On the Tip of My Tongue

Having a very vocal 2-year old is quite a humbling experience: it's revealing a lot about my own vocabulary gaps.
And I don't just mean in French.
There seem to be whole areas of the English language that I have never had any need to explore before... and which therefore remain a mystery to me.

Sometimes I feel guilty that I'm halting BB's linguistic development.
The other day, for example, my curious little boy ran over to me, wide-eyed and quite scared, to ask what was making the loud "brum brum" (see, my vocab is limited) noise he could hear on the other side of the garden.
As far as I could tell, the noise was coming from a sort of "road sweeper vehicle-type thingy" on the road out the back, but we couldn't see it through the trees.
Stumped, but duty-bound to provide an answer for BB, I stuttered: "Er, well, that's called a... a machine!"

Pretty lame, I know, and unfortunately, BB grasped this word at once and has hung onto it ever since. Only, he now thinks a "machine" is specific to a scary, noisy road-sweeper vehicle thing.
So every time we hear a rumbling noise outside, he looks at me with big startled eyes and asks "C'est 'chine? 'Chine?"
"Yes, honey," I nod weakly, "It's the machine."

Does anyone happen to have a specialist "trucks, machinery & other road vehicles" dictionary they could lend me?
Er, preferably with pictures?

Back to the Future

On Wednesday morning I had to go into the office to do important professional business*.

As I sped away on my bike, I caught a glimpse of FH in the kitchen, looking a little shell-shocked. Two hungry, vocal, undressed kids were romaing/writhing around him.
Ha! I thought, grinning wickedly. He's finally going to experience first-hand how tiring my life is!

I hadn't set foot in the office since the end of June. Three months in the baby bubble, and I was actually quite excited at the thought of being back in the "working world", if only for a morning.

Well, you know how sometimes you think you miss something (the buzz of an office; the satisfaction of being a working woman)?
And you know how sometimes you think you're fed up of something (changing nappies and making silly faces)?
Well, in all honesty, it took me all of five minutes to realise I was deluded.

My office suddenly seemed less a hotbed of decisionmaking and more a still-life painting on which a thick layer of dust has gathered. My colleagues were nice and friendly as always... but I found I struggled to even concentrate on conversations about possible new software programmes and the pitfalls and implications of a potential "major" office move (50 metres further down the corridor).
This is a time warp, I thought wildly, while outwardly I smiled and nodded and tried really hard not to gush and coo when asked how things were working out with the new baby (I failed. "It's wonderful! He's lovely! I love him so much, he makes the cutest faces!" I enthused, while eyes glazed over and heads nodded politely).

It was only when I was halfway home that I realised I'd been pedalling like a maniac.
Truth was: I couldn't wait to get back to my hungry, undressed kids: the noise, the commotion, the laughter, the bemused husband.

Turns out, FH discovered just how great my life is.
And I discovered that the best thing about going to work is... coming home.


* Ask HR to let me take 7 weeks holiday to extend my maternity leave until December. And select my company Christmas present from the catalogue.

Rainy Days: A Portrait

Rainy days begin at 6.30 a.m., with a nudge on the arm that kicks me out of my dream right into the midst of a reality that involves: semi-darkness, little fists, hunger and uncooperative maternity bra straps.

They continue through breakfast: a vain attempt to exchange a few non-child related sentences with FH while BB, nose pressed to the window in dismay, shouts "il pleut! il pleut! il pleut!" approximately five hundred times. When this weather report is finally deemed sufficient, he hurries to the back window to check out conditions on the other side. Much to his surprise and disgust, il pleut out the back as well...


Rainy days involve indoor activities that, no matter how enthusiastically presented by conscientious parents (drawing, stories, tower building, fun, educational DVDs...), seem to have an average lifespan of three minutes, and are never an antidote to the pained plea: "outside now?"

On rainy days - inevitably - kids manage to be so completely out of sync that one wakes up the minute the other falls asleep. Cups of tea get cold while LB is rocked to sleep; jaws are clenched when meals are rejected, untouched.

As rainy afternoons crawl on, FH mumbles that he has "something" to do in the shed, and attempts a breakout. No way: I block the door to freedom and remind him that we're in this together.

On rainy evenings, I start to fantasize about the cold glass of wine I'm going to sip as soon as the kids are in bed.
But of course, rainy evenings are - annoyingly, unfairly, infuriatingly - those evenings when baby's eyes are wide open and BB cries after lights out. His nose is running and he doesn't feel well.

