I have been offline for what seems like forever due to Dead Router Trauma (a dark, dark time) but now things are restored so I can go back to gorging myself on the internet and writing up all the things my son comes out with.

Here are the list of questions Matei has woken us up with in the last week*.

"Why can't cats climb on glass?"
"If I have a bad dream, can I die in my sleep?"
"Is God dead?"
"Is Jesus dead?"
"Were the people who killed Jesus evil?"


How is Babby Formed

And when he is not pondering the ethics of Ancient Romans, he is quite keen on concept of creation.

Not long ago I was chasing my children around the house with a rhetorical cry of "Why are you so adorable?" which Matei took very seriously indeed.
"Because I was born that way," he said, then added after a thoughtful pause "and because that is how Jesus created me."
"Oh yes? Was Jesus pregnant?"
"Oh yes," Matei nodded. "For many, many years."

On a positive note I think it will be years before we need to have birds and bees conversations, lest we be accused of heresy.

How is Jesus formed

Matei has been really absorbing religion lately, and is quite confused by it. When he's not walking around the house tunelessly singing songs he picked up in his CofE school "My God is mighty, there is nothing He cannot do..." then he is grilling Z and me on the workings of Christian theology which I struggle to answer in a generalised and age-appropriate way while Z tries to keep a straight face.

E.g.
"What does God do? Why does God keep letting sad things happen to me and not fixing them?"
"Well, God doesn't interfere in people's lives, but for lots of people when they are sad they are comforted by the thinking about God, or feeling God's presence."
"What does God's presence feel like?"
"Sometimes you might feel a great warmth and wellbeing inside you. That can be like the feeling of God."

This has temporarily satisfied my literal-minded son, although it has also meant that whenever he feels the slightest bit of heat he announces himself in communion with the Creator. I dread to think of the stuff he probably comes out with in school, although if he's talking about Jesus then it hopefully means he is not pursuing another favourite topic of enquiry which is Why Doesn't Mommy Have A Penis.


*This is a change from the usual two questions he wakes us up with, namely "Can I watch cartoons?" and "Can I eat candy", which my autopilot could authoratatively respond to ("No") even if I was in a coma.

Matei, on Marriage

"I have been thinking that I should get married to Helena when I grow up."
"Well, you can't do that because she is your sister."
"But I know her very well, so I would know exactly what to expect from her as a person."
"That's true, but you aren't allowed to marry your family Matei."
"That sounds very incovenient. If you don't marry your family, then how do you know that you are going to marry a good person?"

Matei, on Suffering

Matei, one of life's profound and natural hypochondriacs saw an old scratch on his knee and immediately sought Z and my opinions on the gravity of the situation.
"What is this?"
"It's just a scratch."
"I think Helena did it with one of her claws."
"No, you got this weeks ago, it's scabbed. It's nothing, it doesn't hurt." He thought about this, then with a grave, world-weary look said:
"I believe you are wrong. I think that only when you are dead then you feel no pain from your injuries.

Anyone who has ever lived with me will have become familiar with my intense mouse and rat phobia. Although over the years this has faded significantly in that I can now handle said rodents on film, in pictures and safely locked in cages it remains an ongoing issue and the only thing I hate about cat ownership.

But I strive to grow more resilient, even as each year brings some fresh new horror to test me with. In the last few years I have overcome:

*the trauma of spotting a something small and grey in the garden and saying to Z with determined optimism "I think the cats have killed a bird" only to have him brightly respond with: "No, it's a mouse! Look!" and proceed to lift it by its tail and dange it in front of me before throwing it over the fence. Actually I infer that last part because by then I was in the process of running into the house as fast as possible and find a lockable room I could hyperventilate in and refused to let Z touch me until I'd seen him scrub himself from fingertip to elbow with the thoroughness of a surgeon.

*watching the cats play frisbee in the garden with the dead rodentia

*my inability to leave the house when there are small grey bodies left on my doorstep without screaming or having an anxiety attack shortly afterwards.

