Perfect on Paper

So, I realised that if I post just one more message this year, then 2010 will have exactly the same number of messages as 2009.
This is a rather disconcerting observation, and I wonder what it might mean?
I am effortlessly perfect?
Subconsciously symmetrical in all that I undertake?
No more and no less chatty this year than last?

Anyway, so be it.
147 messages in 2010... of which this shall be the last.
A message without a clear message: a message that skims across the surface of a period filled with doubt, unexplained anger and a pinch of gloom.

BB and I went to Marseille, and all was well. Then we came back, and the feeling that daily life requires slightly more effort than I can give returned.
Now I am packing the various bags for our holiday travels (Paris, Ile de Ré...) and trying to reduce the whole exploit to the bare essentials, both physical and mental.

Last night, an acquaintance with whom I spoke briefly after the theatre told me, just before we parted: "Remember this one word: demands."
"Demands...?" I faltered.
"Fewer of them," she nodded. "On yourself. Be less demanding. Just remember that, if you remember nothing else."

So this is the single thought I will slip into the suitcase alongside the eight pairs of tiny underpants, the boots, coats, gloves, etc.
I will meditate on it during those lost moments on trains and in the midst of holiday cheer... as we wait for midnight to strike in a picture perfect setting.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL!

Concentration Span

Call me intolerant, call me a mobile phone novice... but there's something that really shocks me.

We are a group of parents gathered in the school cantine. Opposite us, our three-year old children form a straggling, bouncy line admidst the homemade Christmas decorations.
It is their very first Christmas "concert", and they have a few short songs they wish to dazzle us with.

As the sweet jangle of three-year old singing fills the room, I am suddenly aware of the fact that every single mother (there is only one dad, and he is behind me) other than me is clutching her mobile phone. Granted, some of them are using it to take photos, observing the whole thing through the minuscule eye of a flat screen, but some of them are simply doing what I call the "mobile phone caressing routine": stroking it, staring at it, willing it to ring.

Then, of course (I'm sure you can see where this is heading...), a phone rings. Loudly and insistently. Every mother scrabbles to check whether the ringing phone is her own (not,as you might expect, out of embarrassment, but rather, to make sure they aren't missing anything important).
The lucky recipient identifies the call as her own... and answers.
Just like that: a cheery "Allo?" boomed out right there in the midst of our three-year-olds' first Christmas concert.

There is a general shuffling. You can tell people are distracted. And yes, by "people", I mean the parents, not the kids.
The magic fails to materialise: there is no wonderment, no involvement, no sense of calm.

We worry about the attention span of our kids. As far as I can see, it's the parents we should really be concerned about.

The Revenge of Christmas

And on a more positive note...
If you have a decent memory, you may recall that Christmas is not really my thing. Actually, that is a euphemism for "I am grumpy and negative about Christmas".
However, startling changes are afoot in this household. The (r)evolution is undeniable:

Two years ago, my first blog account of the Christmas season was far from cheery.

One year ago, the situation had improved dramatically... but my words still belied an underlying resistance.

This year... BB is three, and he LOVES Christmas. Egged on by school, and its obsession with decorations, trees, Father Christmas, chocolates and everything else you could possibly associate with the Yuletide ritual (right down to the toilet roll Santa and homemade foil stars...), he wants it all.
And so endearing is is wide-eyed capacity to believe, that he has won me over.
This year... our tree is no artificial, token nod to festive duty. Oh no, no, no! This year, our tree is a big, cheery, natural affair, complete with shedding pine needles and... and... tinsel.
Yes, we now have tinsel (see last year's pledge never to stoop to tinsel, and gasp).

So this is veritably the revenge of Christmas. All it took was a little boy and a couple of years: and Christmas is most definitely in the bag and here to stay.

Meltdown

Actually, it turned out not to be "spa or bust" but rather "spa AND bust"!
So much for my flippancy, hum.

So I found myself in the slightly disconcerting situation of feeling VERY low, and at the same time VERY protected (in the muted ambiance of a deserted spa resort, far from the Christmas shopping frenzy, in the company of two wonderful friends who rose to the occasion so brilliantly that one might have thought they'd been serving up herbal teas and good advice most of their lives!).

It was as though my subconscious had glimpsed the tiniest opportunity for a major meltdown - far from family obligations and wide-eyed children - .... and I duly flung myself body and soul into that opening.

Ah well. The first few days were terrible: the days since then have been a lot better.
I am overtaken by the wave of relief that comes from finally letting go, facing the fact you are not perfect and drawing up a tentative action plan (with spouse) to address all the malfunctioning elements that have softly snowballed throughout the year.

