Our family shifts shape a lot. With Matti with us Thursday to Sunday and Ruskin coming during all the UK school holidays, there are two, three or four children at home. During Matti's holidays Anton usually sleeps curled beside him for a week or two and then he is gone. Some weeks we are a busy household of four and then on Sunday afternoon we are down to the two littlest. What has surprised me most is that this situation feels more fluid and functional than I thought it would, but of course there are moments when I notice every flaw in the linoleum, every peel in the paint. Back in my university days a very wise woman told me the saying 'the soul travels at the speed of a trotting camel'. Ruskin and I have sat on a camel together as it sank and rose, ambling forward across a small part of the vast Sahara and I can still feel the speed a camel travels in my bones! So it is no surprise that the fast pace of goodbyes and airport drop offs that create the rhythm of life here can leave me feeling as if I am the stationary point in a time lapse photograph.

The good thing is that, apart from needing my camel to be moving a little quicker than it would like, and most often catching up with me some time after events, the kids are doing fine. I always find it something of a shock when Ruskin arrives happy and relaxed and so comfortable in his own skin. I remember spending my teenage years feeling like my body was a strange, wobbly, thing that had attached itself to the real me, so witnessing his confident navigation of these years leaves me quite bewildered and very relieved. I love doing the laundry when Ruskin is home, partly because it is a pleasure to do the practicalities of parenting him during the short time he is here, but mostly because it is nice to stand alone on the balcony smoothing out the evidence of his speedy growth. And though it only really feels as if my camel and I move as one when all four of our children are under one roof there is pleasure in all the forms our family takes.

Ville's parents are in Istanbul at the moment and stayed with us over the weekend. I love how much the three of them talk, and how deeply. The atmosphere feels unclogged by this fast free flow of ideas, which makes me realise (again) how stale this tiredness makes me. I am literally, as the saying goes, 'not on the same page' as Ville right now: I am not reading the same books or newspapers or following (even the little that I can!) his trains of thought.

When we are out walking I like it when Ville and his mother walk ahead so that they can speak Swedish and chatter even faster. It is great for the children to be surrounded by more people, for there to be a fresh infusion of energy. Matti has so much to say so additional audience are always welcome! Parenting alone, without family in the same country, feels a heavy responsibility for Ville and I sometimes. They get their attitude to life largely from us, and I so want to throw off any weariness and make life a merry dance. Anton's adoration of all his grandparents is a complete joy to me and I want to make the most of it, despite the distances. And yesterday, thanks to the extra entertainers, I had my first afternoon nap in a very, very long time and woke to watch the heavy bobbing quince outside the window.

A few days ago I met up with a friend I had only met a handful of times a decade ago, and in an interesting twist of fate, has just landed in Istanbul. While we sat in the wonderfully empty, glossy Pera Museum cafe she told me that when we last saw each other I was 29, the age she is now. 10 years. What must I look like to her? I felt the start of tears when she told me that I am just the same. She uses the word energetic. It takes a moment to sink in. The essence of her is identical, completely untarnished, it is a warm clarity, an intelligent openness. We both describe ourselves as tired. I am so bored of using the word about myself but all other adjectives I might use are blocked by the woolly, grey mass of it.

I skip back (not merrily) to what life was like when I met her. It was completely dominated by a shared-parenting arrangement I couldn't get used to, to get out of a marriage I couldn't live with. My part of Ruskin's life being weekends and holidays I had little choice but to qualify as a teacher and work in the same county to ensure I never missed an opportunity to be with him. As it was impossible to find work in the tiny Dales village where he lived with his father, Friday meant a long journey on public transport and foot. Living in York, working in Leeds and fitting days of longing into weekends meant that I was always running. Which was good, as I was terrified of what I would feel if I stood still.

