'What do you wish you'd known - and done to prepare - before you moved to Kenya?'
Well not first or second priority, but at some point I'd have welcomed signing up for an immersion course in housewifely arts of the 1950s at our local FE college. I'm not completely hopeless. I cook from scratch, can botch together a child's fancy dress costume overnight, know where to place the gaffer tape and safety pins so it will probably withstand the test till the end of the day. But away from the safety net of a handy charity shop on the corner, a Tescos selling useful accessories and ingredients - well maternal support, fancy dress in particular, is all more tricky here.
It struck home on our first Book Day at the Kenyan school. First and SecondBorn were happy in their self-designed self-chosen homespun costumes. Until D-Day minus 30 seconds, when we passed a mini Gandhi walking past us up to school. White loin cloth, stick, glasses, flesh coloured swimming hat for a bald head. Why did no one tell us the standards were so high? In Book Day Assembly I was bowled over by the collaborative effort of several children for Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator. Tent poles, plastic sheeting, several burly dads shifting the creation - and one great glass elevator erected at the back of the hall, complete with a Charlie, Grandpa Jo and Willy Wonka. Culture shock has many faces.
Last night our vampire returned home enthused from the Halloween disco.
'Eric won the best fancy dress prize again! He was a robot, with cheese spray to spray from his arm and a real lit up light bulb on his head. Can we do that next year?'
Or the Romans Dress Up Day, passing the centurion with helmet topped by a gold sprayed bootbrush turned upside down, crowning his glory.
This excess creativity seeps into other areas too. 'Make a 3D model of a specialised cell' (year six homework). SecondBorn and I were pleased, preening even, with our prototype labelled sperm cell. Until he returned home bubbling over with details of his friend's baked, edible animal cell cum cake.
Our children, by thirteen and ten are kindly and accepting of maternal limitations, for example on party fare. So its a cake, Nigella's biscuits in the shape of numbers, chocolate fingers, hoola hoops and cheese and pineapple on sticks again and that's a signature family tradition. Friends with five year olds have a harder time. Urgent messages placed on facebook groups betray a deeper anguish:
'Who is coming out from UK who could bring me six packs of fondant icing for me to make marks one, two and three of the bloody Barbie cake?'
This week at BigCorporate I was travelling down eight floors in a lift with the office rubbish. Quick as quick I sorted through it, purloining three pieces of (otherwise unobtainable) polystyrene packaging for this weekend's 3D contour model. It's an everyday image, each week tattered men sort through our rubbish before the rubbish van comes, taking out the edible, reusable and resellable. Only now I have joined them.
Well not first or second priority, but at some point I'd have welcomed signing up for an immersion course in housewifely arts of the 1950s at our local FE college. I'm not completely hopeless. I cook from scratch, can botch together a child's fancy dress costume overnight, know where to place the gaffer tape and safety pins so it will probably withstand the test till the end of the day. But away from the safety net of a handy charity shop on the corner, a Tescos selling useful accessories and ingredients - well maternal support, fancy dress in particular, is all more tricky here.
It struck home on our first Book Day at the Kenyan school. First and SecondBorn were happy in their self-designed self-chosen homespun costumes. Until D-Day minus 30 seconds, when we passed a mini Gandhi walking past us up to school. White loin cloth, stick, glasses, flesh coloured swimming hat for a bald head. Why did no one tell us the standards were so high? In Book Day Assembly I was bowled over by the collaborative effort of several children for Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator. Tent poles, plastic sheeting, several burly dads shifting the creation - and one great glass elevator erected at the back of the hall, complete with a Charlie, Grandpa Jo and Willy Wonka. Culture shock has many faces.
Last night our vampire returned home enthused from the Halloween disco.
'Eric won the best fancy dress prize again! He was a robot, with cheese spray to spray from his arm and a real lit up light bulb on his head. Can we do that next year?'
Or the Romans Dress Up Day, passing the centurion with helmet topped by a gold sprayed bootbrush turned upside down, crowning his glory.
This excess creativity seeps into other areas too. 'Make a 3D model of a specialised cell' (year six homework). SecondBorn and I were pleased, preening even, with our prototype labelled sperm cell. Until he returned home bubbling over with details of his friend's baked, edible animal cell cum cake.
Our children, by thirteen and ten are kindly and accepting of maternal limitations, for example on party fare. So its a cake, Nigella's biscuits in the shape of numbers, chocolate fingers, hoola hoops and cheese and pineapple on sticks again and that's a signature family tradition. Friends with five year olds have a harder time. Urgent messages placed on facebook groups betray a deeper anguish:
'Who is coming out from UK who could bring me six packs of fondant icing for me to make marks one, two and three of the bloody Barbie cake?'
This week at BigCorporate I was travelling down eight floors in a lift with the office rubbish. Quick as quick I sorted through it, purloining three pieces of (otherwise unobtainable) polystyrene packaging for this weekend's 3D contour model. It's an everyday image, each week tattered men sort through our rubbish before the rubbish van comes, taking out the edible, reusable and resellable. Only now I have joined them.
Catrin - I've finally got to your blog and love it. That friend speaks my mind! (Though I guess its easier in the cape than kenya to find handy sources of useful things for parties, etc) but oh how I miss the general usefulness of english supermarkets and corner shops and all sorts of other shops. So often I scratch my head for hours, trying to figure out where exactly I'm likely to find the simplest of things. Keep up the good mumming! Love fiona xxx
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