Picture Perfect

The other day I was standing in our back garden, manoeuvring myself like a cat into the last patch of sunlight, when I happened to look up at the sky.
It struck me that the view before my eyes was somehow familiar...

After days of searching my brain and the Internet, I finally remembered where I'd seen it before...

Vincent Van Gogh, 1890 (Saint-Rémy), Van Gogh Museum Amsterdam

Shirley, Toulouse, March 2009

It's a Boy!

All the essential information is in the title!
We are delighted at the prospect of having not one but TWO BBs! Though I don't much like the idea of calling new baby "BB2", so I think both boys may have to stop being anonymous soon and reveal their true identities...

And no, I am not in the slightest bit disappointed that new baby is not a girl...
I have long suspected that it is my destiny in life to be surrounded by adoring men, and this trend seems to be confirmed ;-)

My ONLY regret is that I will have to continue keeping my eyes to the ground when faced with rows and rows of beautiful baby girl clothes...
Let's face it: there's some great stuff out there for girls, whereas boys seem to be stuck in the grey / beige / brown zone...


Ah well. As the only female in the family, it seems I am condemned to hog 75% of the total family clothes budget for myself...

I will rise to the occasion.

Teaser

So, this morning we had the 5-month scan.
And all appears to be well: perfect, in fact!
Baby is measuring big for dates and apparently weighs nearly 500 grams already. Gulp. Almost made me wince in anticipation...

Oh... and we also found out the sex.
Anyone want to know?

(I think this is what's known in the trade as a... "cliffhanger"!).
(Forgive me, all's fair in love, war and blogging...).

Mars and Venus

Question: How can two people have such different approaches to one simple act: buying a new car?

Answer: one is male and the other female.

Example: After much “agonizing reflection”, FH and I have agreed that we really should buy a bigger car this year. After all, soon there will be four of us, and the Twingo is basically a nippy, two-person, city-type vehicle. But, because we both feel quite strongly that we don’t want to be a two-car family, this means selling our dear Twingo and replacing it with something bigger.
Both of us are – rather pathetically – quite sentimentally attached to our little green lump of metalwork, hence the “agonizing”.

Anyway, the decision has been made.

But what I didn’t anticipate was all the “groundwork” that – for a man – precedes the actual (simple?) act of buying a new car…

So, over the past couple of months, a typical discussion in our house has gone something like this:

FH (proffering glossy brochure): What do you think of the Clio Estate? Its got a (blah blah blah) engine and (blah blah blah) horsepower and…. (excuse the missing words: my hearing is wonderfully selective at times)

Me: Yeah, fine. Nice.

FH: Mmm… (producing a different glossy brochure plus a car magazine) but then again, maybe it doesn’t have enough boot space. What about the Kangoo? There are petrol and diesel models so – obviously – we’d get a petrol one, and there’s a lot more room in the back. Also, the engine power is (blah blah blah)…

Me: Yeah, good. I agree.

FH (frowning, deep in concentration): Mmm, but maybe it’s too big. I don’t know, I’ve been thinking lately about the Modus. They’ve just brought out a bigger model and (blah blah blah)…

Me (one eye on the TV): Mmm. Yeah. I like the blue one.

The thing is, if it was up to me, I would definitely adopt the same approach to car-buying as to, say, clothes shopping. I.e. I would walk into a garage, say “I want to buy a new car”, wait for them to show me one, then, if I liked it, say “great, do you have it in blue?”

But it’s not up to me. So I am just waiting patiently for the groundwork phase to be over so that – fingers crossed – a new car eventually gets bought sometime before the end of the year…

Gossip Girl

Four good friends...

... No kids (apart from the ones being toted around in bellies)

...Good conversation...

... A few laughs

... And a nice big chunk of carrot cake.

There are worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon...

My Little Fashion Victim

This post does not - as you might expect - refer to the Man City shirt BB is wearing in the above photo (that's another story...), but rather to the little knitted cardigan he is clutching in his right hand.

If you look closely, you will note that BB can frequently be seen sporting this stripey (bobbly) garment (on the scone-making photos, for example).

The reason is: it's his Favourite Thing. He loves that cardi so much he now presents it to me every morning (regardless of whatever else he may already be wearing, regardless of weather conditions and the like...), and has recently even taken to putting it on himself (or making a good attempt to).

He's affirming his tastes and making decisions... so I'm quite happy to oblige and let him wear it all the time.
But... he's just so sweet in his bobbly, grandpa-esque knitwear that it tugs at my motherly heartstrings!