If someone could have told me ten years ago that before the next decade was up I would be able to see Ruskin whenever I wanted and make decisions about his life again, have met a man I could imagine loving and respecting to the grave, have two new children and a step-son just the age to unify the brood, that I would get to travel and live abroad, I could have stopped the tears sooner and smiled more often. How is it only ten years since I felt I had been checkmated before the game had begun. I hope the next ten years will feel as long as the last, despite the promised sunshine.

Of course, life hasn't become less complex. I would also have struggled to believe that I could fight for a year to have Ruskin living with me full-time only to find that being educated in Turkey didn't work for him, and the solution be boarding school in England. Or, after promising myself I would never do it again, raising children far from the support of family (though I did pop back to the UK for two home births at my Mum and Dad's house!). I am hopeful that there will be days ahead that are a bit simpler, a lot more secure and even containing some luxury, but I have a strong feeling that if Ville and I get the chance to grow old together we will say 'Do you remember?' most about what life contains now. We are running, but our arms are full of the best things money can't buy, and moments of stillness nothing to fear.

So, ten years from now? Will we have moved to Finland as we plan? Will we finally have a garden? Will we have our first Grandchild? The only thing that really matters is that our little cast of characters are all still on the stage. What a difference they have made, Ville has made.

10 years on.

Ping, Anton and Neve.

How soothed I would have been by this image 10 years ago. How much it delights me now.

On the bus to the airport the boys struggle to stay awake but Anton is determined not to miss a single car.

Waving Ruskin off after the summer holidays. Till half term.

Neve on the vapur back to Heybeliada.

The children often make new friends on the vapur.

There are usually people on the boats hoping for a cuddle with Neve.

You can see dolphins in the Marmara sea. Vapur commuters from our Island can watch them (close to Fenerbahçe is a good spot) in the mouth of the Bosphorus, against the backdrop of this high-rise city. Its quite a thrill, one of those that let you shed any constricting anxieties while you watch. For me this is something to do with working out where they will next leap into visibility. I have to relax and imagine their hidden rhythm.

We are tired. Since Neve was born five months ago, we have spent no more than a handful of days in our own home with nothing to do but look after the children. Just before my sister, with her husband and four boys, arrived (and while my brother was here) I realised I needed help or I would never get the flat clean. I turned to one of my favourite people on the Island and asked her to save me. Mrs Star (her surname is Yıldız) pops up all over the Island, doing all kinds of work. She arrived, took off her long skirts, put on jogging bottoms and wrapped her hair high in her headscarf to begin the acrobatics that is Turkish cleaning. This involves balancing on window ledges to shine the outside of high up windows and moving all kinds of furniture single-handed. Because she was fasting I asked her not to do the fridge or food cupboards (so they remain a state!) but I felt a fair amount of shame that, with my full belly, I did not have the energy to occupy two little ones and scrub the floors.

Mrs Star's two children are a very big, shining question mark that hangs over my head. They are beautiful children, gentle, thoughtful, happy. The elder (I haven't managed to work out her age but around 12 is my guess) runs a stall during the holidays selling corn. She and her brother sit through the day, and into the night, patiently waiting for customers. They swim in the small harbour, no umbrellas and sun-loungers for them. Mrs Star's children are the kind of children I want to raise, and something tells me I am going about it the wrong way. All our resources are spent on our children, Ville and I strive to cushion every bump, going without to allow every opportunity. I feel a failure if I haven't read enough stories, created enough car obstacle courses, forced myself to pretend to play. Mrs Star's children have grown up helping, understanding that their family is a project that every member must play their part in, because due to a lack of economic ease and social security, nothing can be taken for granted. I love that the family has ensured that the children have nice things, and that the children know the worth of them. I have a hope that before we leave the Island we will know that they will have the chance to fly far above their expectations.