Overcoming all my natural, hardworking instincts in one quick move, I hauled myself down to the doctor's on Tuesday and got myself signed off sick for the week. The doctor suggested that perhaps I didn't so much require medication as rest and a few big boxes of chocolate? He winked as he wrote the presecription for "top quality chocolate", and I smiled in relief: my diagnosis was the same as his, but it's always nice to have one's instincts confirmed by a professional.

So here I am. I have much to learn; we have much to learn as a family. The first step is meltdown. The second is kindness. And indulgence. We'll see how the rest takes shape.

Therapy

A few weeks ago, when two fellow mothers and I booked a weekend's "retreat" here, it all seemed rather frivolous and... expensive.

But, now that the countdown to departure time has begun (2 hours to go! Freedom calls!), the whole exploit appears not frivolous but.... vital.

Massage or meltdown?
Pampering or prozac?
Spa or bust?

Looks like we made a wise choice.

The Recipe

I would like to be the kind of mother who knows how to rustle up a homemade chocolate cake for tea. The kind of mother who always has the right ingredients in stock, in the proper place, in a neatly ordered kitchen cupboard.

I would like to be the kind of mother who doesn't get impatient with a whingy child. The kind of mother who always knows exactly how to deliver the right dose of tenderness and firmness: the kind who doesn't shout.

I would like to be the kind of mother who never runs out of nappies - so never has to cross her fingers and hope the baby doesn't dirty himself for a few hours while squeezed into the very last "emergency" nappy.

I would like to be the kind of mother who teaches the alphabet to her kids after work. The kind of mother who always has energy and a bunch of creative ideas to implement.
I would like to be the kind of mother who doesn't daydream while playing with her kids.

I would like to be the kind of mother who already has a beautifully decorated tree up and glittering by December 7th. Plus a pile of thoughtful presents: wrapped and labelled and enticing.

I would like to be the kind of mother who doesn't feel overwhelmed 90% of the time.


But instead, I am the kind of mother who invites a couple of kids over for tea, starts to make her (first ever) chocolate cake... and realises she forgot to buy the chocolate.
I am the kind of mother who sends her husband out in a panic at 3 pm to buy a slab of chocolate.
The kind who measures out her ingredients according to the Estimate principle, because she doesn't possess any weighing scales.

I am the kind of mother who turns her face away to hide her tears when the cake turns out just fine and everyone loves it.

I am the kind of mother who scrapes by and hopes it will all turn out OK.
But when I see them tucking into the succulent cake I have somehow managed to produce, I think there must be a metaphor in there somewhere... and with a pinch of good luck, my life might turn out fluffy and sweet and heart-warming like this randomly perfect cake.

Off Balance

Imagine our enthusiasm: a rare opportunity for a night out, made possible thanks to the fortuitous combination of
1/ A group of friends
2/ A kind-hearted babysitter
3/ A good restaurant

So, the evening was fun, the food was OK - but brazenly over-priced - the break from routine was invaluable.

FH started to look a little wobbly on the bike ride home.
Once home, he quickly excused himself and went to bed, while I made tea and had an hour-long debriefing session with the kind-hearted babysitter.

Then, the OK meal removed itself from FH's stomach and deposited itself all over the bedroom, hallway and bathroom in three stages (4 am, 5 am, 6 am) that seemed to roughly correspond to the three courses in which it was served.

No pretty sight, no pretty odour, let me tell you.

A bit of a kick in the teeth for an overwrought couple with few, treasured opportunities for nights out "à deux".

Stumbling out of bed after a sleepless night, thinking of the rather large credit card payment made only a few hours ago, that scene from Fawlty Towers replayed itself in my mind's eye:
Basil's dinner has made one of the snooty guests sick. When the snooty guest's husband asks Basil for a refund - in view of the circumstances - Basil is typically mean-spirited.
"If it was off, why did she eat the other half?"
"Fine!" snaps snooty husband, "in that case, you can refund half now... and if my wife brings up the other half in the night, we'll claim the balance in the morning!"

Classic

Touchy Feely

Partly, of course, it's because he's the second child.

And second children - although they get a rough deal in some respects - have one major intrinsic advantage over firstborns: they are treated with more indulgence.
I'm sorry, but it's true.

Standards slip, principles slide. In the tumult of daily life with more than one child to tend to, firmly held parenting ideas tend to get watered down: a biscuit is given more readily (please stop moaning for two minutes!), a bit of naughtiness strategically overlooked (I haven't got time to deal with this!), a cry for attention more indulgently received (oh, for a bit of peace!).