The other day at the park, there we were -mother and son - on the edge of the action, just sitting quietly in the sun, BB clad in his favoutite cardi (despite the heat), holding onto my hand aimiably.
Lately he has been very shy, so while dozens of other kids (wearing flashy, fashionable clothes) raced about rowdily, BB was content just to sit and observe.

I nuzzled his neck, breathing in the strangely intoxicating scent of his well-worn cardi, and had a surge of that overwhelming, fierce love that I suppose every mother feels from time to time.

And I surprised myself by thinking: if any kid ever dares so much as to make fun of his grandpa cardi... I'll... I'll... Well, I reckon I'd be capable of violence!


At the same time, I was all too aware of the fleetingness of it all, the need to soak up every second of our companiable afternoon.

Because, you know, I somehow doubt very much that in fifteen years' time he'll be snuggling up to his mummy in the park... wearing a bobbly old cardigan.

Velvet Revolution

You may have heard that yesterday was a day of national striking and protest in France. It is not my job to go into the whys and justifications… but suffice to say that after a lot of consideration, I decided not to strike. I was torn between my French desire to march through the streets demanding social justice… and my British cynicism about the whole thing (what’s the point?).
But that didn’t stop me feeling uncomfortable and slightly guilty all afternoon.

FH, however, was out marching, so as a family we notched up a 50% turnout, which is not too bad.

Yesterday evening, he came home buoyed up with excitement and (metaphorically) swaying about from his lofty position on the moral high ground. Hum.
I think if there’d been any royalty in sight, he’d have bagged front row seats for the head-chopping…

I was starting to feel quite shamed, when – unfortunately for him – FH let slip that he and a bunch of colleagues had “stopped off for a beer in the sun” during the protest march.

As you can imagine, a certain amount of teasing ensued.
For quite a number of hours.
FH’s smile started to wane, his courageous, revolutionary veneer slipping under pressure.

OK, he conceded finally (without actually admitting that he just might not have gone protesting had it not been a beautiful sunny afternoon…), but whatever you do, DO NOT mention the beer on the blog!

Ahh… that unique combination of revolution and art de vivre… so French!
I love it.

Introducing The Bump

In response to popular demand (well, Ingrid and Anita), here are the first exclusive shots of... The Bump...







And, especially for Pascale (I seem to recall that you're a fan?), the last shot also offers a tantalizing view of the latest Kate Atkinson novel...

So there's something for everyone today on the blog!

Blowing Hot and Cold

Overhead on Friday, on a 10-minute bus journey into town.
The protagonists are two slightly rotund women of indeterminate age.
The translation is my own.
It was probably funnier in the original. Sorry.

"Nice day..."
"Yes. Brrr... bit chilly though."
"Yes. Pfff... too damned chilly in the mornings, still."
Pause.
"Mmm. Still, better make the most of it. Be too hot soon."
"Pfff... you're right. Can't stand the heat, me. So humid! Awful."
"Yeah! Bloody heat."
"I can't stand the cold, though."
"Well, you know, I hate the cold, but - and this might surprise you - well, I hate rain more."
"Mmm?"
"Yes. If I had to choose between rain and cold, for example, well, I'd choose rain..."
"Mmm. Rain. Had a bit of that lately, haven't we?"
"Pfff... bloody rain, bloody snow, bloody cold... We've had a right time of it this year..."

Unfortunately, we had arrived at my stop, so I can't tell you how this riveting exchange ended.

Oh, but I forgot to mention the context:
it was a beautiful spring morning, warm and gloriously blue-skied. Forecast 22°.

And they say we British moan about the weather?!

Turning A Corner

The first glorious signs of Spring at the bottom of our garden...

I hope they kick Winter's ass all the way to November...

Let Them Eat Cake!

I am not a very domestic person.
I think FH would crease up laughing at that amusing understatement, but I feel that I deserve some merit, at least, for knowing my limitations...

However, on Wednesdays, I don't work, I stay home to look after BB and I really, really try hard to be a warm, competent, motherly home-maker.

This Wednesday, I decided that BB and I would try out a new, rather scary activity. Baking.


I procured all the ingredients to make yummy scones and carefully copied out a recipe onto a post-it at work.
See how organised I am?


I settled BB into his assistant's chair, and even covered the kitchen table with a cheery, Provençal tablecloth, just to add to the homely, earth-mother ambiance. I even put on an apron, for goodness sake!

