Webcam Christmas

This year for the first time, it's just the four of us for Christmas. One little family, and only two people who really know it's Christmas.
Luckily, we have the webcam, to share a few moments with some of our loved ones. Not all technology is bad, some of it has even been welcomed into our twenty-first century-reticent home with open arms.

Because last year's yuletide stay in the mountains was such a - ahem - success*... this year we have decided to head to the ocean. We are leaving for Ile de Ré on Saturday morning, back in a week.
Enjoy the festivities! Thanks to all who've been kind enough to read my blog and dabble in our domestic dilemmas and tribulations in 2009!

* This isn't really fair. The mountains were fine, it was just the morning / 24hr sickness that made it feel like a week spent in the ante-chamber of hell...

Photo taken last time we were in Ile de Ré, October 2007

Somewhere Over The Rainbow...

I stared at my wardrobe and all I could see were tones of beige, navy and grey.
It all seemed so neutral, so bland. So... wintery.

That's when I bought the purple trousers.

A bold fashion statement?
Or a sign of mid-winter madness?
The jury is still out, but the trousers are on.

Comical News

My friend O. is a soon-to-be-famous comic writer. I.e. a writer of comics. But he's funny too. His favourite topics are politics and male-female relations, which I guess just about covers everything under the sun, if you think about it.

Anyway, I encourage you to check out both his comics and his artwork on his website.

And if you prefer to read in English, well, O. has recently hired a fantastic translator, who is busy making his comics sound as witty and (im)pertinent in English as they are in French (yep, I am she). Take a look at them here.

Enjoy!

Out of Step

Since the snow and the cold have arrived here in Toulouse, the boys and I encounter very few other people on our afternoon walks.
In fact, 95% of the fellow strollers we meet are dog-walkers: grim-faced souls wrapped up in thick layers of wool, eyes to the ground as their spritely dog gallops by.

You would think that a bit of snow might be fun for kids? Yet the only other child we met on Friday afternoon belonged to an older lady who smiled and told me: "I'm from Normandy, you know. That's why I don't mind the cold. I bet you're from the North too?"
"Yup," I nodded, "I'm definitely from the North, too."

It seems that people from Toulouse have the wrong attitude to cold weather. They see it as a burden to be avoided, rather than simply a great opportunity to accessorize (hats, scarves, gloves...)!
More seriously, I don't really understand why people here just retreat into hiding, rather than let their kids play around in the snow. But there's something peaceful about being the only souls out on days like these. Again and again, I realise that I'm happiest when I'm out of step with the rest of the city.

In Which My New-Found Enthusiasm for Christmas Experiences a Setback

Every year, the same old scene.
It's distribution day: every employee of the Firm (plus dog, plus baby, as the case may be...) goes to the big warehouse clutching his or her "bon" (token) and collects the Christmas gift they've selected from the catalogue.
Sounds nice, yes?
No. Santa's little depot this is not.

Every year, the same old rotten atmosphere that makes me seethe.
Pushing, shoving, annoyance, high tension... people clutching large boxes of Japanese electrical appliances and stacking them greedily into their car boots.
And what always amazes me is: everyone is guaranteed to get a gift! It's not as though there's a limited number, or even that it's a first come, first served situation... No, this is not a soup kitchen for the homeless, yet all these well-fed, well-off people suddenly act like their future happiness depends on getting this one free gift as quickly as they can.

I'm sorry, but I find it kind of depressing.
Not depressing enough to renounce my own gift altogether and stop going, sure, but it may actually come to that one day.
This year, at 3 p.m. (why was nobody actually at work?? Why were half the employees of the Firm completely free to go gift collecting in mid-afternoon??), I had to endure a shove in the ribs and a couple of knocks to LB's pram in order to walk away with my new telephone and a box of Lego.

Sure, it's worth it. I don't look a gift horse in the mouth (this is a very idiomatic expression: French friends will need a specialist dictionary...).
But each year I walk away thinking that yes, this truly is the Christmas spirit at its very worst...

PS. Yes, it's snowing in Toulouse. That annual day of "life is at a complete and utter standstill" is upon us. Canadian friends, feel free to smile smugly.

The Big Freeze

After a whole day spent entertaining my two offspring within a 60 square-metre confined space (our house) while, outside, the temperature plummeted to -2°, an unexpected treat awaited me. (And no, I'm not referring to the two episodes of Sex & The City I somehow managed to watch whilst bouncing LB on my knee and pretending that hypnotizing a baby with cathode rays consituted responsible childcare...).

FH came home from work and uttered those romantic words every woman longs to hear: why don't you go out by yourself for a couple of hours? I'll look after the kids.

Before you could say "cabin fever", I was out.
Dizzy with freedom, I realised that I didn't actually have anything to do. Wednesday evening is, in theory, the time I go for a swim. But you know, it's winter. It's cold.
My heart's desire was simply to... be alone for an hour.
So I drove around a little, parked up, sat back and listened to a political debate on the car radio.
Outside, the ground frosted over, the darkness was crisp and charged.
Inside the car, the heater buzzed and a government minister babbled on about national identity and immigration.

It wasn't much, hardly anything really.
It was fantastic.