And yet partly, it's because it's him.
LB is a curious character. The more I get to know him (and it is about getting to know him - with all his qualities and foibles - and not just about "bringing him up"), the more I realise what an affectionate, sensitive boy he is.
Fits of shouting, when answered with a hug, seem to twindle to nothing.
An extra 5 minutes spent cuddling him in the morning do a happy boy make.
Keeping him tight on my knee for the first 15 minutes in new surroundings make him reassured and sociable: forcing him to join in immediately makes him howl.

Maybe because BB is so different - or perhaps because I am not a major hugger myself - it's taken me a while to understand his modus operandi.
But now that I've cottoned on, I'm adapting.
See, who knew that I could be the kind of mother who would allow her boy to sleep ALL NIGHT in her arms? (and by "in her arms", I mean literally snuggled as tightly up to my belly as he could possibly be without ending up back on the inside...).
BB never did this. Maybe he thought it was not allowed? More likely: he just didn't need to.

But last night, when LB firmly and vocally refused to settle anywhere else but snuggled up to me, I gave in. Something told me to go with this particular flow, and accept that it was something he needed.

And my instinct appears to have been right. Tonight, he's back in his own bed: no fuss, no tears.

There really is no parenting "manual", it seems. But finding the answers through trial, error and sensitivity are somehow more rewarding all round.

Globalised Chaos

For the past thirty years or so, my department has subcontracted the work it can't do in-house to a handful of local, independent translators (do I need to point out that I wasn't personally involved in this for the first 24 years?).
Or, to paint a more vivid image: most of our subcontractors have been working with my department since the day I was born.

And now, in 2010, globalisation has struck. It has struck - more precisely - in the obsession, among the faceless directors who live and breathe and dictate from up there in the murky echelons of power, with cost-cutting.
In the name of cost-cutting, we were instructed to issue a new Call for Tender. In the name of cost-cutting, we were forced - I mean encouraged - to shortlist dozens of super-duper multinational companies who promised to "do it all" for less.
In the name of cost-cutting, we were obliged to fight to keep our local freelancers on the shortlist.

And then, lo and behold, we were consulted. Instructed to assess the quality of each shortlisted candidate, we issued a test and reported on the competency of each.
The results were radical.
The sample documents submitted by all the cheap, so-called major companies were sloppy, badly written and littered with avoidable mistakes.
The documents submitted by our local subcontractors were of irreproachable quality.

So, we duly made out our reports and gave our marks out of ten.

And, when the powers-that-be had considered our reports... they decided that the cheapest firms should make it on to the short-shortlist.

At the end of 2010, this kind of thinking passes for "progress".
It seems poignant to me that, the bigger the notion of Quality becomes (it has its own department now, of course, plus a staff of hundreds...), the less of the stuff there is around.
Or, to put it another way: can anyone explain to me how someone intelligent and experienced enough to end up as a senior manager at a place like The Firm can actually believe that quality should be sacrificed for the sake of a few centimes per word?

Upwardly Mobile!

It doesn't seem two minutes since I was making this announcement for the first time.
And already, it's LB's turn.
My little boy took his first, second, third, fourth, fifth (etc.) steps yesterday.
And, at not quite 16 months, that really makes him something of an "early starter" in our family.

Watching him hobble across the parquet - tracking our reaction with proud eyes - I felt the familiar, exquisite joy start to bubble up inside me.
And I knew with absolute certainty that it wouldn't matter how many kids you had: the spectacle of this first time would never be any the less moving.

Get an eyeful of that movement!

In between the walks... a little office work

A Parcel in the Post

When the package finally arrived in the post, we already knew what treasures it would contain.
Among other delights... here at last was the new Peppa Pig DVD, direct from England, thanks to Nana and her clever detective work in the long aisles of the local Asda.

As I tugged at the corners of the padded envelope, BB bounced up and down in sheer excitement, his cheeks aglow, his arms a-flapping.

Maman was not quick enough (her clumsy fingers fumbling with the sellotape): the anticipation became almost unbearable.
When at last the new DVD emerged, in its crisp cellophane cover, BB danced around the kitchen in delight.
Could we watch it right away? Right now, now, now?? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeease?

Of course we could.
It was 6.30 p.m., there were meals to be prepared, baths to run, bodies to be rubbed, dried, fed and bedded.
But the excitement was irresistable. The other programme - the sensible bedtime routine - had to be put on hold.