I had to estimate quantities of flour, butter and sugar, unfortunately... because of course, I don't possess anything as useful as scales. I grinned and exclaimed "Isn't this fun!" while the sticky, buttery mixture stuck to the insides of my (too long) finger nails. BB tentatively patted his hand onto some flour... then rubbed disdainfully at his "dirty" hand.
Oh dear. I fear he may have inherited my own domestic skills (or lack of).

Actually, it all seemed to take considerably longer than the "Quick and Easy!" the recipe had promised... and BB started to lose heart as I kneaded doggedly. The word "stodge" sprang to mind...


Eventually, BB gave up and found a new, more stimulating game: hiding under the tablecloth.
At long last, the scones went into the oven, and I could take a 15-minute rest from all the hard work while we waited for the verdict.


Well, they are a motley crew, aren't they?
I have a special fondness for that big, unshapely one in the middle. How come he got so big?? Must have got all the good genes...


But the important thing is not the result, but to have a go, right?

Anyway, back to the office tomorrow. Phew.
I think that both FH and BB are secretly relieved that my domestic pursuits are limited to Wednesdays...

International Women’s Day

Yes, I know I’m a bit late, but my personal moment of female solidarity happened on March 10th. Sometimes I feel that the tales I tell on this blog are a little “cynical”, so this is a fairly nice story to renew your faith in human nature…

It starts badly, though.

After my last gynecologist’s visit last week, I was warned in no uncertain terms: slow down and DO NOT lift anything heavier than a toothbrush if you wish to avoid a very premature birth. This was sufficiently scary advice to make me take note, but it’s much easier said than done when you have an 18-month old to look after.
Anyway.
Today I popped into the supermarket to pick up a few things, and one thing led to another (as it does) and I ended up buying quite a lot. But that’s OK, I thought, because I can just borrow the shop’s handy little trolley to wheel my things to the car, then return the trolley. They won’t mind.
Won’t mind??
“Madame!” barked the sour-faced cashier, “You are not allowed to cross this line with your trolley. Put it back, please.”
Unfazed, I smiled sweetly and pointed out my fairly round stomach.
“Could I just borrow the trolley? I’ll bring it straight back. I’m not supposed to carry anything, you see…”
“No. It’s not my fault, but it’s not allowed. Please put the trolley back.”
I couldn’t believe she wasn’t going to make an exception. Quickly, my mind scanned the options available to me: 1/ Cry; 2/ Shout.
Neither seemed very viable, considering that I am a 31-year-old woman who tries to be respectable (although the crying option was almost inevitable: I was on the brink already…).

“Well, that’s not very nice…” I mourned sorrowfully after a while.
The cashier continued to scowl in that semi-bored “it’s not my problem” sort of way.
At that point, my guardian angel stepped in.

A lovely, kind woman who was next in line reached over and patted my arm.
“Don’t worry,” she soothed. “I’ll carry everything to the car for you. Just hang on while I pay for my things.”
“Oh! But… I don’t want to bother you…” I exclaimed, reddening (my usual, instinctive attitude, as we know).
But the lovely lady just smiled again and told me to wait for her.
Since my other options appeared to total zero, I waited.
The lovely lady then proceeded to heave my bag onto her shoulder, along with her own two bags, and set off smiling (and panting) towards the car park, with me in tow.
I thanked her profusely for most of the 5-minute walk (it’s a big car park), but she continued to smile serenely and assure me it was no trouble.
“I have a child too,” she grinned. “I know what it’s like.”
When we got to the car, she asked where she should put the bag: in the boot or on the back seat, so it would be easier for me to remove later.
When finally the good deed was over, I thanked her again, feeling tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones, but maybe not: after all, it’s not every day someone does you such a selfless good turn.

The footnote to this story is that of course, there were about 20 stocky men standing in line behind me in the supermarket queue, and not one of them stepped forward to help. My guardian angel came from the sisterhood of women who’ve been there before… and know what it’s all about.

He Walks! Praise the Lord!

Nostalgic flashback photo: BB at 4 months...

I am proud (and mostly, relieved) to announce that last Friday, March 6th 2009, BB took his first steps unaided at crèche! And in the two and a half days since, he has progressed from wary totter to ramrod-straight stride to almost-run!
I KNOW that all kids walk eventually, and that mums whose kids are already struggling bravely to their feet at 10 months are quite blasé about the whole thing, but… well, BB is over 18 months old, so let’s just say that FH and I are far from blasé about this long-awaited development!! In fact, dare I say, we’d almost stopped expecting to see him toddling along unaided. I for one was resigned to having a little creature on all fours scuttling along beside me. Now, suddenly, he seems taller, older, more like a boy and less like a baby.
And, as if impressed with himself, in the space of one weekend, he has acquired a new self-confidence that manifests itself in the (constant) use of one word: NO!

