Personally, I am not into hothousing children. I am not into private tutors and extra lessons and the like, unless they are already in high school and need some individual attention or a kick on the rear end to get them into the best college or something (I imagine. Because, after all, if and when we get to that point it will be my money at stake. And already I am crossing my fingers and toes for a scholarship or a lottery win or for them to all be running profitable businesses by sixteen. Or a miracle).

And I am not into those awful workbooks you buy at the supermarket with Fun Math! and I Can Read! optimistically emblazoned across the covers. 

Sooooooooooo. At the beginning of this long, hot summer I talked about home schooling, but by that I meant fun projects and sticker books and weekly themes and the like. You know - read about dinosaurs, talk about dinosaurs, visit dinosaur bones at the museum. As it happened we managed to fill most of the last two months with random activities which did not need a theme. 

For example, Farmyard dioramas where animals graze amongst freaky enormous flowers…

…and dinosaur dioramas, notice that T-Rex has become a vegetarian?

And then, I woke up one morning last week and it hit me that there are only three weeks until school starts. And the T-Bot has forgotten how to write his numbers. 

So this week we are following a fun theme called “School at Home!”, where we sit around a table and I fabricate things for The Wictor to do while Baby Sister cuts and glues Things that Begin with A and B and C and the T-Bot works his way through a book called Fun with Math!

Seriously. I cannot think of a worst instrument of torture. I should have checked the book more thoroughly in the supermarket, but I had three children crammed into the cart and I was seduced by the fact that it had stickers. The worst thing is that the T-Bot loves math. He hates this workbook - and rightly so - because every single page involves counting up pictures and then writing the number in a box. But I am not a teacher. And so, for want of a viable alternative I make him do it, four pages a day, followed by a sentence of handwriting, and I will continue to do so until the boy can write the number 5 the right way around without searching for an example to copy. 

I make him do it. And every day I die a little inside. 

But it’s not all bad! His reward? Science. Yesterday we did science with a volcano. It was pretty cool, even if I was mean with the food coloring resulting in lava which flowed out pink. Today we launched lego men off the balcony with different types of parachutes. Kitchen towel? Not so good. Plastic bags - better. 

And Baby Sister? She is bright, quick witted, very sharp. But as far as reading goes she is definitely waiting for her time. Things that begin with B: Cat. Toothbrush. Flowers. 

First, a disclaimer. I do not have a trick for winning the Green Card Lottery. If I did, of course I would share it (for a price…). What I can do is detail the process. 

I left you here, with our little family unit all psyched up to try and get ourselves into the US. 

But what The Daddy had failed to tell me, as he was speeding through the night on the Metropolitan Line, was that the closing date  was midnight.

That very night.

And so, as he arrived, dinner was forgotten. It was probably best forgotten anyway, I am a terrible cook.

The adrenalin was flowing. We searched through our available photos. We found some acceptable shots of us, but they had foliage in the background. No recent decent shot of the T-Bot. Luckily he was not yet asleep so we threw him up against a white wall and took a hundred poses, just to be safe. He wasn’t blurry in about three of them. We tried to throw each other up against a wall but the resulting pictures were horrible, like zombies.

Then while I put T-Bot to bed, The Daddy got busy with Photoshop. 

It was approaching 11pm when we finally had our online forms completed, photos at the ready, and we were ready to Pass Go. At this moment, the US government servers, who were probably very tired and under an unprecedented onslaught from all the last-minute-hopefuls, gave up on us.

(cue frenetic music)

It took us until 11.52 to submit three simple forms, but - like a Hollywood movie where the heroes prevail 2 seconds before the bomb is to go off - we did it. 

And by the next morning, we had forgotten about it. Because, after all, we had never won before. 

(Look out for Part Three, coming soon. I apologise for feeding this in dribs and drabs, but it is still summer vacation time and I am feeling it here…)

We are at the pool, and the T-Bot (who two weeks ago refused to even put his mouth in the water, let alone his whole face, or his whole body) is showing The Daddy how he can dive for squid weights. With help. 

The Daddy throws the weights to the bottom, and the T-Bot dives down, down, down. Scoops up the weights and then sits on the bottom of the pool. Puts an arm up and waits patiently. 

Look!” says The Daddy, his eyes sparkling with pride and excitement, “He’s underwater!”

“Yes,” I call pointedly. “He’s underwater!!!!!!”

“Wow!!!” says The Daddy, all emotional (His son is becoming a man), “Underwater! Underwater!”

“Um, The Daddy!” I yell, he’s UNDERWATER!!!!! 

“Oh! SH–” 

Clearly their technique needs a little refinement. On both sides.