And as I looked at his shining eyes, his little body tense with anticipation, his 3 year-old knees tightly pressed together as he sat, mesmerised and grateful for the immediacy of his treat... I thought "this is the thing we should be able to bottle up and keep forever." The joy, the enthusiasm, the excitement of childhood.
I want his entire life to be sprinkled with days that give cause to jump up and down with joy.
I don't want him to become cynical... or touched by that ambivalence that I can already detect in some children his age.

For a few minutes, I thought: forget intelligence, qualifications, money and all the rest. If I only had time to foster one thing it would be this: an appreciation of and an ability to express simple joy.

The Naughty Chair

The new HR manager barely glanced up from his screen as I walked in and introduced myself. I'd made an appointment to see him 10 days ago. The new HR manager is a Very Busy Man.

"Sit down, sit down," he ushered, gesturing vaguely in the direction of a spare chair.
Obediently, I sat.
When the new HR manager had finished dispatching his very important email, he strode over and shook my hand.
Ah.
I saw that the new HR manager was about 25 years old, tops. As I took in his crisp white shirt, his brown leather shoes and his perfectly parted hair, the word that sprang to mind was "shiny".
Actually, two words sprang to mind in very quick succession: "shiny" and "corporate".
He smiled. I smiled.
"Young man," I thought to myself, beaming with inner relish, "I will eat you up for lunch."

The new HR manager asked where I was from (though he knew perfectly well), studiously complimented me on my perfect French, then attempted a few words in English, to demonstrate his... fluency.
I smiled indulgently.
Then he signed the contract amendment for me, and strode off to the photocopier (out in the corridor) to scan it (his shiny, corporate legs looked rather becoming as he strode off).
"So, listen: what else was it you wanted to see me about?" he boomed from the corridor. "The thing is, you'd better start telling me straight away, because I'm really really busy and I have to leave in ten minutes."

My eyes narrowed.
I frowned.
Then, I don't know what happened. I opened my mouth and suddenly - from nowhere - my most authoritative motherly voice broke forth.
"I will wait until you come back in here," I informed him... and my voice, normally so soft and inoffensive, boomed outwards all the way to the photocopier, causing him to swing round with a start.
"When you come back in here and sit down, then I'll tell you what this meeting is about," I added.

There was a moment's silence.
One of those brief yet crucial moments of transition.
Oops, I thought.
But then, do you know what happened?

The shiny, corporate, new HR manager slunk (yes, SLUNK!) back into his office, slipped obediently into the chair opposite me... and waited meekly to be spoken to.
I cleared my throat, and spoke.
He listened, made notes, nodded, agreed, sympathised, advised... all the time maintaining such a high level of eye contact that it seemed we may have unwittingly been engaged in a "who will look away first?" stand-off.

And when ten minutes, then fifteen, passed, and I offered: "Oh, but I've kept you too long,", the poor, sweet HR manager shook his head and flapped his hand dismissively: "Oh, no, not at all. It doesn't matter if I'm late."

When I left that meeting, I had two thoughts. The first was: I am 32 years old now. I quite like being 32 years old.
And the second was: a lot of people reckon that taking time out (twice) to have kids equals a bit of a blank space on the CV. And that's true to some extent. But just now I realised that there are some vital skills that we pick up in the course of this parenting journey: skills that would not necessarily sit comfortably anywhere on the corporate CV, but skills nonetheless.

"Stop hitting your brother!" "Take your shoes off the table right now!" "Sit there until you've finished your green beans!"

Wow. Seeing the respect in the eyes of that 25 year old boy as he bowed to my authority was.... eye-opening.

BB, Cassis, end August 2010

Saturday Night

Saturday night: a glass (or two) of wine, a few books, Internet access, two boys in bed, a husband out of the house but accounted for (with sister), SILENCE.

There may have been a time when I aspired to slightly more than this on a Saturday night. But now... Now... I have to say that this exquisite scenario actually constitutes something bordering on perfection.

Rejected

Job Dating is the professional version of Speed Dating, which most people know about.
The latter involves a room-full of hopeful Singles and a carefully orchestrated "interview" system, in which each Hopeful has seven minutes to sell him or herself to a potential love interest.
Job Dating at The Firm is a "sparky" new concept that functions on much the same lines.

So, I was invited to one (a Job Dating session, that is).
And then, two days later, I was uninvited.

Seriously, just like that, with nothing more than a bland email informing me that I had been callously de-selected.
Wow. It's a tough old world.
To be rejected based on a lame seven-minute performance, or a bad-hair day, or an ability to nod and smile sufficiently... that, I could have coped with.
But to be rejected before the whole thing has even begun... Man, even the most hardy among us have to scoop up our egos and dust them down.