I was feeling pretty good about all of this. So much so that when I discovered a small dead mouse not far from my front door I managed to be very calm about it until Matei spotten the same thing and became giddy with enthusiasm.

"It's a mouse! Can I stroke it?"
"Absolutely not."
"Can I touch it?"
"No."
"What about with the edge of my shoe?"
"No!"
"What about with a stick?"
"No!"
"Can I take it inside and keep the bones?"
"Just &^%$£# leave it!"

And after I had finished locking and barring the door and wiping the cold sweat from my forehead I had to have a quiet lie down until the urge to rub my skin off passed.

I guess George the cat had realised that he was pushing me too far too fast with his desensitisation agenda and decided to ease me into the process instead, because the next time I opened the door the mouse was gone and the next day in its place was half a mouse.

"There is half a mouse in front of the door," I said to Z, with what I felt was admirable restraint and presence of mind.
"Oh yes," he replied. "That happens. One time I found just a mouse head. It was like a warning message from the cat Mafia."

And once I had succesfully cleansed those images from my mind I reminded him about the part of our marital agreement in which I keep track of people's birthdays and he is in charge of disposing of dead bodies.

He agreed, except the next day the same 0.5 mouse body was still there. Only now someone had trod on it so it was splattered and welded to the flagstones, its curling tail like the string of a tiny, grotesque balloon. Two days later, it is still there.

Is this an attempt to strengthen me through adversity? A new category of spousal abuse? Revenge for that time that I shrunk his sweater in the wash?

I am not sure I am cut out for psychological warfare although I am considering the beginning of a guerilla campaign in which I begin by putting salt in his coffee and then progress to shrinking all his sweaters in the wash.

Lately Matei has been thinking about the demise of things.

"Mummy," said he, "I will be very sad when you and Daddy cease to be*".
"That won't be for a long time," I offered but he simply shook his head gravely.
"But you will die Mummy. One day, when the time comes, everybody and everything dies."

After a brief pause, he went on:

"Even the cat will die. Then its fur will fall off and its skin will dry and the only thing that will be left will be bones**. And then, because we have loved the cat, we will gently stroke the bones."

He seemed very satisfied with this before adding:
"And then you know, when you and Daddy die I will do the same thing for you. Because I love you soooo much."

I'm not sure how one ought to interpret a son's suggestion for turning his family into exhibits of his own Natural History Musuem, but personally I find it very charming. It's certainly a step up from his previous suggestions of what would happen after I died.




*he used the Serbian word uginuti which means the death of an animal. I've been struggling to find an equivalent in the Roman languages.

** I have no clue where he got Decomposition 101 from. Probably dinosaur books.

Matei insists on accurate reporting

Matei has spent two weeks gallivanting with my mum around Belgrade and providing us with regular updates of his progress, like so:

"Mummy, my swimming teacher told me I could dive without thinking. I told him he was wrong, because I can dive AND think."

Z and I moped for a day or so ("Were you and daddy sad when I left?" "Yes." "Did you cry?" "Yes." "With real tears?" "Yes." "I was sad too, and I cried for you at the airport but then I stopped on the plane.") and then became giddy with the possibilities of looking after only one child (She goes to sleep by herself! Without cryin! The free time, it practically creates itself!) and then we became actually giddy from paint and solvent fumes as we threw ourselves into a frenzy of gardening and housework.

Clean all the things!

Z bought me a steam cleaner* and I feel about it the way Rambo feels about his AK47 and it imbues me with levels of ease and satisfaction I have never hitherto associated with cleaning. Shower mold and grimy tile grout have been greeted with cries of "Take that Motherfuckers!" My floors are shiny, a duet of steaming and hoovering has turned the rug from light grey back to white and tiles no longer frighten me.