NO! he does NOT wish to eat the yummy lentils and fresh salmon I have painstakingly prepared for him.
NO! he does not care to go to bed now, thank you very much.
NO! he does not want to have the yucky green stuff removed from his nose!

His “NO” is a sweet cross between the French and English pronunciation (a sort of drawn-out “nooooooo!”), which kind of promises a confusing future as regards his bilingualism… But the vigorous headshaking is universal, at least.

It’s great to see his personality affirming itself, to see that he is distinguishing between what he likes and doesn’t like… but gosh it’s tiring. I fear this is only a glimpse of what lies ahead for the next…. 20 years?

Family Affairs and French Leave

Last week, my Mum and sister (AKA “gorgeous Aunty Carol”: a nickname – not surprisingly – of her own making!) came to visit.

Aside from the pleasure of spending time with family (something I am sadly deprived of, due to distance and my – um – slightly complex relationship with aeroplanes), another great knock-on effect of this visit was the chance for FH and I to go away for a much-needed “romantic” (read: sleep-filled) weekend together. Leaving BB in the safe-hands of his new babysitters, we set off to Montpellier strangely unburdened by all those “things” a child seems to require. With just a small overnight bag and a bit of emergency chocolate for me, we felt young, free and light-hearted… almost like adventurous backpackers again (backpackers who stay in nice, comfortable, designer hotels, of course).

Anyway, as the photographic evidence below attests, BB had a great time with his Nana and Aunty, and behaved like the “Perfect Child” for the duration. Hum. This is unfortunately not a role he enjoys playing for his parents very often, but it’s always nice to know he can pull it off when need be!!

In the meantime, FH and I wandered the sun-drenched streets of Montpellier hand-in-hand, stopping for a crêpe and a sneaky glass of cider (very low alcohol content, nobody panic) and talking to each other more in the space of 24 hours than in the whole of the past 3 months combined! It’s always reassuring to find that one does actually have more to say to one’s husband than the ubiquitous “Did you remember to buy milk?”, “Are you picking him up from crèche or me?” and “Honey, it’s your turn to change his nappy.” (No, I don’t really call him Honey in real life… not everyday anyway).

Sadly, we forgot the camera, so there are no idyllic scenes of romantic hand-holding to back up this summary. You will just have to use your imaginations…

FH doesn’t want me to tell this story, but it’s too amusing not to.

Bubbly with excitement after purchasing a pair of grey Converse trainers (FH hasn’t bought himself any new clothes or shoes for at least a year), my smiley husband declared “I LOVE my outfit today! I look great, don’t I?”

At this point, we were walking along the street, carefree. I smiled indulgently: FH is prone to this kind of borderline feminine remark from time to time. But unfortunately for him, at the very moment he uttered these words, we were passing in front of a Renault garage, from which the most virile mechanic you can imagine emerged. It was the full monty: grease-stained overalls, thick layer of stubble, droopy cigarette hanging out of mouth. Said mechanic stopped in his tracks and gave FH a look of such disbelief and scorn that my poor husband turned decidedly pink.

We scuttled on.

On the way back however, our paths were destined to cross again. This time, virile mechanic was outside smoking with virile mechanic no. 2, and both laughed heartily and unashamedly as we walked past, eyes to the ground…

Moral of the story? Er… well, perhaps simply that the things one utters in the privacy of one’s own home are not always fit for public ears!

(Blogs don't count...)

Thirty-something

So, today I turned 31.
31!!
I mean, I was fine with 30. 30 felt OK - like it was a little room just to the right of the 20s, to which you could always pop back, if need be. A sort of "connecting door" situation.
But 31 feels serious. Like you've been kicked out of that nice little room and left to wander the long, thorny path all the way to 40...
How did I get here?! I'm still so young, she doth protest!

I spent most of my childhood feeling older than I should... and now, suddenly, the tables have turned. I should have taken root at 29. 29 was good, I liked it a lot: you could be young when you wanted and adult when it suited.

Anyway, I like to look on the bright side so, as the old cliché goes, I'm trying to enjoy the fact I'll never be this young again...

PS Exciting commentary & a few pictures of our long weekend coming soon.