The reasons for my pre-emptive rejection are unclear (I rushed to check my CV but no, it doesn't contain my photo, so it can't be that I just failed to meet the physical criteria or something). Not that HR should involve physical criteria at all, but hey, this is 2010, the world is an unfriendly place: you never know.

Anyway, allow me to digest. And recoup.
Something tells me that, once my ego has been restored to full health, I'll probably be able to glimpse the bigger picture here.

A Day Early...

... is better than a day late...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY LOVELY LITTLE SISTER xxx

Save the Date

November 13th sounds - at least to my prejudiced ears - like it should be one of the dreariest days of the year: gloomy, light-deprived and humid, or "winter without the good stuff".
And yet, it turned out to be just the opposite.
A bright, sunny day that would have done June 21st (or any "nice" sounding date) proud.

A day spent in the Pyrenees with a couple of friends and their children... good food, fine wine, sunshine, a breath-taking palette of Autumn leaves, a log fire when the sun went down... and BB's first afternoon nap with.... a girl!
We were oh-so-proud as we watched our offspring jump into bed, full of excitement and disbelief at the novelty of being able to sleep together.

My only question now is: at what age do you stop being delighted that your little boy is snuggling up in bed with a girl??

Chinese Whispers

Conversations with a curious 3-year old are often either: amusing, baffling, frustrating or heart-melting (and sometimes a combination of all four).

I admit that - although I occasionally tire of the circular "but why?" conversational classic - I mostly find this age of discovery and communication fascinating.
Day after day, BB throws up comments and answers that give us a precious insight into the way his (already active) mind works... and the revelations are often totally unexpected.

Some time ago, when one of his good friends moved to Marseille, we had the "moving house" discussion, in which I explained simply and (I thought) clearly what it meant to "move".
A few weeks after C. left, BB and I even went to visit him in his new house (as part of our mother-son roadtrip).
Since then, other people he knows have also moved house, though not always outside of Toulouse.

And then yesterday, entirely out of the blue, a twist emerged.
Munching on his slice of toast and jam, BB looked up at me in consternation and asked: "Mais Maman... why is our house stuck?"
As one is rarely prepared for these sort of questions, it took me a moment to tune in.
"Mmm, what? What do you mean "stuck"?"
"Stuck!" BB insisted, flapping his arms about to emphasise that our house was incontestably right here, all around us.
"Well, you know..." (sometimes it's hard not to go round in circles), "because it is. It just is. This is - you know - where our house is."

BB nodded, unconvinced.
"Yes but... why doesn't our house move?"

Ahh! The penny dropped with a satisfying tinkle of understanding.
"You mean: why doesn't our house move?" I asked.
"Yes!" he agreed, in relief. "Why doesn't our house move, like C's house? And J's house?"

OK. I gathered my thoughts and launched into a response that I hoped was satisfying (though I would have enjoyed a slightly more attentive audience, and the opportunity to use words like "phrasal verb" and "direct object" would have been nice).
"So," I concluded with a flourish, "PEOPLE move, but HOUSES don't! Got it?"

He nodded reassuringly.
"Oui maman."
I sat back, smiling.
He munched his toast.
A moment later he looked up again:
"Mais Maman... can we move our house, please?"

SAD

One of the perks of possessing one's very own blog is the option of being able to Look Back.
Like a diary, the blog provides its author with an irrefutable record of the past: its events, emotions and inconsistencies.
This is not always a comfortable thing, of course.
In fact - just like diary entries from the teen years - previous blog posts can seem cringeworthy when dug up and read months or years later.

But sometimes, they provide solace.
After ruminating for a while about how to fill the figurative blank space on this blog, I dared to take a peek at the November/December entries of the past two years.
And there, something became apparent: this is not a good time of year for me.

The two year record contained within this blog (albeit a selective one) seems to demonstrate beyond any doubt that late Autumn is my hibernation period: the time of year during which, try as I might to recover some cheerfulness, I can't help but feel melancholy... and restless.

I guess that knowing this should provide comfort. It's a question of sitting tight, and letting the year slide to a close with as much serenity as I can muster.
It's a time for books, hot tea, the cinema, red wine and dreaming.
Time for the imaginary world to supplant reality.
No harm in that?

In a Nutshell

Somewhere in between work, the creche run and the rather limp sandwich that constitutes lunch-on-the-go... I managed to squeeze in a 15-minute eyebrow plucking session.

Why am I telling you this?
Well, Reader: I tell you this because - believe it if you can - those 15 minutes spent lying down in blissful abandonment, occasionally wincing in pain, were some of the most agreable of the day.
15 precious minutes during which a professional person TOOK CARE OF ME, spruced me up, rubbed a little lotion onto my terse and weary skin and offered up a few cheery remarks about daily life.