Learning things the hard way

On the other hand 20 month olds terrify me, especially ones whose soal goal in life is to CLIMB ALL THE THINGS and then flamenco dance on top of them to celebrate this achievement. It's a terror that comes fresh on the heels of Helena managing to fall down the stairs while reaching for the cat (cue tears and bloody snot and head lump the size of an egg and 5 hours of observation in A&E while our overtired and overexcited child ran riot and Z and I tried to distract her with inflated surgical gloves). After the initial half an hour of pain and fright she appeared to suffer no ill effects whatsoever, though it took Z and me significantly longer to get over the horror of having broken the baby.

And now everyone has a healthy respect for things withe edges.

*I asked for it and awaited its arrival with childish glee. I don't think the 17 year old Nina would recognise me.

Year 1 of Mother's day : I get up with the baby all night long and then do it from crack of dawn onwards while Z sleeps. He looks baffled after I burst into tears and eventually says:
"Well I didn't want to get in your way, because I thought that you know, Mother's Day is when you just really want to spend extra time with the kid and let it be all about you and him."

Year 2 of Mother's Day: A lovely bouquet of flowers is delivered the week before. On actual Mother's day there is nothing bar a confused look again.
"But I already sent you the flowers a week ago!" he says. "It would have been triple price to have them delivered on actual Mother's Day."
"You can do plenty of free stuff," I counter. "What about a card, or a lie in, or a flower you picked on your walk?" Z continues to exude confusion, while I embrace self-pity and spend a large part of the afternoon enjoying a long cry and an even longer sulk.

Year 3 of Mother's day: changing tactics, I give Z the name of a specific bath product that I would really enjoy trying out, and email him a link to some stores where it may be found. Z promptly forgets the name, but uses his lunch break to walk all over Oxford St and calls me multiple times for clarification leading to much comedy as I attempt to spell out the name of a brand over the bad reception. In a signature move of thoughtlessness and generosity, he gets a whole range of bath and body product from the brand, figuring that the thing I want will be somewhere in there.

Year 4 of Mother's Day: I get exactly what I asked for which is: breakfast in bed, and then alone time in bed, with my Kindle while he wrestles the the children into their clothes and hustles them out into the garden. The children, sensing contentment, circle me like sharks in the water doing their best to eat my breakfast and my Kindle, but my powers of concentration are fearsome when woken and I am determined to embrace my shred of indolence. I also receive bonus lovely gift of t-shirts with the kids faces and handprints (awww) and a meal out whose splendidness is not diminished even by Z breaking one of his teeth halfway through. The children do their level best to cover both of us in assorted sauces and oils, so that by the end of the day our clothes look like something to intrigue CSI, but we do not care because I am as fully qualified to cling to cheerfulness as I am to sorrow.

In the normal course of things, Helena is about as affectionate as a sheepdog. She's happy to run circles around us, with excited noises and the occasional friendly headbutt but generally views kissing and hugging as an invasion of personal space.

On the other hand if she feels anxious or unwell then nothing else will do but to attach herself in a full-body hug to the first available Trusted Adult, baby koala-style, and any attempts to put her down and break the hold are met with the most bereft and grief-stricken wailing imaginable. If there were ashes to be had she would be smearing her face with them. On the whole I'm cool with this. It's nice to have a cuddle and since (unlike her brother, who seemed to have a built-in altimeter as an infant) she's perfectly happy to be held by an adult who is sitting down I've watched more than one episode of The Good Wife while she snuffled into my neck and elbowed me in the ribs and patted my cheek. It also feels like this is all I've been doing every third week since December 2011, when the whole family started coming down in rotation with the Respiratory/Sinus Lurgy of Satan.

When her style has not been cramped by terrifying coughing, or gastic symptoms or sinus malevolence Helena has been doing her usual acts of theft (there is nothing which makes her happier than lurking on the sidelines until she can swoop down like a falcon on one of Matei's toys and then make off with it, cackling, and demanding to be chased) and sabotage (of which more later).

Matei has been more or less golden and I give Four a cautious two thumbs-up. Four is a good age. A useful age. A bribable, biddable age. A veritable Renaissance, compared to that oppressive, aggresive yob Three.