Thank You Note

Dear Maman,

Just a quick note to say thank you for finally getting the message!
I've been trying to let you know for quite a while... and it was a bit frustrating that you never seemed to realise what I was saying.
I know that the books say I'm "officially" too young.
But I'm your boy, not the textbook baby, and you can see how big I am!
I mean, even those 6-9 month clothes are getting a little tight around the belly these days, aren't they?
Anyway, I 'm sorry that I've been so grumpy these past few days. My gums have been hurting and yes, my belly has been rumbling.
Thanks again, Maman. You really are the best!
Love from your little boy, LB xx

Cracking Up and Clamping Down

Sleep deprivation is one of the most effective forms of torture known to man.
99% of parents learn this frightening truth pretty early on.
The problem is, as time goes on, and your newborn starts to sleep through, you tend to un-learn this truth. Your expectations are raised. A night goes by, then two, then ten... and eventually you start expecting not to have uninterrupted sleep.

Mistake. For when your newborn - now metamorphized into a sturdy 4 & a half-month old - decides that uninterrupted sleep is no longer his thing... boy, oh boy, you are taken unawares.
It is oh so much harder to bear, believe me.
Pointless as it is, FH and I find ourselves seething at our twinkly-eyed baby, begging him to just please be quiet and sleep at 5 a.m.
He grins up at us and lets out an ear-piercing shriek that may be a sign of immense joy or immense frustration: it's pretty hard to tell in the 5 a.m. fog that's swirling around our heads.

When pleading fails, we turn to reasoning. An equally futile tactic, of course, but anything is worth a try at 5 a.m. on a winter's night.
Please just go to sleep, will you? It's not morning yet. See? It's only 5 a.m. Just another 2 hours, yes?
As though maybe our boy is so advanced, he can not only understand the notion of time, but agree to respect our agenda.

There is a lot of frustration and yes, some anger. Of course, all this anger is dissipated the next day, when we take our innocent-eyed baby into our arms for a cuddle... but the lack of sleep takes its toll.
A friend of mine admits that she and her husband mutually threaten each other with divorce every night around 4 a.m., when they get the nightly wake-up call.
Then they shrug it off the next day. They have to. We have to.

In the meantime, here I am at midday, still in my pyjamas. Thank goodness I foresaw it wasn't quite time to return to work yet.
Maybe I would have found the super-human strength to struggle into the office... but I doubt I would have remembered to get dressed.

Peace and Love

I just came back from the organic supermarket: scene of a very unexpected and verbally violent confrontation.
Bear in mind that this is a cosy, hippy-ish, good-vibey place where nice people like me go to buy organic vegetables and the odd treat like - oh, I don't know - a yummy quinoa tart. You get the idea? I will also admit that I have even fantasized about working there: oh, it must be so relaxing just to potter about among the organic vegetables and chat to like-minded customers all day, blah, blah...

So imagine my shock when the row broke out. Two of the nice girls who work there, screaming away at each other on their tills while a handful of customers - including LB and myself - looked on, open-mouthed.
"Stupid bitch!" "Is it possible to be any more pathetic than you, you stupid cow?!"
(these are just a couple of the rather tame translations I can offer).

When it was my turn to pay, I kept a decidedly low profile, simply offering what I hoped was a sympathetic smile when one of the girls shook her head and told me "You have no idea."
"Oh, it's just a little misunderstanding, I'm sure..." I faltered.
"No, it's not!" she snapped back. "Do you have any idea what it's like to work here day in day out? I've had enough!"

Right. I nodded, wished her good luck, and slunk away.
A tiny thrill of excitement fluttered through me as I pushed LB home; you know, that slightly guilty thrill one gets from witnessing other people's merde.

I really do have to stop imagining everyone else has a better job than me.

You'll Be a Man, My Son...

BB assures me that, yes, he absolutely wants to ride the merry-go-round, and yes, he wants to ride on the motorbike.
Doubtful, I ask him to confirm this wish three times before parting with the 2 euro fee.
Yes, he confirms, nodding his head firmly.

The music erupts, the motor groans to life, the merry-go-round starts to spin... and BB looks anything but merry as he grips white-knuckled to the handlebars of his motorbike.
One turn later, fat tears are starting to drip down his red face.
My little boy.
At this point, two thoughts flit through my head:
1/ You should make him stick out the ride. He'll learn about dealing with the consequences of choices, and it'll make him braver.
2/ You should get him off that thing. He's scared.

Actually, it only takes a fraction of a second for me to elect option no. 2.
I pull him off the bike, the merry-go-round in full spin, crouch down and give him a big, tight hug. I stay like that until he stops sobbing.
I don't care that the other parents are watching - maybe judging - and that some of them, especially the dads, might be thinking: "she's going to raise a wimp with that kind of indulgence..."

I get scared sometimes, too. So who am I to judge?
And, right or wrong, it feels right for me to hug him and say "you don't have to do that if you don't want to. I'll look after you."

The thing is, I can't expect him to be braver than I am. I have spent many many years and a lot of energy trying to "get over" certain fears... and you know, I still find that what helps the most is an understanding, non-judgemental hug and an indulgent "you don't have to do it if you don't want to."

And in the end, we're all just doing the best we can.

Photo taken last summer

Christmas Wish List

Loyal readers may recall from last year that I am not a big fan of winter per se. Consequently, I am even less of a fan of Christmas, which seems to epitomise everything that is wrong about winter (the cold, the darkness, the confinement, the socks...).
And yet, this year, there are subtle changes afoot.
BB is 2 now, and slightly more aware that lights & glitter & trees = presents.
The day he showed me the freshly decorated tree at crèche, beaming with pride as he tugged on the glittery bauble he had "created", I knew that my Christmas-resistance days were numbered. Before you could say "commercial overkill", I heard myself asking him: "Would you like us to get a tree for the house, honey? Mmm? Would you like that?" in that slightly cloying voice us parents employ when bursting with the desire to simply make our kids happy.

