Coming up for air

So three years on, how are we doing? Fine, thanks. Well, more than fine. Scooby has started nursery school. Sorry -- mini-country club. That’s just jealousy talking: when I was his age, I was either hanging around at home or playing with the kids next door. His majesty, on the other hand, now has mornings packed with exciting activities like Orff music lessons, English lessons (he’s at a Turkish nursery), music in English, drama and chess, added to the usual arts and crafts and playing in the sandpit. The only things missing are golf, cordon bleu cookery and tango lessons.

At first we took the pushchair, but as it’s only 15 minutes away he walks. It now takes 30 minutes as we have to stop and talk to every single cat as well as the chickens and cockerels (he once proudly showed the chickens his rucksack), visit the insurance place to feed the fish, stop and discuss the possibility of someone being stuck at the top of the minaret of the local mosque and go through the ritual of finding it difficult to go up/down a slight incline (those drama lessons are starting to pay off).

Nobody told me, however, that nursery school is also big step for moms. Suddenly I had to walk down the street outside my safe, secure rat run without the pushchair or Scooby -- my shields against the world. I felt naked and vulnerable. Now, two months down the line, it’s starting to get exciting. I can sort of remember what being a person -- as opposed to a mom --meant. I’m toying with the idea of buying makeup. Maybe I could even go to the cinema one day.

So is it easier to bring up a 3-year-old on your own rather than a baby? Not really. The problems and issues have just shifted sideways. People’s reactions to me and why we’re still here in Turkey are very interesting though. Some (both Turkish and foreign) have praised me for being “strong” (I wish I felt it!). However, I also have the distinct impression that others are waiting for an eventual train wreck. I suppose that’s a way for them to reassure themselves that they are doing OK. Some people have just come out with it and asked me why I’m bothering and suggested I go back to the UK because it would be easier. Of course I’ve weighed up the options, but it is swings and roundabouts. Admittedly, it would probably be easier for me in some ways, but what about Scooby? He’s enjoying and benefiting from a rich, multicultural, multilingual childhood. He’s already more self-confident than I’ll ever be thanks to Turkish people’s respect for children. Could he play on the streets in today’s Britain? I doubt it. One of the many great things about our immediate neighborhood is that we don’t live on a “site,” so soon he’ll be old enough to play soccer on the street with the Gypsy kids. Or drive my British friends a street down nuts by sitting on their doorstep (sorry guys -- he was there today with the other kids, but we took our litter home -- I promise). And anyway, isn’t it better for me to stay alive through dealing with challenges than to stagnate in a predictable life?

Last, but not least, I can’t write about Scooby without mentioning BİM. Like most small boys, Scooby is a transport fanatic, with Thomas and other trains at the top of the list. Next comes BİM. Yes, the supermarket. If we’re out and about, he points out all the different lorries, diggers and tractors he sees plus -- you guessed it -- he gets excited every time we pass a BİM. For him, BİM is a social club (no surprises there) and a driving range as he gets to push a full-sized trolley. He did once get into trouble (or rather I did) because he discovered aggressive driving. I threatened to never take him back again if he didn’t behave himself -- that did the trick. The other day we bumped into Mustafa from the barbers’ there. I was refusing to buy biscuits at the time (winter will soon be here and I have the choice of losing three kilograms or buying five pairs of jeans, so it’s best not to have temptation in the house). Quick as a flash, Scooby grabbed Mustafa by the arm, smiled sweetly through those long lashes and pulled him in the direction of the biscuits. He got what he wanted. Scooby 1, mommy 0. Having calculated I’d put the biscuits out of reach when we got home, he then persuaded Mustafa to take him to the barbers to wait for me while I finished the shopping, and yes, Scooby scoffed the lot. Scooby 2, mommy 0.