We communicate better. He is more patient, less anxious and has at last begun displaying a certain usefulness as a family member. Just yesterday he helped me carry home several new plants from Homebase and didn't melt down once when I nixed a number of his suggestions in store about what we should plant in the garden (potatoes, cacti, orchids and the Venus flytrap)or what we should buy (all the toys and some tiles).

He has also been solidly involved in cooking - making a whole Victoria sponge by himself (under my supervision). He expanded a solid 40 minutes of effort on beating and sifting and measuring and folding in the various ingredients while his sister's contribution to the process was to headbutt the kitchen door and wail until we relented and let her in, then to grab the flour and throw it around in the joyful manner of confetti, or rice at a wedding and finally to fiddle with the oven while our backs were turned (foreshadowing!).

In blissful conviction that the oven was set to 180 degrees we left it to bake our cake mix, even going so far as to pooh pooh Z's observation regarding 'a funny smell'. On the other hand when the timer sounded and I saw that the oven was set to 250C and our cakes were rock solid and completely cremated, I shrieked and Matei burst into tears.

"My cake" he wailed. "My beautiful cake! I worked so hard on it! I am so so sad about it! The baby is the naughtiest baby who ever lived, in the whole world"* I did my best to comfort our own little Mary Berry, and salvaged a few pieces from the (still soft and springy) heart of our cremated sponge, which we served with ice cream and fresh strawberries, but two days on he still gets sniffly when he remembers The Episode and has come up with various plans on how to Helena-proof the kitchen.

"I shall stand in the doorway Mummy, and block her way with my arms and my legs and if that doesn't work then I shall roar at her like a dinosaur and if that doesn't work, then I shall hit her with a mop."

He'll go far as a project manager, I'm sure.

Matei has always been moody and sensitive, but lately he's become very compassionate and kind.
Following his damning judgements of Helena's parenting skills he has taken over the care for the babies himself, toting them around the house everywhere and issuing very specific instructions for their care. ("Mummy you should hold this baby and sing it a song about a star and then tell it a story about trucks.")***

We played Junior Monopoly recently, wherein he was Germany to my Greece and lent me money to keep me in the game after I went bust. There is a great kindness in him which is lovely to see and even nicer to live with. Z and I nominate him as "Child most likely to spoon gruel into our dribbling mouths."

He still headbutts us all accidentally** but this is followed by a kiss and an apology.
"I'm sorry I did that again! One day when I grow up I won't do it anymore." Something to look forward to, there.


*He may be correct.

** Same rules as with horses. Approach him from behind at your own risk.

***He has had a number of specific instructions to my own parenting approach as well. Like the time I shouted at him about not putting his clothes on and he looked at me sternly, then said: "Mummy, don't shout at me, it's not nice. You can have anger inside you and say "Matei stop doing that bad thing" but without yelling.

Hello Livejournal!
I am ill. And trying to do my taxes, which is stressful while attempting to stick to Matei's punishment of no cartoons for two days (tbh, more of a punishment for me than for him when I feel the way I do).

On the other hand, this is utterly utterly fascinating. I'm especially taken with the bit about Gwyneth Paltrow's son having a private tutor for Latin, Greek, philosophy and sailing.

Matei sought me out, aghast.
"Mummy, Helena is a very bad mother*! She dropped her baby on the floor and then just left her there!"


* Although she clearly has much to master in terms of techique, Helena looooooves human babies. She squats by them and chats to them and pats their fluffy little heads and treats them with all the interest and reverence she normally reserves for the Animal Kingdom**. I'm not sure whether this is because she considers them some kind of species of naked cats, and aside from occasional attempts to hug them with her whole body, she's as gentle as can be.


** My daughter's current vocabulary is cat, bird, dog, duck, giraffe. She addresses each household cat by its name but never acknowledges me at all. I am considering derssing up in a giant cat suit in order to arouse her respect and interest.