So off we went to get a (tiny) tree. And some baubles. Though I have resisted tinsel for another year, thank goodness.
And, yes, I will admit: I enjoyed decorating my tree. I had to, since in the event, of course, BB lost interest in the whole venture pretty quickly.
So now my little tree sits prettily atop the bookshelves: it's a very small step for Christmas... but it's one great leap for me.

Actually, aside from the tree, three major things have happened this year.
LB was born, I became French, and - unexpectedly - I got all maternal.
Nobody is more surprised by this than me. Maybe it's the fact I now have two kids, so the balance has shifted... maybe it's simply that I don't have enough time to spread my thoughts as far as I used to. Something had to give, and, because I can't give up the "me" time, it's the time and energy devoted to work matters that is set to suffer.

So, now that Christmas and I are starting to get reconciled, am I allowed to make a Christmas wish list?
There's just one item on there at the moment:
Please could I discover (within the next 4 weeks) a lucrative professional activity that I can carry out from home. It should preferably be enjoyable, fulfilling, not time-consuming and compatible with childcare.

Answers on a postcard please. Or alternatively, you can just slip the solution into a stocking and leave it under my little tree...

Reflections on Marriage and Ikea Furniture

My Mum and I just spent a blissful week together.
Now, I really don't want this to come across as a veiled criticism of FH - or men in general - but, my goodness, it was just so easy. I mean, easy in a way that marriage, so often, is not.
Mum and I looked after the kids, did what needed to be done domestically, had a laugh, a few serious chats, a couple of lunches out, a glass of wine and a handful of Maltezers of an evening...
It was marriage as it should be: teamwork & good humour.

My Mum has the good grace to point out that she was only required to play the role of perfect spouse for one week, and that cracks would undoubtedly have started to appear had the experiment been pursued.
Sure, I know you can't really compare one week of domestic harmony with seven years of marriage, but it makes me wonder...

And when we actually managed to put together a complex double bed from Ikea (the instruction manual for which actually included FORTY separate steps and more illustrations than a National Geographic), WITHOUT A SINGLE ARGUMENT, I thought, rather disconcertingly: we have over-turned one of man's last remaining bastions of power. We are rendering them obsolete!

Well, all good things must come to an end, and yesterday I had to say goodbye to my perfect partner. As I lay in the Ikea bed I had made, musing on the superiority of women in general, I decided it was unfair to compare the un-comparable. I reached out and squeezed FH's hand affectionately.
I may be the one who builds the Ikea furniture, but he's the one who drags himself up night after night to return LB's beloved dummy to his mouth, so in the end, maybe we're not so much taking over each other's bastions of power as exchanging them?

The Ties That Bind Us

Monday morning, FH set off for Paris at 6 am.
The taxi purred up to collect him, FH slid inside with a happy heart and an undisguised grin.
He was off to Paris for the week. Until Saturday, no less. A training course. And yes, we all know what a "training course in Paris" means: 2-hour lunch breaks, a couple of glasses of red wine on the company tab, a 5 pm finish, Paris by night, shopping.
Hard work.

I didn't blame him. I just wished that, setting off, he'd looked slightly less like a prisoner discovering the outside world after ten years of confinement.

Anyway, my mum is here to help, so the adult-child ratio has not been compromised.

Monday night on the phone, he still sounded quite dizzy on freedom. He babbled on about the course, the people, the restaurants, the Marais we used to know so well...
I listened with half an ear, thinking about LB's ongoing sickness, his fourth dirty nappy of the evening, the meals that had to be prepared, the bath water that was running...
He was in a different universe, and somehow, I couldn't make it in. Couldn't even sneak a peep, to be honest.

Tuesday night, he sounded a little more subdued.
"Oui, oui, it's going very well," he assured me flatly. "Mais - er - actually, I'll be coming home on Friday instead. Not Saturday."
"Why's that?" I asked in surprise. I thought he wanted to eke out as much freedom as he could before returning to this hotbed of germs and childcare we call home.
"Oh, you know..." he faltered sheepishly. "I just miss you all."

I smiled. I too had a happy heart and an undisguised grin.

Town Mouse, Country Mouse

Saturday afternoon, the sun is shining, and we have a plan.
We are going to visit a house in the country: it's the first tentative step towards something we've been thinking about for a long time... Something we have decided we can make happen, though it will require patience, stamina, a little bit of courage and an understanding bank manager. The photos of this house have been making us drool for days. OK, so the electricity and the plumbing will need a little work, but so what? We know we don't have the money to buy perfection. And those views of the countryside are beyond what money can buy.

We are bright and perky. We have two adorable kids in back. Man, we are a happy little family.
Two hours later, after a 45-minute stint on the windiest road imaginable, the happy little family has lost some of its spark. Most of its spark, actually.
LB, who had been looking a little out of sorts when we set off, is now a pale shade of green. The contents of his stomach will soon be adorning his car seat.
BB, contrary to expectations, has not slept peacefully during the ride, but has now reached an unprecedented level of hysteria. After a particularly gruelling game of "hide the dummy", said dummy is now lost. We pull up, search every square centimetre of the damn car: the dummy has vanished into the twilight zone. BB wails and screams as though part of his own body has been hacked off, which, in a way, it has.