On rainy days, the glass of wine never gets drunk: the idea of it lingers like the promise of a brighter day.
On rainy days, my head hits the pillow at 10 p.m. and I think: LB smiles now and looks up when he hears my voice. BB strokes his little brother's head to soothe him when he cries. FH is grumpy and fed up but he gave me a wry smile that seemed to mean "I'm sorry, I'm just tired."

Rainy days are hard, but they're not so bad.

Thought for the Weekend (2)

During my daily walk avec pram, I start to notice that random men seem to be looking at me.
Some of them even smile.

What's going on?
Feeling flushed, I start to fear the worst: my boobs must be leaking!
I sneak a glance at my t-shirt, but no, all appears to be dry on that front.
And my trousers are correctly zipped up too.

Only when I get home does it dawn on me:
I am not pregnant!
Thus, I now exist again as a woman.

Wow. I'd forgotten what it felt like.
I can't wait to tell FH: "Chéri, when I'm out with the pram, men think I'm the au pair!"

Oh come on, a girl's gotta dream...

Thought for the Weekend

Do you know why God gave us teeth?

If you are tempted to answer: A/ To eat with,
chances are, you don't have kids yet.

Sorry, but only mothers of toddlers and babies know the real answer to this one:

God gave us teeth so that we'd have a way of picking things up when both hands are full.

Something's Afoot

He’s slept bare-chested and bare-foot for so long now that he can hardly remember what it feels like to be cold. Or to snuggle up in a blanket, holding on jealously to the sleepy warmth of his bed when Daddy comes to wake him with a bottle of milk and a little flurry of cold air.

For weeks and weeks – so, a good proportion of his two-year life, if you think about it – he’s drifted off to sleep to the soothing drone of a fan, splayed out on his back, his cheeks rosy and sun-drenched.

But for the past few days, things have been changing. Only slightly. Almost imperceptibly. Night by night.

First, there was the night when the fan didn’t need to go on after all. He listened out for the hum… but silence had returned to his bedroom.

Then, the next night, he wore a t-shirt to bed, and sometime during the night, he found himself curling his little bare legs up under his body, tucking them away from the cooler night air.

The night after that, he felt around the bed for his blanket, pulled it absently over his body. He felt snug and protected.

Tonight, when he climbs into bed, happy, as he always is, to return to this little corner of the house that is his and his alone, he will be wearing stripy socks and maybe even some pyjama bottoms. He will wiggle his toes, trying out the new sensation: material against flesh.

He doesn’t know the word yet but he feels it in his bones and in his little stripy bed socks: Autumn.

Silence Is Golden

OK, I wasn’t going to write about this, but now that I have notched up a grand total of FIVE incidents in the past three days, I feel sufficiently annoyed to do so.

The phenomenon I’m experiencing at the moment can be succinctly described as “interfering”.

No less than five different women (yes, I’m sorry to say, this phenomenon seems to be exclusively female) have stopped me, at different times, to make some kind of interfering, judgemental comment concerning one of my kids.

The first time this happened, I was so surprised I forgot to react.

The second time, I muttered a response, too late.

The third and fourth times, I responded scathingly.

And the fifth time… Boy, by the fifth time… that little old lady is probably still regretting she opened her mouth.

I won’t bore you with a full account of the trials a young mother must face on a daily basis, so here are just a couple of examples:

- I’m chatting to another mum at the pool, one eye on BB who is playing nearby, when a random mother strides over and, hovering over me in all her bikini-clad glory, informs me: “Just thought you might like to know, your child is over there” (“over there” sounds like she means in another town, rather than fifteen metres away) “Be careful: you chat away, you chat away… and in the end, the kid gets lost!”

- Two oldish ladies stop to admire LB in his pram. At first I smile, basking (as one does), in the reflected glory of my cute offspring. Then, out of the blue, one of them tuts and says “Are you sure he isn’t a bit cold though?” The other one jumps in with “Oh yes, oh dear, he must be cold dressed like that!”

You will be pleased to know that this is the fifth incident. I am prepared.

“No, he’s not cold, he’s fine!” I snap. “He told me so,” I add, just for good measure.

It has to be said, people here tend to wrap their babies up like Eskimos, even in a heatwave.

What is it with all this interfering?? Do I not look like a competent mother? I wouldn’t dream of commenting on another mother’s choices, unless say, her kid was in the process of drowning or something (in which case, I would save the kid, not go and tell the mother that she was neglectful…).