Shortly after my sister arrived she said that Ville and I look like we have given up (don't worry we are still talking!). I think its true to say we have run out of steam for a moment. We are so used to managing with very little that we just didn't recognise how shocking our lack of material comfort might look to visitors. Actually I know that we edit it out of the story our pictures tell. Despite hundreds of pictures on Facebook there are very few showing the reality of our home. We are ashamed, we just can't fix it yet. Suddenly Hellen's photos of their holiday with us lay bare our home, the mattresses on the floor, the salvaged furniture, the miss-match of dishes. It is hard to look. And the saga of our toilet continues, it now needs knocking into place before you use it!

We may be tired but our lust for life here is so close to the surface. It will arc free soon. My friend Sophie said that you sometimes see dolphins when you need them, we decided its to do with looking. I am scanning the sea.

Days before we return to Istanbul the boys have completely tuned into the rhythm of the Finnish countryside. They spend hours pottering through private games and are learning to sit still, just existing. Yesterday though, their new confidence for exploration led Anton to act completely out of character, and we are still trying to quiet the demons that were awakened.

Mid-morning Anton was playing in the sandpit while Ville typed only yards away and Matti made circuits of the garden, playing all the characters in a Beyblade roleplay. Faffa and Fammo were inside. I set off down the track to do the getting Neve to sleep walk: 7 or 8 minutes to the post-boxes and back. Neve went straight to sleep, and, with her still in the sling I sat down for a drink. I looked out towards the sand and called out to Ville to ask where Anton was. The next 20 minutes were some of the worst of my life. The idyllic countryside here suddenly consisted of nothing but hidden ponds and ditches, and wheat that could hide a child for hours. We all began to run, checking the barrels collecting rainwater, the rickety barn stairs and every slope steep enough for a fall. We shouted and shouted into silence. With Neve bouncing I ran back the way I had come and then in the other direction. I began to think someone had coaxed him into the forest and stolen him away. And then we heard him shouting 'Mummy, Mummy, Mummy',

When we finally regained our wits and stood still to listen we were able to hear him. We began to run along the track that leads to an abandoned barn (the opposite direction to the one I had walked with Neve. I had run that way but not far enough). Faffa got to him first, and when I saw Anton, and was able to drink in the sight of him, he was held high in his arms. He had simply set off to look for me and gone the wrong way. He had called out as soon as he became unsure. While I was falling deep into panic he was dodging the tiny frogs as he walked confidently down the track.

Living in an apartment our children are never outside without us, we were totally unprepared for him walking beyond the sight of us. In no time at all I was stood at the edge of loss, begging not to have to suffer it. I, like most mothers, am not in any need of being reminded how much I love and need my children. Nobody made any mistakes, there were no lessons to be learnt. Just utter terror that lasted all day and into this morning despite there being nothing sinister in what actually took place.

I had one such incident when Ruskin was a similar age too. We were sat under a tree by a lake reading. I looked up to find him gone and shouted and shouted. I began to run in the shallows of the lake, arms ready to pull him out and breath life back into him. He was nowhere to be found. I stood still for a moment trying to calm myself enough to act logically when I heard rustling above my head. He had climbed into the tree above me to hide. He had mistaken my panic for the part I played in hide and seek.

This morning we took the children to a museum preserving artefacts and worker's accommodation from an iron making factory. The worker's house had only one painting: a picture of a baby in a crib with an angel with huge white wings keeping watch over it. A talisman against the fear of loss that always accompanies deep love. It is easy to understand what could lead to the choice of such a painting.

Last time Faffa and Fammo came to Istanbul we (as usual) went to see all the major art exhibitions running at the time. One of them was a collection of works by Francisco Goya. The paintings I didn't know were even darker that the ones I did (mostly Disasters of War). A series of colourful pictures of children turned out on closer inspection to have some threat (precipices, ill-intentioned men) in every one. Then Fammo and I read amongst the notes that 5 out of his 6 children had died in infancy. One of his sons was described as dying when he was 'just two'. Having a two year old myself I know that two years is enough time for a vast amount of love and hope. By two we know all kinds of things about our children's individual quirks and personalities. By two we have fallen a long, long way down the slope of unconditional love and there is no way back. Nor would we want there to be.

