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
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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...
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?
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.