The house we have come to visit turns out to be not so much a house as a shell. A spookily empty shell with no electricity, no plumbing and, consequently, no toilet.
The view is less breathtaking and more oppressive: we are surrounded by imposing hills and valleys, a vast, human-less expanse of emptiness. This is the countryside alright, just not the one we had imagined. The quaint village turns out to be a drafty street of shuttered houses, with a cemetry and a statue.
Dutily, we visit the house. We are all feeling miserable, some of us more obviously than others.
As soon as it is polite to do so, we pile back into the car and hit the gas.
We must get out of this place before dark - though dark is looming - find our way back to civilisation and a chemist.
Unfortutanely, our progress is hampered by a procession of sheep being herded to other pastures... and an improbable charity "event" which involves slightly crazy-looking locals rolling beer barrels down the road and chanting into megaphones.

The windy road never ends. As LB cries and BB screams, I wonder why someone didn't just put up a helpful sign saying "Civilisation: this way". Then at least we'd know which road to take.

By the time we get home, the happy little family has become the Dysfunctional Family. The kids are physically drained. The parents are on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
They lash out like snarling cats: well whose idea was it anyway to get a place in the country?! Man, never mind the country house, I don't even want to live with you anymore!

Later, much later, our mood softens and we are almost able to smile and shrug off our disasterous day.
We talk, we reason, we make conclusions, as sensible adults do.
The dream is intact. But we pull it down a notch or two.
See, there's countryside and countryside, yes? And - er - the one we've been imagining involves bakeries and cute cafés and a reassuring shopping centre not too far away.
You get the picture?
Yes, we are town mice-on-the-turn, and town mice have to come down a peg or two before they think about taking on those country mice.

All in all, a very enlightening day.

Contradiction in Terms

I bet you're fed up of hearing about my vaccination dilemma...
If so, take heart in the fact you're almost certainly not as fed up as I am of thinking about it!
However, I feel like we've finally reached a decision I'm happy with: BB will be vaccinated tomorrow, on the advice of my doctor (I guess I just needed to hear it from someone whose medical opinion I respect), with the adjuvant-free vaccine.
The doctor said there was absolutely no need for him to have the adjuvant-free version, but that he would write me a special dispensation anyway, "because it's you".
I smiled gratefully, hoping to hit the right balance between coy and respectable.
Proof once again that here in the south of France, it always pays to wear a short dress when dealing with the male species...

Emerging from the physical and pyschological fog of the past 2 weeks, I am amazed and shaken at my ability to worry about an issue that really just required a quick, sensible decision. I thought I was getting better at this "pragmatism" lark, but recent events have proved otherwise.
What intrigues me most is that, though I worry intensely about certain things, I am fearless when it comes to others. The dividing factor is obvious: control.
I don't worry about anything I have a degree of control over; I go into a fit of anguish about things I can't control.

BB has a book called Am I Scary?
The first five pages of the book show various insects and slimy creatures that are "not scary", with the cheery incitation "Touch me, I'm not scary!"
But, just when you're feeling quite brave, out of the last page pops a big hairy spider, who cackles "I AM scary!"
If I apply this very intellectually profound approach to myself, then, what do I find?

Giving birth: not scary
Driving alone to Bordeaux with a 4-week old baby: not scary
Travelling through Siciliy on my own at 18: not scary
Moving alone to a foreign country at 22: not scary
Being a passenger on a plane: SCARY
Trusting someone I don't know to vaccinate my son: SCARY

I tell you, it all comes down to control. And trust.
And the fact that I must have a huge ego if I presume that anything I have control over will work out just fine...

I think that's more than enough physchological insight for one post.
If you've got this far, thank you for listening.
Now that that's out of my system, I'm hoping I'll be able to crawl back into the land of the living and start to appreciate the present again.

Horrible Day: Flu Jabs

As the title says, this has been a horrible day. And we're only mid-way through the afternoon.
I am fully aware that the fact it has been horrible is 95% my own fault (stress, anxiety, etc.), but come on: you'd need to be a steely, unemotional, no-nonsense optimist NOT to be affected by all the scary hype being spouted about this vaccine.
As you may have gathered, none of the above adjectives really apply to me.

Have you ever been completely drained of energy before you've even begun the day?
I woke up (early) this morning feeling sick to my stomach with worry. My head throbbed so much that by the time we reached the gymnasium-cum-vaccine surgery, I felt pretty much like I already had the dreaded flu.
Then, of course, the predictable chaos took over (nice oxymoron?).

Lines of people, crying babies, confusion, no ticket system, queue jumping, wailing, more confusion...

Despite my heartfelt pleas, the consultant doctor refused point blank to let BB have the adjuvant-free vaccine. Because he's 27 months, and the "rule" says only kids under 24 months are entitled to the so-called less risky vaccine.
3 little months and no negotiation. My heart caught in my throat, and - however much I know and understand that a rule is a rule and the risk is minimal - I felt I could easily lunge for the doctor and wring her neck.
Sorry if that shocks you, but it's the truth. Nothing brings out savagery quite like the maternal urge to protect your child from harm, I find (however minimal the potential harm may be).

So in the end, only FH and I got the shot.
I seriously considered faking the doctor's signature and taking BB to the adjuvant-free stand where the lucky under-2s were being vaccinated... but at the last second, something stopped me. However much my head was raging, this seemed like going too far.
I still don't know if my decision not to simply lie and fake a signature was a/ sensible, or b/ cowardly.

Now I have to take BB to see our family doctor and ask for an "official" note saying he must have the adjuvant-free vaccine "for medical reasons" (or something equally vague).
This is the course of action that was recommended to me by the on-duty nurse, in a sort of conspiratorial, "there's-the-rule-then-there's-the-way-round-the rule" voice.
That's France for you.

