appointment or similar. Those are a few of the pluses, if you can call them that. 

When a relative is in hospital, you can hold their hand at visiting hour and catch up with work on your own time - there's no price you can put on that. I am unimaginably grateful that I was self-employed during my dad's cancer.

But it's not all as rosy... Firstly, you commit to projects and deadlines and no one else is responsible for them, so when your child is sick, you can't take that annual leave, you just have to work all night once they are in bed and you have to do it better than if you'd been inhouse because it cannot be allowed to affect the quality of your work. If you get sick yourself, you can't take a day off either. There's no sick leave so you work whatever is wrong with you. In loo with your laptop isn't the most fun...

Visibility is another absolute nightmare. When you are an employee, being given as much notice as possible of something helps. As a real example, we were told roughly four months before a family christening that is was going to take place. Had I still been an employee, I'd have booked the necessary four days off to go back to Denmark and not thought another thing about it, but as a self-employed person, the best I could do was say to clients that I'd rather have as little work on that week as possible. Of course, sod's law meant the week of the christening came and a customer's emergency left me with two weeks of work to fit in over the four days I had been trying to schedule no work for, followed ironically by two weeks of nothing when I could have attended the christening except I was too late. I could have refused, of course, but then that customer would have been inconvenienced and would have had to find and use a different freelancer with the same skill set - not the wisest move, so work had to come first. The other issue, of course, is that by not having the visibility to book months in advance travel always costs a premium. Travel for seven booked within a week of departure would make your eyes water! Booking non-refundable tickets for seven in advance on Ryanair and then being unable to use them is equally upsetting.

Often I'm asked what my plans are for the school's summer or autumn break - I don't even know what my plans are for the Easter one (in three weeks)! I may (or may not) be told that next week! So I'm in that difficult situation of being unable to book childcare in case I am working but being unable to refuse work should it materialize! And as for working out if I can pay a five year car loan or similar - that's a dream long rooted in my past.

On the last week before my five kids started their summer holiday last year, I was asked to work every day of the summer holiday for two different clients. So I did one during the week, and the other on weekends! It may only have amounted to a few hours each day but while looking after five kids??? Would you volunteer for that job? 

And when you don't have any work on, you don't enjoy the break because you wonder if you'll get any work again soon. Salaries have to be paid out of something, so you stress away every break trying to find work. It is great for the client because you always know you have to do better than your best to secure future jobs, so you give it your all, you spend extra time unpaid and you do a much better job than you would have done, had you not been freelance.

Then there's payment. I often see Facebook statuses mentioning 'X' days to payday! I fondly remember those! Now I wonder if clients are going to pay me on time so my salary can go through, or maybe just one month after I have completed a job, or sometimes if the client is international, I try not to invoice until I have done several jobs, simply because international transfer fees eat up so much of my fee. I can wait months to be paid.

Bereavement leave isn't something I ever had to use as an employee, but at least it existed. When my dad died in 2012, it felt wrong to discuss his funeral in the morning and work in the afternoon, but you don't get time off when you work for yourself. If I don't work, I don't get paid and losing my house would not have brought my dad back. It felt surreal to need to do translation work in those circumstances and my clients were lovely - they offered not to send me work for a couple of weeks till I felt like working again, but of course, no work, no pay, no mortgage payment, no house... Freelancing has its inhumane sides.

I think the thing I really never grasped before opting for this life was the lack of escape. When you work from home, you are always at work. You aren't just checking your email from home or finishing a wee thing - I did that as an employee. You are in your day-time office, eating, sleeping, living... You don't think 'It's Saturday, I'll go to the park', you think 'It's Saturday but if I get ahead with the stuff I need to send in next week then I'll be able to meet the deadline even if a kid is sick and my client deserves that I do my best' and so you work while stirring the dinner, you work in bed at night, you work when the baby's at nursery or when she falls asleep, you work in ten minute bursts 24/7 and when you aren't working you are working in your head and that way you meet all your week time deadlines and remain the model worker, at the expense only of your sanity, but who needs that anyway?

Do I prefer one or the other? I don't even know any more to be honest. I hate not knowing when I can book a holiday. I hate never having a day off, I hate the lack of visibility. I love being home when my kids come in from school, I love hugging them better when they are sick, I love working all day with my best friend, my lover, my husband... I don't know. Maybe working from home, on a contract as an employee would suit me best but for now, while my kids need me, working from home is the only way, for better or worse.

Misheard lyrics

I love what children hear in songs.

Tonight I was on bedtime duty as Thomas was out with his Indyref friends. I asked the girls if they'd each like to sing a song after I'd put the lights out. Anna sang 'Do you want to build a snowman' word perfect. Next Amaia volunteered to sing 'Let it go'. She was word perfect until 1 minute 55 in when she sang quite seriously 'To taste the lemons and bake stew'!

How sweet :-)

Psychic connection?