This landscape is being restored to its former innocence, slowly.

Here are today's pictures. Looking at the first two, I was so struck by how, although you could label Matti's relationship with his siblings "half" and "part time", it would be ridiculous. And here is Anton playing with the cat (who came here from Turkey) blissfully unaware of what he put us through.

Part of what I am doing on this blog is a project called 'Documenting Delight', for which I take a daily picture of the children to record their pleasures, or more often than not, my delight in them. Yesterday I realised that I had undertaken a similar project years ago when I decided to record what Ruskin did every day for one year. I started on the first of January 1999 after finally leaving my marriage the previous November. I was determined that the book would record lots of fun, that it would only be about the happiness I could give my son, and never about the desperation I felt about no longer seeing him every day. I realise now that I was holding myself to account, documenting delight to ensure he felt it, reminding myself that despite everything, this child, the light of my life, burned bright. I still have the book I made. In it there are pictures of Ruskin with huge 'canvasses' of flattened packing boxes filled with left over paint from decorating. There are many pictures of picnics by the stream outside our house and his diligent 'fixing' of a nearby wall with toy tools. There are pictures of him making fires and climbing trees with the three home schooled children that lived in another part of the converted barn that was our home. The project was a success in that it was a daily reminder to focus on joy and a record that, despite feeling that I was little more than ashes, I had achieved something big: I had kept my beloved child laughing.

Nearly a decade later I found Ville, and both having a child from a previous marriage, we understood that the only way our relationship would work was by committing to each others children completely. This has required equal efforts from both of us, and one of mine has been the move to Istanbul. A few months ago I realised that the cultural differences around raising children were making me a less light-hearted and spontaneous parent and I needed a new project. I found just the role model I needed in a photographer called Georgia, who has inspired lots of women to document delight. So this time, thanks to the internet, I am doing it with a group of women from all over the world, each with their own reasons for daily documentation of the joy children bring, whatever our circumstances.

At first I thought this project would simply be about Anton and Neve, the two children Ville and I have together. One of my concerns about this blog is that, as Matti's step-mother, its hard to gauge how appropriate it is to talk publicly about my relationship with him, though I would dearly love to. One of my hopes for this blog is that all the children, at some point far in the future, will find it a pleasure to read our thoughts and see our pictures. So what if there was less for Matti to find, despite being such an integral part of it all? So from now on I will document the delight of whatever children are with us that day. And I am delighted that we are only days away from Ruskin being back in the pictures too.....

Coming to Finland from Istanbul is incredibly refreshing. We got on the plane sweaty, unwilling to make any unnecessary movements, and by Riga we were delighted to find that we really should be wearing jumpers. The rain that has fallen on and off since we arrived is more than welcome. The other relieving thing is that suddenly views are panoramic, green and simple. I am shocked, again, by the feeling of space. The children are more energetic and play for hours in the evening, confused by the light that fades a little around midnight and is back by three. Playing in the drizzle is of no note here and I love walking Neve to sleep while tiny, light drops find her nose and eyelids. With less than a week to go before we return to the heat and claustrophobia of a city of well over 15 million, my thoughts turn to it more and more. I know that I am steeling myself, that the place I call home challenges me. These pictures will be a reminder to me of a fortifying gulp of breath, because I am more than up for the challenge, though right now I could cry about returning to the dust and misunderstanding. Recently I thought about how completely I fell in love with the Yorkshire Dales, and the decade I spent there was largely to make shared parenting of Ruskin with my ex-husband possible. I cannot gloss over the amount of tears shed over being a part-time mother, but I did everything possible to be as much of a mother as I could be. And part of that was making Yorkshire my home. Then I met Ville, and to enable him to do for Matti what I did for Ruskin, I have moved to Istanbul. There is no doubt that two more love affairs have begun: one with a city and one with a boy who just turned eight (wow, four years already!). In the meantime I take a deep breath of cool air, soak in the green and smell the pines.