Honestly, it really is hard being a young, serene mum these days.

After all these emotional mini-dramas, I feel I deserve a new dress or something…

Why Having Kids is Expensive:

I am rushing through the supermarket with my pram, hoping I’ll make it through the checkout before LB decides he really really needs to eat NOW. He’s already squirming, time is short.

By the time I pay for my items and head out into the gallery, he’s purple-faced and in desperate need of milk.

I hot foot it to the nearest bench, trying not to break out into a sweat as LB gears up for the final indignant roar.

At last, parked up, I scramble for the bottle, grab the formula (I am too much of a wimp to breast-feed in public) and mix it all together with the speed and expertise of an experienced barman.

Baby out, settled in position, bottle poised… connection!

Phew. The bottle is in and the frantic sucking begins.

With my free hand, I wipe a drop of perspiration from my forehead, and look up for the first time since sitting down on this bench.

Oh joy.

Destiny has decreed that my chosen bench is located directly opposite a rather attractive shoe shop. And it would appear that, for the next 20 minutes, I have a perfect view of the new Autumn/Winter boot collection.

Well, there are definitely worse ways to spend 20 minutes.

And, is it me, or do those grey suede cuties look like they were just made for me?

When LB finally lies back, replete, I scoop him up and pat him absently on the back.

My eyes are not – shamefully – gazing lovingly at my little six-week old wonder… but rather ogling my new suede babies…

No I can’t. Can I?

My feet are more wilful than my mind, and less than a minute later, they’re carrying me into the store. LB is – much to his surprise – re-deposited in his pram while mummy is attended to by an enthusiastic salesgirl. The cute suede babies are brought out for inspection. I coo over them sweetly.

I don’t need new boots. I don’t need them. I don’t.

10 minutes later, I leave the store with all my babies in tow, new boots swinging against my thigh in their satisfyingly big bag.

I am the Carrie Bradshaw of parenting. And that, folks, is the real reason why having kids is so damned expensive…

FH & LB relax together. They have no idea how hard it is being a woman on maternity leave.

All's Well That Ends Well

So, my accident victim just called.
He is neither a fraudster nor a criminal... just a kindly older man with a somewhat loose notion of time.

I think my guardian angel must have taken pity on me: I could have smashed into one of those young guys for for whom the words "car" and "virility" are firmly entwined.
Instead, I got this nice man who explained, apologetically: "I'm not really that bothered about my car, it's just, that, well, I do really need a headlight so that I can drive it a bit longer...".
"Of course you do!" I gushed.
I am nothing if not understanding.

So we have agreed that I will simply give him a cheque to cover the worst of the damage.
And that will be the end of it. No insurance, no hassles.

"I've lived in the neighbourhood for 40 years, you know!" he told me proudly in his sing-song Toulousain accent. "I'm quite well known around here!"

I'm not really sure what that's got to do with anything, but it's nice to know.
And the kind gentleman may even get a box of chocolates with his cheque.

Baby Roadshow

Yesterday LB and I made our second roadtrip in under a week: a four-hour* round trip to Bordeaux for the day.
You may think this was quite an unnecessary challenge for me to undertake, but the effort was well worth it: our objective was not sight-seeing but a date with a very good friend of mine, Ingrid.

Ingrid, if you don't know her, is an international globetrotter who can rarely be sighted on the same continent as me, let alone the same land stretch. So, naturally, if I hear she's within a reasonable distance (anywhere requiring only a day's travel and preferably no planes...), I make sure I hot foot it over there! "Because she's worth it".

A fabulous day was had by all, though I'm not sure LB perceived the nuance of a Bordeaux blue sky as opposed to a Toulouse blue sky...

We got home well after dark, absolutely exhausted, but happy to have made the trip.

Someone whose opinion I respect very much once told me: the only things that really matter in life, if you think about it, are the people you care about and the things you store up in your head.
As I get older, the truth of this seems more and more obvious.


*Theoretical time only. Factor in the milk stops, the poop stops and the "I don't really know what's wrong but I'm quite unhappy & I don't want to be in the car anymore" stops and it's actually more like 7 hours!

Another Cultural Enigma...