I hate this whole thing more and more. I hate the manipulation, I hate the hype, I hate the fact you have to be sneaky and beg. I hate the fact that our health seems to have been turned into some random lottery with hazy rules that have to be guessed at.
And most of all, I hate that, despite my better judgement, we're a part of it.

The God of Small Things

I am a very firm believer in the importance of the little things.
Both good and bad.
It's the little things that make you happy... It's also the little things that can tip you over the edge into temporary despair.

This afternoon, I am coping with the idea that myself, my husband and my little boy are going to allow a total stranger to inject an unknown (to me) chemical substance into our veins (the swine flu vaccine, tomorrow).
I am coping with the fact that these are my last few weeks of precious alone time with LB.
I am coping with the money worries induced by our ambitious "life-improvement" projects.

But suddenly, I can't find my tea strainer, and I feel this wobbly tower of coping may be about to collapse.

All I want is a nice cup of tea, and the tea strainer has disappeared. Why does this suddenly seem so, so upsetting?

My coping tower is tall and looks sturdy from the outside... But when tested, it may yet prove to be a dodgy DIY job...

To Vaccinate or Not to Vaccinate?

I'm talking about H1N1, of course.
This is the question on a lot of people's lips at the moment. In theory, it's straightforward: there's a problem (swine flu), there's a solution (vaccine): enough said.
In practice, there are lots of questions and doubts (here in France) concerning the vaccine itself. These range from the fairly reasonable (it's unnecessary) to the downright scary (the vaccine will have horrible untold side effects in the years to come; it's all a big con to make money for the big pharamceutical companies).
So how are we possibly to decide what to do for the best among all these terrifying rumours and divided opinions?

For sure, if I didn't have young kids, I'd take the risk of getting sick. But apparently it's irresponsible not to protect your kids from the potential lethal consequences of the flu (especially babies).
So after MUCH consideration, and MUCH reading around the subject, I've pretty much decided that the three of us (FH, BB and me) will go for the jab on Wednesday.

I wish I could say I'm happy with this decision.
I sort of feel it's the "right" thing to do, but a large part of me (the intuitive part) is shouting: "you're being manipulated!"

I guess this is the flip-side of making people responsible for their own health: in other words, choice carries with it the burden of worry.

Green Revolution

At last, I have received a perky email from my boss, in response to my request to extend mat leave until January.
Of course, that's fine, he wrote. Make the most of it, he added ominously.

He then went on to fill me in on the latest "news" from the office. Much to his bemusement, it appears that, since we changed offices in October (in my absence), my colleagues have been heading a mini-revolution.
The pot plant revolution, to be more specific.

One by one, people have been turning up to work with their favourite cactus, or ficus, or orchid or whatever... and plonking it defiantly on their desk.
And, despite the official regulations stipulating that the open space must not be "polluted" with personal objects (plants are explicitely forbidden), they are so far being tolerated.
Dizzy with success, some colleagues now have up to four leafy friends adorning their work space.

OK, it may not seem like much. But believe me, in the microcosm that is The Firm - where obedience and conservatism are the norm - this rebellion constitutes an Event.

And somehow, however much I roll my eyes, this teeny tiny revolution has made me slightly more optimistic about returning to work.

While You Were Sleeping

What has always amazed me about my kids is the way they seem to grow up overnight.
There are long periods when nothing much seems to change... And then, suddenly, I look at them across the breakfast table and something is different.
The look in their eyes. The sound of their voice.
A hurdle has been jumped: they have grown up a notch.

This week, the Growing Up Fairy has visited both of them.
On Tuesday morning, out of the blue, LB started to laugh and endear us with a "knowing" smile. He informed us that he no longer wished to remain horizontal while the rest of us were smugly vertical: we turned in surprise to see him struggling to a sitting position, working his little abs as though his dignity depended on it.
He also let it be known that he did not care to sit placidly in his chair, way down at ground level, while the rest of us munched cereal at table height ("nobody puts baby in a corner...").

On Wednesday, as I watched BB play with his good friend J., I realised that a line has been crossed. Suddenly, it's more fun for him to visit friends on Wednesdays than to hang out with Mum. Until now, Wednesdays have been our sacred mother-son quality time. But I get the feeling that the kind of quality BB seeks now involves little boys his own height (especially those with a large number of toy cars in their possession).
Somehow, from one Wednesday to the next, the roles have swung round. Maybe now I am the one who needs to feel his reassuring arms around me. Who needs to grab him by the waist and steal a kiss as he goes about his business.

Trouble is: the Growing Up Fairy doesn't visit us adults quite so often.
So we wake up feeling a little confused, wondering how to cope with these new, older, wiser, more assertive kids that wake up next to us.

We do our best. We're a little slower than them, sure, but if we follow their lead carefully enough, we manage to stay on the same path, hand in hand.

The Kindness of Strangers

If you saw a young(ish) woman rummaging around in the gutter in the twilight... would you stop to help her??

The answer to this question - for one smart, be-suited man who lives in the chicest neighbourhood in Toulouse - is: yes.

Yes, that's right: as part of the never-ending series of "things I never thought I would one day find myself doing", last night I found myself crawling along the gutter in search of a lost dummy. A flesh-coloured dummy, no less.
This will teach me to let BB suck his dummy whilst riding on the back of my bike. One excited "Maman! Moto!"... and the dummy had flown out into the darkness, much to BB's distress.