I spot the Scandinavians in the departure lounge. It's not their blond hair, but the shorts they are wearing, covering only half their buttocks. The thing that sets them apart is that they look utterly at ease in their bodies. We might as well have been in their sitting rooms. It's interesting, though, that despite me living amongst women who are on the whole conservatively dressed, these young women do not come across to me as oozing sexuality, but merely following the codes of their countries. Beauty and the possibility of possessing it can be spoken as clearly with only the eyes as with a bare midriff (though men may be prone to much confusion about this). But it is liberating to see a woman's entire skin and there be no fear of what may be caused by it. Better this than the feeling that men's passions can be ignited by the fall of a scarf or the sight of a leg, rather than this being taken for granted, and women differentiated by wit and wisdom. Passion should be ignited in either sex from an equal starting point. Boys and girls swimming together can focus on deeper mysteries than what hides behind clothes. Ville's extended family all went swimming together on their island, and in Finland people use public saunas nude. These are examples of a relaxed attitude to nudity, but also an attitude which does not necessarily associate nudity with sex. This is quite different from the UK which is relaxed, but not that relaxed, and still finds nudity something of a joke. When Ruskin first went to use a sauna here, he was really shocked to find naked men (and came out immediately!).

I would find it harder to talk about dress codes if I hadn't myself followed strict (Jewish) rules of dress for some time. I attended Yeshiva in Israel and I followed these rules with my mind as well as my attire. I realised that it is much easier to follow physical rules of modesty than to be modest of mouth. Giving up gossip was so hard! I don't think this phase was ever likely to last long, but it answered many questions that seemed extraordinarily pressing to my late teen self. This is also very hard to say because Turkey's divisions are manifested in dress codes and too many people judge books by their cover.

Yesterday Ville and I had a sauna with the children. We all sat hot and naked, sweating and then cooling off outside on the grass under trees dripping from earlier rain, before going in again. In winter, the cooling can be sped up by rolling in snow or swimming in a hole in the ice. When everyone had sweated enough, we washed outside with big bowls of water and ladles. It is wonderful for everybody to be naked in such a beautiful setting. After a sauna you walk back naked through the garden to the house.

Part of me hopes that we will always do this, that the children won't become embarrassed and will embrace the decline of our bodies with ease. As I'm finding out it's much harder to pick and choose from the various cultures we live in, but a relaxed attitude to nudity is one I'm hoping will stick.

Anton running to the sauna.

Matti emerges to cool down.

Matti and Ville outside the sauna.

Pink and  perfect!

Dear Ville,

I want to put some of my feelings about your proposal of marriage on record, so that if our children ever want to know how I felt about you at this moment, it is here. Its taken several days to get the chance because Anton and Neve are small enough to sit on my (slightly expanded for the purpose) lap and that is where they like to be. As I write this you are in Turkey and I am in the UK.

This began not with a kiss but a thread. A facebook thread. After a short and chaste first meeting you returned to Turkey and I remained in the UK, and we used the thread to pull each other close enough to arrange a first meeting. I think that you already had me before we ever touched. The thread gleamed with the depth and honesty of your thoughts.

You arrived for our first time together on Friday and early on Saturday morning we set off to go deeper into the Dales to get my son, Ruskin. I had for the first time in 8 years postponed picking him up by a night. Of course it would have been lovely to get to know you, and have waited some appropriate time to declare us serious enough for you to meet him, but none of that was a real option. You were only able to stay a few days and I wouldn't miss time with Ruskin and so we set off. I remember we had cooked breakfast at a cafe and then you and Ruskin played chess by the river.

That summer we had two weeks in Istanbul together without either of our children. It was wonderful, Looking back at the pictures, though, nearly every one shows you with your phone stuck to your ear. You were working as director of Amnesty International in Turkey then, and a real break wasn't possible.