You may recall that I had a slight car accident over a week ago.
The more astute among you will have deduced that the accident was 100% my fault. I humbly accept that.
However, here's the weird thing:

The guy whose car I damaged ("wrecked" is too strong, but the result was not pretty: bits of his headlight still glitter in the sun along our street...) has still not been in touch to sort it out.
Because he lives just around the corner from us, we decided at the time to get in touch on Monday (that 's a week ago last Monday) to write up the report that is a legal requirement here in order to make an insurance claim.
True to form (ie. upstanding British citizen), I could be seen hovering outside his front gate at 10 am on the Monday in question. No sign of my victim.
Undeterred, I tried again later that afternoon: my victim was out, his son called him for me, and reported that he would be "in touch soon".
STILL undeterred, and anxious to sort it all out, I called and left a message the next day too.
Still no sign of life.

I am perplexed.
Why would someone whose car has been bashed up just not bother getting in touch with the silly person responsible?
I know that people tend to be laid back here in the south of France... but come on.

Just forget it! All my French friends and FH advise me, astounded that I have even bothered to call the guy.
But no, I can't. My British scepticism says he's just going to turn up on my doorstep one day with a huge bill for repair work.
FH is more imaginative: he reckons the guy has no insurance or no license (or is an illegal immigrant / criminal on the run, etc, etc) and we'll never hear from him again.
What do you think?

(Sod's Law would suggest that as soon as I finish this post, he'll ring my doorbell...).

Brave New World

Brave young things that we are, FH and I attempted a weekend away, with both kids in tow. The idea was to a/celebrate FH's 30-something birthday, and b/ see if we were up to the challenge.
Our chosen destination was Fitou, a seaside town less than 2-hours' drive from Toulouse. This was an astute choice: far enough away to seem like a true break... and yet close enough so that - if need be - we could simply pile everyone back into the car and drive home in defeat.
It might have gone either way.

As it turned out, all the boys behaved beautifully.

It has to be said, we have learned from our past mistakes.
This time, for example, FH drove the car (ahem).
And we chose to ignore all calls for "caca" stops. And pretend we couldn't smell dirty nappies.
Really, it's the only way.
And kids adapt.
There's too much fuss about bodily hygiene these days if you ask me...

No, I'm just kidding. Two out of the four people shown on the picture below are well-nourished and clean. The other two are not. Can you guess who's who?

And in the course of the 48-hour weekend, I even managed to get a whole 15 MINUTES to myself! You really can't say fairer than that, can you?

Home Truths

On Wednesdays, the configuration in our house changes significantly: the parent-to-child ratio shifts to 1:2.

In other words, I am out-numbered.

Yesterday was my first experience of this frightening new configuration, and I am pleased to announce that I am still alive.
In fact, I have realised that parenting is actually quite easy *


* As long as you:

1/ Have absolutely nothing else to do.
2/ Never need to leave the house.
3/ Do not mind living in pyjamas (and are basically unconcerned about personal hygiene in general...).
4/ Can survive without regular nourishment.
5/ Have the physical strength and stamina of an olympic athlete.

Role on next Wednesday!

Some Days Are Better Than Others

So, you have been invited out for lunch. Your mission is to get two kids and one husband into the car and drive 45 minutes to your destination.

You spend approximately 2 hours preparing the aforementioned kids for this apparently simple mission.
Your progress is constantly hampered by unforseen poop (and corresponding nappy changes), hunger attacks (and corresponding sick stains), lost toys, misplaced teddies... etc. etc.
Often, by the time you have fed and changed one kid, so much time has passed that the other kid is hungry again. And so the process continues, until you feel slightly panicky. Could it be that you have unwittingly got stuck in a never-ending poop/milk whirlwind that will prevent you from ever leaving the house until you need to draw your pension??

Eventually, a window of opportunity presents itself and you manage to pile husband and kids into the car. With a bit of luck, you may just make it in time for dessert.
One last glance to check that you have not forgotten to strap baby in... and you're off.

You shift the car into first gear, take your foot off the brake, move forward approximately 2 metres and... bang.
You slam right into a passing car. A car that seems to have mysteriously appeared from nowhere. Or which perhaps appeared sometime in between the final "is baby strapped in?" and "did I remember to put a bra on this morning?" checks.

The heart-sinking sound of a headlight shattering. The ominous crunch as bodywork groans.

You switch off the engine and let your head sink into your hands.
You wait, like a condemned woman, as your victim scrambles out of his crumpled car to inspect the damage.

"Maman.." a little voice pipes up from the back. "Caca!"

Yes, they say that something like 90% of car accidents happen within a 5-mile radius of where you live.
But I wonder how many happen within 2 metres of one's own front door?

Let it be said: some days are harder than others.