But then along came smart man. He kindly asked if I needed any help, didn't look the slightest bit fazed when I explained the incongruous situation, promptly deposited his briefcase on the pavement and bent down to help with the search.

And he found the dummy.

As we thanked him profusely, he merely smiled, brushed down his Armani suit, retrived his briefcase and walked off into the night.

Pure class.

Seeing More Clearly

This weekend, for the first time in what feels like a long time, we felt alert enough to do some socialising. By alert I mean: awake, capable of coherent conversation, able to interact with other adults. These may all seem like basic skills, but believe me, I think we definitely lost them for a while there.

Those first three months are tough. It's only now, as we're starting to emerge from the bubble, and I feel more like myself again, that I realise quite how tough it's been. This is not a complaint, just an observation.
It's actually been taking 99% of my energy just to be a mother, and somehow, I think I got locked into "daily survival" mode.
The trouble with this mode, of course, is that you quickly lose the will to make an effort with the outside world: just making it through the day to your glass of wine and five-minute feet-up on the sofa seems like challenge enough.

Now that my fuzzy head is starting to clear, I can see the benefits of spending time with friends, making phone calls to catch up with people we let drift off the radar...
FH and I actually managed two proper conversations this weekend (i.e. conversations with a scope beyond the daily survival / logistics perimeter).
It's all very refreshing. I hope that - though winter is approaching - we will manage to find our way OUT of hibernation and back into society...

Oh, and just because my eyesight had improved, that didn't mean I couldn't treat myself to a new pair of glasses, did it?

Sometimes it helps to step back and see the world differently.

Gut Feeling

If, like me, you are someone who makes decisions based 80% on gut feeling and 20% on rational thought (these percentages are approximate, not scientific, in case you were wondering whether there might actually be a calculator for working out this kind of stuff... ;-), then, like me, you may get a little apprehensive from time to time, trying to distinguish your gut feelings from other stuff (hormones, tiredness, emotion, fear, etc.).
Take this "returning to work" lark, for example.
As you may know, I was supposed to go back to work on December 7th. Consequently, LB was supposed to embark on his long and no doubt fruitful academic journey on the same date: he was due to start creche.

But as the time has been approaching, I have been feeling more and more that we are just not ready. And when I say "we", I really do mean both of us. At least I think I do.
This gut feeling of not being ready had been churning around in my stomach for a few weeks when I finally blurted it all out to my sister.
She listened, approved and told me I should do the necessary to make sure LB and I gain an extra month at home together.
I wept with relief at having my gut feeling confirmed by someone whose judgement I respect.
(FH didn't really get it. It's not his fault, of course, it's just that, well, he's a man: they tend to be more rational about this kind of thing).

So now it's just a case of making a small, reasonable-sounding appeal to creche, and writing a "brave" email to my boss (yes, yes, I know it would be better to call, but can one really translate the maternal desire to spend more time cocooning with baby into anything remotely professional-sounding??).

When it comes down to it, though, the stomach churning has stopped, so something must be right about this decision.
And LB and I will sit tight and trust our instincts until January...

Sod's Law

Yesterday was the quintessential rainy bank holiday. It poured down all day. Literally all day. Without pause.
My mounting feeling of claustrophobia was tempered somewhat around 1 pm, when something quite remarkable happened.
Both kids fell simultaneously into a deep sleep that lasted for hours and hours.
It was as though they knew: this is a dreary day. Nothing interesting is going to happen. Better just to sleep it away.
It made me wonder if maybe even babies are born with an innate aversion to rainy bank holidays?

Footnote: Some time ago, FH asked me to explain the meaning of the English expression "Sod's Law". I gave quite a roundabout, convoluted definition, that didn't really seem to get the message across.
But now I have the perfect example.
This morning, November 12th, the day after the bank holiday, the day that tired, headachy parents all over the country are sighing, sniffling and returning to work, and kids are trudging off to school and creche... this morning, the sky is a radiant blue and the grass is twinkling with dew and the possibility of outdoor play...

Aunty Carol's Visit

Cold and rainy on the outside...
Warm and fuzzy on the inside.

Back Down To Earth

Hum. Estate agents are meanies. Bearers of doom and gloom who seem to enjoy pouring a huge dose of Reality over your little dreams.
Yes folks, my enthusiasm of two days ago has unfortunately deflated slightly.
See, I am a bit of a "I want it all and I want it now" kind of person. But unfortunately, the chic professional lady I asked to come and evaluate our flat was more of a"You'd be much better advised to wait a while" kind of person.

I understand, of course I do. The market is morose, blah blah, blah. We'll lose out financially, blah, blah, blah.
This all makes perfect sense, it's just not fun.

Which may be why my instinctive first reaction was to... yes - got it in one - cry.
What is wrong with me?? Why do my tear ducts automatically go into overdrive when my heart's desire is thwarted, even though my head is nodding and my brain is agreeing with the reasonable view of Reality that is being described to me??
Honestly, sometimes I fear I never got over the five-year-old sulky stage.
Have you ever cried in front of an estate agent?
I'm guessing not. I would advise you not to, if you can in any way avoid it.
It doesn't really add much credibility to your real estate project.

Anyway, I'm over it. Patience is not one of my top ten virtues but I can muster up enough to wait awhile.
This evening through the post I received the profile and photo of the little boy I'm going to sponsor with World Vision. He's six years old and lives in one of the poorer parts of Ethiopia. The World Vision project in his area is helping provide his community with clean drinking water and access to a medical centre.
It only took me a matter of seconds to realise with an ego-shaking thud that this little boy's version of Reality is a universe away from mine.
So I should really stop feeling sorry for myself.