Should I be pitied?
Objectively, someone who cites "eyebrow plucking session" as the highlight of their day does not scream "happy fulfilled individual!" by most people's standards.
And yet.
Perhaps the real point here is that an ability to appreciate the simple moments is an enviable talent in itself.
To turn an appointment that could easily loom as a chore into an opportunity for exquisite relaxation is a triumph of mind over matter.

And please, I am not trying to imply that the rest of my life is as dull as dishwater.
I am simply advocating that, in the never-ending cycle of childcare, duty, planning, cleaning up, wiping down, buying in and throwing out... every window of opportunity for self-improvement should be exploited to its maximum potential.

Oh, I nearly forgot.
The second highlight of the day was listening to a political interview on the car radio whilst driving back to work, eyebrows tingling...
Fifteen minutes for the body, fifteen minutes for the brain, fifteen minutes for the soul.
Could this in fact be the recipe for a modest kind of happiness?

Desperate Housewife

Every November, the plumber comes round to check the boiler.
After cleaning, purging, disconnecting and reconnecting a bunch of complex-looking wires, he downs a coffee, munches a biscuit and declares us OK to switch the heating on for another winter.

The scenario is always the same: he works, I make the coffee, he talks to me about cars.

But for some reason, this year is different. This year, he doesn't want to talk about cars. This year, despite the fact BB is home with me - gazing at the plumber and his array of tools with undisguised admiration - all the plumber wants to discuss is.... (how to put this politely?): extra-conjugal matters.

Entirely unprovoked, he launches into a frenetic monologue detailing his many - many - extra-conjugal adventures, and the ample opportunities that are the icing on the cake of his profession as a plumber.
While I nod and struggle to remain impassive (we're in my kitchen! We're discussing one man's sexual exploits in front of my 3-year old son!), he paints me a few pictures that may or may not be the truth... but seem to delight him all the same: women who answer the door naked except for a loosely tied bathrobe... bored housewives who grab him from behind while he kneels to bleed a radiator... The fantasies unfold before my eyes.

"Well, you know, I don't judge..." I offer unconvincingly (ten minutes earlier, we were comparing anecdotes about our respective children), whilst raising my eyebrows and nodding in the direction of BB. The point is: please curb the s*x talk in front of my kid. The message he appears to receive is: your stories are certainly making me hot under the collar.

So in confusion I take the last-resort option that is the privilege of every parent: I pretend BB needs me for something - quickly - and I leave the room.
I shuffle BB into the bathroom and force him to use the potty.
We linger as long as we can over the whole operation.

When we return to the kitchen, the randy plumber is packing up to leave, so it is with relief that I hand over the cheque and throw open the door.
"Well, see you next year!" I call brightly, thinking 'damn, we need to find a new plumber'.

"Sure, sure" he grins, toolbox in hand, "and you know - next year... maybe if you're alone..."

What? What?!

I can hardly believe the insinuation. Maybe I'm imagining it. Is he really suggesting some sleazy naked housewife scenario?
Crazy.
We close the door and I can sense BB is disappointed.
I'd promised him an exciting half hour watching a handyman at work (tools, noise, mess: a little boy's dream), and in the event, the plumber was just a boring man who talked a lot.

And to think... I actually answered the door with wet hair.
I shiver as I rush to fetch the hairdryer.

Photo of my hotel room in Rome. A plumber-free zone

That Family

Sometimes, we are that family. You know the one: cheerful, contented kids with pink cheeks and boundless enthusiasm... kids who say cute things in earnest, and make everyone around them smile.
Parents who share a laugh and gaze indulgently at their well-behaved offspring.
Babies who rock placidly in swings, gratifying all who pass with a touching expression of pride and glee.
Little boys who snuggle up together in the back of a cycle cart... innocent spectators of the roadshow that is life.





And other days.
Other days, we are that family.
You know the one: noisy, obnoxious kids who can't sit still in cafés, and annoy every other customer in the place by weaving in between tables and gabbling.
Babies who shriek like demons when not awarded the coverted "centre of attention" role.
Bratty boys who demand costly desserts and sulk (both slyly and loudly) when dissatisfied.
Parents whose haggard faces suggest they have recently been usurped as Heads of Household.
Parents who speak to each other just a tad too snappily.
The family people scowl at: the ones with the badly behaved kids.



What to do on those days?
Shrug, smile, apologise... Send eyewitnesses a coy grimace that tries to convey: they are not always like this. Sometimes, we are the other family - the sweet one - honestly, we are! Don't judge us, please!