Today was world book day so the kids were meant to go to school dressed as a character they like from a book they'd read/been read.

Anna decided to be Pippi Langstrømpe as she enjoys those books in Danish and Amaia opted for Cinderella in her pale blue ballgown (we have the book in English and the Disney movie in Danish.)

Last Sunday had been Fastelavn in Denmark. It is a dressing up festival a bit like our Halloween. Today Thomas's sister sent us photos of our two nieces: Ursula (7) and Elisabeth (6 mths).

Ursula (left) had decided to dress up as Pippi, and baby Elisabeth was of course... well I'll let you guess for yourselves! It must be some sort of spooky international psychic connection, if you ask me!

A good Herald article on Indyref

It is nice to see some sense in the media for once.

I have to say, as someone who lives in a multinational and multicultural home, I find the idea of us being the only people on the face of this earth not capable of making decisions about our own future more than a little condescending.

Last week we had a Georgian professor staying with us. Ages with me, he had grown up in Soviet Georgia and seen his country of 5 million people fight for their right to independence. He was incredulous that any nation would prefer to abdicate that responsibility. No matter how we tried to explain the Scottish fearties to him, he just could not comprehend that mentality. Interestingly, the international media seems to agree. It's a shame so many of us are watching the BBC instead of reading it.

Mum's 70th birthday party

I like the way I've managed to catch the girls blowing out the candle on granny's birthday train on Saturday. They seem very focused on the task in hand.

Memory

Thomas's mum can recount amazingly detailed memories from when she was an infant. She remembers being fed before she could speak and feeling distressed at being unable to explain when she was full.

I'm not sure if Anna or Amaia can remember their babyhood but they both definitely seem to have inherited traits from their grandmother.

Anna described to me in detail recently how she broke her leg at the age of two, which leg it was and what colour of tights I put over the cast to protect it. She also told me about a trip to Copenhagen zoo with her cousin Ursula which also took place when she was two. As I was not with her there are no photos of the event to jog her memory either. As for Italy, which she hasn't seen since she was four, she can describe it in great detail. Yesterday she was telling me all about the neighbour, Margaret's plunge pool, its depth and the float she used and how she had been scared of the wasps the water seemed to attract.

Amaia too has very strong visual memories of being two. She often points at lucozade bottles even today and says 'Pumpa's drink', despite the fact that he died when she was two. She uses the word 'yesterday' to mean at any time in the past so I'm often thrown when she starts telling me about 'yesterday' until she fills in the details that pinpoint the event as being one or two years ago. She's particularly good at remembering what she wore on specific occasions, or what she ate.

It's funny which genes kids seem to inherit.

Sun on sandstone

I was out with my camera last week showing Kakha round Glasgow. One of the things I love on those very Scottish days when you get every season within an hour, is when you see that stunning effect of sun on sandstone against a backdrop of slate sky. It's definitely my favourite lighting for Glasgow photography.

Teenagers

Loving the teenage contributions to my fridge shopping list:

Léon is a fascinating soul

Léon has been fascinated by all things foreign since before I can remember. His ear for phonetics in Danish and French have always been surprising even before he couldn't read or write. He would point out nuances of sounds that even I found barely perceptible.

He has also always been drawn to languages he doesn't understand. He loved the sound of Italian the first time we visited Thomas's parents in Italy and was desperate to learn what the villagers were saying.

This last week has taken that to a new level. Thomas's friend Kakha was here visiting from Georgia. Eighty percent of the conversation for the week took place in Norwegian, with about ten in English and ten in Georgian for good measure.

One evening I came in to find Léon sitting contentedly at the dining table taking everything in. He was then able to explain to me in great detail the ways in which Norwegian distorted the Danish words he was used to and how he could then guess from context what the words that differed in Norwegian must mean. Given his knowledge of Danish is much more spoken than written, drawing the parallels between the two languages is harder than it would be if you were a fluent reader of Danish so I have to say I was impressed. But not only impressed with his understanding, also by the look of contentment such an exercise gave him.

He just loved having someone so exotic to brighten up his mundane Scottish winter. It's been such a long time since anyone has stayed that he was becoming quite fed up and this has definitely perked him up. He's too sociable a wee guy to make do with just his six cohabitants!

His reaction to a week of Norwegian reminded me of the time, as a child, I found a bottle of shampoo in a campsite shower. Its label was written in Dutch. I sneaked back to my tent with it hidden in my jacket as if it was a precious treasure. I was drawn to the exotic too as a small child. I remember reading and rereading it trying to make out what meant what. I couldn't have been more than nine or ten.

I definitely think Léon is a chip off the old block, though he is growing up in an international enough house to hopefully satisfy some of his curiosity. When Kakha left, Léon was very sad. If he could have his way, he'd have a different foreign-speaking guest stay with us every other week.

I must try to find out if there are any lucrative niches for linguists before he gets to uni age - because I'm not sure he'll want to become Complexli's third member of staff one day!