Life is good at giving you a timely kick up the backside from time to time.

Itchy Feet

Question: The little plans that start to take root in your mind... the niggling desire that becomes a wish... the instinctive voice that is whispering, once again, that it might soon be time move on: how do you know whether all this is real, or simply a by-product of November blues?

The evenings are dark, the sky is grey, my feet are no longer bare... Do I simply want to escape?
Or is it something more? The feeling that life is short, that soon it will be time to be brave, to venture out and see if we can make our dream happen?

Two days ago FH turned to me and said he'd been wondering whether...
And I smiled to myself and thought: if both of us are thinking the same thing, maybe it's more than just November blues.

Role Play

This weekend was all about contrasts.
It made me reflect on how, as women, we spend a good part of our lives flitting back and forth between the different roles we have to play... often with little or no time in which to make the transition.
On Saturday, I spent the day alone in Montpellier. For a few hours, I was a single woman, lounging in cafés with a great novel, wandering round the shops, using my Visa card with the recklessness of a prisoner on day release...
I'm not ashamed to admit that it felt good. Dizzyingly good, in fact.

On Sunday, BB and I rode to the market on what has now become "our" bike. There was a street fair in full swing, and BB somehow ended up becoming the owner of a huge orange balloon dog.
It was as we wobbled back home that I thought: the transition is complete. The free soul of yesterday has become the woman riding her bike with a little boy and a heavy bag of vegetables in back... and a big orange balloon dog balanced precariously in front.
If the constant stream of smiles and waves we received from almost everyone we passed en route is anything to go by... I'm guessing we looked cute. And funny.

I found myself laughing too. For no other reason than the absurdity of the situation.
I love the woman I left reading a novel in Montpellier.
But I'm really getting to love this bike-riding, time-chasing, sometimes harassed Maman too.

Isn't It Ironic?

You know how, the day you finally get round to making that hairdressers appointment, your hair suddenly starts to look great?

And the day you finally make it to the doctors, the niggling back pain you've had for the past month mysteriously disappears?

Well, here's a new one.
The day I finally went to the opticians - convinced I'd been squinting and feeling dizzy - I was told my eyesight had actually improved.
The optician told me he's hardly ever seen that happen before. Usually, after pregnancy, a woman's eyesight deteriorates. I've had two pregnancies since the last time my eyes were tested.
"One more pregnancy and you'll have perfect eyesight!" quipped the optician.

Mmm. I'll have to discuss that with FH. I wonder how far he's prepared to go for my eyes??

Boys, Boys, Boys

FH should have seen it coming.
First there was one boy. Then there were two. And one fine day, there was no more room in the bed for poor Daddy...


Cool Big Brother pulls up a chair and teaches his admiring sibling about some of the finer points of life...

Topsy Turvey World

The cough & cold season has begun.
Even though it's still 20° here most days, the usual colds and viruses have begun to make the rounds at crèche.
No surprise, no different from any other year.

Except that, now, we have "swine flu" to contend with.
Not actual swine flu, you understand - oh no, there have been very few actual cases in France - but rather, the potential of swine flu.
This means that, contrary to previous years, when good old common sense prevailed and if a kid had a cough, well, you gave him some cough medicine and sent him off to crèche to play as usual... now, there is a Protocol.
And the Protocol means that, as soon as your kid shows the slightest sign of being ill, a parent must hot-foot it to the crèche, remove their kid from the premises and take him straight to a doctor. The parent must then pay the doctor 22 euros in order to have him sign a note saying that the kid does not have swine flu (though how the doc can possibly know this just by looking at him is not clear...).
And, here's the best part: the kid is not allowed back to crèche until he has the magical doctor's note saying, basically "the kid has a cough".

Now I am a natural worrier. Therefore, I am not against taking precautions against flu epidemics. But come on. Isn't this all a bit too much?
What happened to common sense?
Wouldn't I know if BB was suffering from swine flu, rather than just running around as normal with a slight cough?

The answer, apparently, is no.
So this morning I have to keep him at home, take him (and his 3-month old baby brother) to the doctor (and probably spend an hour or so in the waiting room, full of sick people and germs...) and hand over some money in order to be told that he has a cough.

Sometimes I wonder how we got into this crazy mess...

International Relations

I studied International Relations for two very enjoyable (albeit intimidating: everybody seemed to know five times as much as I did...) semesters at university.
The International Relations I now dabble in are slightly more modest. But they are not without importance.

Last week while walking through the park with my trusty companion LB, I was accosted (I have chosen this word on purpose) by one of the park wardens, who evidently just fancied a chat. When he discovered I was English, his eyes lit up and the chat quickly morphed into a Monologue About My Opinion of England and the English.
I use capitals because this Monologue is no stranger to me. Oh no. In fact, I would estimate that I have heard it, on average, twice a month since I first came to live in France. Twice per month = 24 times per year. I have lived here for just over 9 years.
So that means that, at a rough guess, I have been subjected to said Monologue approximately 216 times.