We think: sometimes, even nice families have bad days.
This is the horrible truth no-one tells you beforehand: even the good parents can't always control their kids.
We savour the compliments on the good days - each "what lovely boys!" tucked away and cherished.
We learn which cafés to avoid.
We have a glass of wine.
We pedal on.

After the Strike... the Holiday

Have petrol, will travel!
Correction: we have enough petrol to get us to Ile de Ré tomorrow... but who knows whether we'll have enough to get us home again a week later?
As the strikes, blocades and general uncertainty force us into a "one day at a time" mentality, I admit that my aim is simply to get there.
Ile de Ré being a bikers' paradise, the car will have a week to recover while the bikes take over.

Four wheels bad! Two wheels good!

At Least God Has a Sense of Humour...

As I hang up the phone, having learned that BB's school will - again - be closed for striking tomorrow, it strikes me (ha ha) that God has a sharp sense of humour. The best laid plans... and all that.

Two months ago, I was banking on a career change. My efforts were focused on making the breakthrough: I'd even had The Chat with my boss, in which I announced (somewhat hastily, as it turns out) my imminent departure for bigger and better things.
And now, several strikes later, here I am: a stay-at-home-mum.
With the best will in the world, I couldn't possible be bounding up any career ladders at the moment. With no school to go to, and no family on the same land mass, BB is entirely dependent on his two primary carers, me and FH.
And you know how life is (we ALL know how life is, in reality): at the end of the day, for all the talk of equality, the accepted status quo is that, when the chips are down and school is closed... it's up to Mum to provide the childcare.

So here we are. Instead of donning heels and a crisp white shirt, I'm in jeans and flats, wondering how BB and I are going to get through another day of improvised home schooling.
I'm thinking we'll try creative tomorrow: perhaps gluing? Crafts? Maybe it's time to start the alphabet?
See, the thing is: I have decided not to be bitter about this. We choose one path, we end up on another. Is this not the essence of life, when it comes down to it?
If we choose to see the positives in every situation, surely we all win in the end?

So, instead of focusing on the closed doors (school, my career), I have simply switched focus and am walking eagerly - temporarily, or semi-permanently or at least, one step at a time - through the open door: the unexpected opportunity to be a stay-at-home mum, enjoying this newfound closeness with BB.

Who knew the anti-retirement reformers would be so successful, so quickly! 32 years old... and basking in early retirement!

Bad Feeling

Anita says she's in a "funk" at the moment. She's not sure what the word means exactly, and neither am I (we are both language exiles, in a way), but I'm starting to feel that I may be in one too.

The ongoing strikes are starting to create a lot of bad feeling. A sort of clammy, hostile environment in which everyone is either: fed up, put out or on strike.
I try not to talk about it too much. After all, strikes are on a par with politics and religion: topics best avoided unless you're absolutely 100% certain that the other person shares your viewpoint.
And to be honest, I don't really have a clearcut viewpoint on this issue.
What surprises me most of all about the anti-retirement reform strikers is their "four legs good, two legs bad" mentality; the sense that it's so obvious who the "baddies" and the "goodies" are in this epic adventure...
Add into the equation the fact that France has a long-term love affair with striking as a form of protest, and you quickly get to the fired up situation (or "social climate", as we say here) we find ourselves in at present.

I don't object to striking. But I don't appreciate being forced into a position, or qualified as morally inferior, for my decision not to strike on this occasion.
So what to do when a pro-strike colleague launches an unprovoked attack, insinuating that I - and those of my "generation" (I guess I should be grateful for the "young people" label...) are cowardly and selfish?
Options include: a serene smile, no comment, a counter-attack, an exchange of insults.
In the event, I choose to point out that every person should be free to make his/her own choice on the matter. And that nobody should callously judge the motives of anyone else's decision.
But I am missing the point: the verbal attack was launched merely to provoke, and no debate is possible. Again, all I hear is a variant of "four legs good, two legs bad", and the insults "selfish" and "cowardly" are flung back at me with a dollop of extra venom.

So, in an atmosphere bristling with unnecessary anger, I switch off my computer, hop on my bike and head off to collect BB from school, where the after-school staff are striking.
And as I pedal along, I think about some of the counter-arguments I would have liked to make, had there been an opportunity for debate, or indeed a point to voicing a viewpoint other than the "Single Acceptable Viewpoint".