At the end of that summer we went to my sister Katrina's wedding in Italy and you met my family for the first time. Everyone loved you and my Dad was the person who asked the million-dollar question: How are you going to make this work? And the answer was not in any way obvious. We both had shared parenting arrangements for our children that bound us to our countries. Mine had ended up defining me: I trained as a teacher so that I would be available in holidays and at weekends, my second marriage failed in part because I couldn't prioritize anyone but my son. I was still afraid of Ruskin's Dad.You were close to burn-out and without any healthcare insurance where you lived, there was no chance of a paid break to recuperate. We had little but our determination to be together without hurting our children.

Just before Christmas that year you brought Matti to the UK to meet me for the first time, Coming off the flight you both looked traumatized, but not quite so much as the passengers who had sat near you! Matti and I had no common language but the boys quickly worked out how to have fun together. I remember Ruskin and I asking all the time: "what did he say, what did he say?" We began to fly to see each other whenever we could.

The following March Ruskin decided that he wanted to live with me full-time, and we began the legal proceedings that would allow us to live with you, and enable us to be present for Matti. The case took a painful year until we were free to join you. I flew every few weeks right up until the a couple of weeks before Anton's birth (we even shopped around for an airline that would still take me!). One of the most important experiences of my life has been learning to stand up for myself, and it was you who taught me how to do it. We went through this incredibly exhausting, time-consuming, frightening process, hand in hand.

Once we had all of our growing family together in one place a new set of challenges took hold. It was a 12 year old who asked us to fight on his behalf and a nearly 14 year old one that we had to find the right school for in Turkey. And after all the battles we had fought to unite everyone, when the right solution for Ruskin (nearly 2 years down the line) turned out to be boarding school in England, you just got on with the challenge of funding it.

Ville, I could fill pages and pages with what you have done for us all. You have saved me from a life of good enough and helped me create one that makes me truly happy. Often when I am holding these two children that we have together, or watching what fun the various combinations of kids have together, I am utterly overwhelmed.

But, what about us? You and me. We had to hit the ground running and then gathered pace. We have been out by ourselves only a handful of times since we met. Every penny and every minute has been given to making this work as we promised it would, without hurting our children. You already have a tendency not to seek your own comfort (to do with your Aspergers I think), you have to be reminded to relax. And I know that our brilliant children give you unbelievable pleasure, and they are the threads that bind us ever more tightly. But like for all couples with children, the next challenge is for you and I to stay central to the rapidly unfolding story.

Now you have asked me to marry you. I know that this proposal is not to ensure that we will be together: that is a done deal.  So why, when you asked me, did I feel such joy? We have not been able to have a past in which you and I dated and focused on each other, so we must look to a future in which we can finally spend time alone together. We need to have our first weekend away, our first holiday, our first date without the weight of our responsibilities pressing heavily on us. I feel that this is what getting married is actually about. Its about you and me, and a big reminder that this has all been possible because we love each other. That we have to take care to nurture the union that is at the center of our gorgeous family. I do not want a single thread that could bind us, symbolic or otherwise, to go untied. And I am so excited that we can start planning a party. So now that you have finally popped the big question I have an even more important one for you: Where are we going on Honeymoon?


Julia

Father's Day 2010

Father's Day 2012

Neve, Anton and Matti June 2012

In Italy for Katrina and Fed's Wedding

Ville and Matti Christmas 2011

Yesterday I flew for the first time on my own with the two littlest and it was good. Really good. At the moment I feel guilty about providing little excitement for Anton, so travelling, which we both enjoy, is sort of relaxing. He is so delighted by the different phases of long journeys that we have for sometime recited  them like a mantra when he has moments of fear or frustration. He loves to ask "And then what did we do?". Yesterdays relaxing string of words was used last night to get a very tired boy to sleep: taxi to Taksim, coach to Sabiha Gökçen airport, plane to Luton, shuttle bus to Luton train station, train to Gatwick, bus to Grandma and Grandad's house (yes, my parent's live 10 minutes from Gatwick and easyJet fly to Luton, thanks easyJet).