Needless to say, I know it so well that I can recite it from memory. The order of the points varies, but every single stranger who has served me this monologue, without exception, has included all of the following:

1/ I once went to Portsmouth/Brighton/Bath/Oxford on a school trip. For a whole week. The family I stayed with was actually really nice!
2/ I love London: people are so eccentric! Nobody judges anybody else! So refreshing!
3/ Ah, everybody knows how bad English food is! (wry smile). But I will say this: your fish & chips are fantastic!
4/ I love the atmosphere of English pubs.
5/ Ah, the weather. But you know, when I was there on my school exchange trip, it was sunny all week!
6/ English people are so laid back. Not like Parisians.
7/ You know what I really LOVE about you English? Your sense of humour! Fantastic! Benny Hill... Mr Bean... oh, I love them!

I promise you: I am not making this up. It's actually quite fascinating: young people, older people... the Monologue is always spookily identical.

But you know what, it doesn't bother me at all, even after 9 years, to be Monologued at. The reason is this: 100% of the French people who have served me this Monologue have concluded with the same line: I think the English are great people.
(some, rather shockingly, even add: "So much better than the French").

So forget the old clichés: the English are always welcome over here.

Coup d'Etat

They hatched the plot sometime on Tuesday evening.
Despite the obvious language obstacles (the elder one spoke a unique kind of franglais, and the younger one communicated only in baby gurgles...), they managed to fine-tune all the stages of the plan.
Night fell.
The adults fell into bed, sleepy and unsuspecting.
The plan swung into action.

Around four-thirty a.m., the younger one began to thrash around in his Moses basket, causing it to rock and sway like a boat on stormy waters.
The parents awoke with a start.
They listened out for the sound of hungry tears, but none were forthcoming. The Baby simply cackled and kicked, enjoying himself immensely.
Maman peered down into the basket, perplexed.
The Baby grinned up at her, his eyes shining with mischief and satisfaction: he had successfully pulled off part one of his mission.

He continued to gurgle and laugh and kick for some time. The Parents lay awake, listening to him play in confused silence. Sleep crept away from them.
Until, at last, the party ended and the Baby finally gave in to slumber.
They closed their eyes gratefully.
Two minutes later, a piercing shout erupted from the next room.
The Boy was awake.

Maman stumbled out of bed and padded across the cold floor to the Boy's room. As she bent to switch on the light, she banged her tired, achey head against the corner of the dresser. A surprisingly naughty word sprang forth from her lips: the Boy stared up at her in surprise and disdain.
To the weary question "what's wrong?", the Boy merely shrugged and flopped back down under his warm covers.
Maman sighed, switched off the light and trudged back to bed.

Sleep eluded her. Her head throbbed in the dark.
Then, just as she felt she may be drifting off... another squeal erupted from next door.
The plan had reached its grand dénouement.
Maman fumbled in the dark for the alarm clock: 7:05 gleamed the nasty, fluorescent numbers.
She dragged herself out of bed for the last time, clambouring over the grouchy, horizontal, husband-shaped mass that lay heavily beside her.

The Boy had cunningly contrived to hide his dummy in the furthest corner of his bedroom. He looked on with undisguised triumph as Maman slid, snake-like, under his bed and strained to retrieve it.
Maman collapsed, allowing herself 30 seconds slumber right there, face down under the bed, the dummy clutched in her right hand.
She contemplated defeat.
Then she remembered the courage of her ancestors: Never Surrender!

But she had forgotten the most cunning post scriptum to this plan of attack.
As the first rays of daylight trickled through the shutters, and the first specks of rain tap-tapped against the windows, she remembered... it was Wednesday.
Worn out and weary, she was to be abandoned alone with both her opponents for nine hours.

That's when she finally gave up all resistance, poured herself a coffee, and gave in to the inevitable.
The Boy and the Baby had won control.
All hell broke loose.

Out in the Cold

In the nine years I have lived in France, I have never really gone out of my way to meet other Brits. In fact, at the moment, the only British friend I have in Toulouse is my boss. And I guess that doesn't really count, you know, since he's a 60 year-old man and... well, my boss.

So yesterday at the indoor shopping centre, when I found myself trailing a group of three English women plus three prams... and feeling rather wistful, this was a big first.
Why did I suddenly want to be friends with these three random people? Why did I - an almost perfectly integrated semi-French girl - feel kind of left out as I saw them laughing and chatting together?

I suppose, of course, that the answer is loneliness.
Loneliness is not something we readily admit to, and it pains me a little to verbalise it now, but I think that most mums on maternity leave wander onto this territory at some point.
The thing is: wonderful as it is to gurgle and smile and blow raspberries at your beautiful 3 month-old baby all day... there comes a point when you guiltily crave a bit of adult conversation.
I think I may have reached this point.
The funny things is, I didn't realise it until I saw those three women hanging out together yesterday with their babies.

And the worst thing is: I didn't have the courage to ask if I could join them. No, I settled for being a weirdo stalker, trailing behind them for a few minutes, in the irrational hope that they might sense my presence, deduce that I was English, and call me over to join them.
They didn't, of course.
I came home annoyed with myself. What stopped me approaching them? An old fear of maybe not fitting in?
I feel like I'm thirteen all over again... watching other friendship groups form from afar, and wondering which one I could belong to, if any.

But in the meantime, things aren't so bad. I have my LB, and he's pretty good fun. And two of my closest friends just had babies last week, within two days of each other.
So there's a good chance I'll find a new group to hang out with soon enough.

BB is Mobile!

And lucky for us, he seems to have inherited his parents' love of bike-riding.

We went riding on Friday... riding on Saturday... riding on Sunday.

BB would have slept in his helmet if we'd let him.

On Friday, he was still a little unsure. Little fingers gripped the back of my jacket anxiously.
But by Sunday, I was pedalling along furiously to the supportive chant: Allez, maman!