I love watching other parents at airports. I love the grace with which they enable their beloved children to sleep by holding impossible (and no doubt uncomfortable) positions. I love to see whole families fast asleep with little ones warm and open-mouthed across laps. Its a time when all the family pull together in order to save the rest of the plane from an unhappy child, and they perform wonders.

Anton is a seasoned traveler and behaves as such. He explains to me that he is a bit scared of the landing but it is all right because the "bumpsy bumpsy" doesn't hurt. He plays with his cars until he sleeps and resumes his game as he wakes. As Neve spends hours a day in her Ergo Baby carrier she relaxes as you lift her in and is asleep within 10 paces (good on a plane as you have to pass a stewardess every 4). I am suddenly, as there is no where to go, no meal to cook, no house to clean, left to sit still and think.

My first set of thoughts is about this blog. Here we have a man and a woman writing a blog together. The man's writing is often abstract, it has variety and is academic at times. And the woman, me, writes about the small details of life with children.


When I was travelling in Israel in my late teens I read a poem by a female Jewish writer in which she bemoans the fact that the men have recorded her history while the women's arms were full of children, making it hard to write for themselves. I decided I would always carry a notebook. But it turned out not to be so simple. Its not just my arms that are full of children, but my heart and head too. There is no denying that the children have completely pervaded Ville's being, but it is I who feels the details and is involved in the minutiae of their every waking (and half-awake) need. It is I who provides an unbroken blanket of emotional security. This is my privilege but it comes with a price that is made all too apparent here. Its not ideal for Ville either, as having to be in Turkey, where I am so far unable to work, has created gender roles for us we might not opt for in more favorable circumstances. Yet I am so grateful for this life that contains so little heartache, so few goodbyes. I have had the opposite and it hurt. 


I also think about how, whatever our children choose to do, there are certain qualities I want them to have. I want them to be great travelers, I don't want them to find petty things stressful. Spillages, small changes in plans, little losses should always lead to an inner response of  'never mind'. I want them to be the soft places when others are struggling. I want them to use these skills to see lots of places, to embrace differences and have experiences wider than ours.


I realize that my parents basically raised us with these same objectives in mind. There is not one of the nine of us that does not travel, is not gentle when it is needed or greets petty mishaps with anything other than 'never mind'. So how did they achieve this? My Mum did it by hitch-hiking round Europe, by marrying a Brit, by moving to the UK and making it work. My parents did it by never making a mountain out of a mole-hill, responding to our childish disasters with warmth and perspective. They did it by packing us in a VW camper every holiday (even the short ones) and hitting the road. My Dad just put on Nick Drake sort of loud. Just love him. In short they successfully raised nine 'never mind' children in the only way possible, by never minding. By never losing their immense openness, generosity and cool. They gave us emotional self-sufficiency by never holding back on love.


So I am well aware that our children follow our example. And we already have a 15 year old that thinks nothing of flying alone, laughs about taking wrong trains, pops detours down to experience, chatters to whoever he meets along the way. So in this context I was talking to Ville last week about Anton's painful shyness and unwillingness to interact with people in Turkey. And Ville said 'well he is picking up the cues from you' and I knew instantly that he is right. Not speaking Turkish puts me on guard. I might smile and wave, shout hello across the street, but I do not want to stop. Because three sentences into a conversation I am lost for words. I do not share hugs and laughter with people who do not speak English to me and, not so surprisingly, neither does Anton. I feel mortified by this realization.


Having children with me all of the time has had a dire effect on my determination to learn Turkish quickly. Getting out your notebook when you are carrying one child, watching a toddler and have a pushchair piled with shopping is hard. Immersing yourself in anything makes you less willing to enter into play or conversation with your little ones, and I have chosen to just be with them. But it looks like I have some thinking to do because, notebook or not, I am writing the future in the hearts of my children.