I would like to say: people are different. Your desire to strike, wave a banner, shout and protest and fight the good fight depends as much on your convictions as your character.
Those of us who are ill at ease with any sort of group mentality (I am not a group joiner, that's just the way it is) find other ways to manifest our support of or opposition to whatever issue, and surely those other ways are just as valid?
I would like to say: we all have our issues. Some of us feel blood-boilingly angry at the prospect of a raised retirement age... some of us have innate convictions about the superiority of a vegetarian diet, or the bike as a mode of transport (er, no names).
But to what extent should we strive to convert others to our own set of values?
Why should I shout about my moral superiority, when I don't know the first thing about the life, history, convictions or hardships of the person I'm judging/converting/attacking?

But these are just thoughts and the hard reality is: the only person who really cares to hear them is me.
So much of the time, it seems, individuals are rooted in their own beliefs like 200-year-old oak trees set in hardened soil... and what we pass off as "discussion" is little more than two blinkered individuals shouting over one another's head about who is right, and who is wrong.

Rocky Road

When will my support for people's right to strike start to wane?
Now, as we enter week 2 of school closing early, or not opening at all?
Tomorrow, when I have to explain to my boss why I'll be leaving at 3.30 p.m., and why I can't come to work on Tuesday?
The middle of next week, when the Post Office is closed again, and my Recorded Delivery awaits - inaccessible - under a pile of unsorted mail?
Or perhaps next weekend, when the oilworkers' strike has succeeded in making petrol a rarity, and we don't have enough of the stuff to go on the holiday we have booked and paid for?

I get that it's a good thing to defend your rights. I agree that capitalism is unfair, and it's probably a short-sighted and questionable strategy to increase retirement age.
But after a while, I can't help but wonder: who is really paying the price of all this striking?
Not Nicolas Sarkozy: he can probably afford a nanny.

My dear France, we're in this for the long haul, so there's no doubt I'll stand by you, but really: sometimes you make it so hard for me to love you!

Interlude

I was planning a heartfelt post about something that happened on the way to Rome, but somehow can't quite muster the energy for heartfelt this evening.

So instead, here is a little LB interlude.

After a few weeks of regular grouchiness, LB has suddenly blossomed into a happy, mature (well, you know, "mature" in comparison to - say - a 12-month old..), autonomous little boy... who can feed himself.

We look on as the sense of pride glows from all his features... and it is his evident delight that curtails our urge to clean up, wipe down, help out.
After all, as every parent knows, a happy baby is well worth a bit of mess...

A Roman-tic Tiff

I don't think Rome is to blame, but I don't think it's all my fault either.
The two of us simply didn't hit it off.
I guess you could say we're just not on the same wavelength.


Rome is beautiful, sexy and charming, and it has a great body. Of course, I see that.

Rome is trying really hard to impress me... but that kind of in-your-face flirting just doesn't do it for me.
"Look," I sigh, "I know you have history. I know the treasures you're offering are unique. I can even see the success you're having with everyone else around here. But... don't be offended, OK? I just think we're not suited, you and I."

For the sake of politeness, I hang around a while and chat. I try to be open-minded, I listen to what Rome has to say, I nod politely and smile.
I dig a little deeper, searching for the common ground that will cause us to click, lock eyes and fall in love.
But the sparkle doesn't seem to materialise.
I'm just going through the motions: my heart is untouched.

Finally, Rome shrugs its shoulders, lets me go.
"No hard feelings!" it promises cheerfully as we say goodbye over a last ice-cream.
When our bowls have been licked clean, I weave my way gratefully through the crowd of admirers, searching for the train that will take me home.


Still, Rome's pride has been hurt by my gentle letdown: it spitefully declines to display the platform number for my train, forcing me to rush, panic and finally leave in a flurry of uncertainty.
Hum, that wasn't so very Christian of you now, was it?

The thing is though, it was never really going to happen between Rome and me.
The fact is, there's someone else.
An old flame, if you like. Someone who, when I saw him again after my brief flirt with Rome, seemed only to have grown in charm and attractiveness.

Ah Paris! My dearest France! The years pass... and yet my heart still pounds when I see you again.

Time Out

I'm going to Rome for my wedding anniversary.
Unfortunately, FH won't be joining me.

The romantic destination belies a mundane purpose: another 3-day language conference, in the company of semi-strangers I meet up with twice a year.
Still - to a certain extent - it will be nice for me to celebrate eight years of marriage in the eternal city. And, encouraged by my recent viewing of "Eat, Pray, Love" with Julia Roberts (she goes to Rome for 4 months... and eats), I have vowed to eat as much pizza, pasta and pastries as The Firm's budget will allow. I'll even sacrifice a few taxis if need be.

I'm a little concerned however that the wedding anniversary won't be quite as much fun for FH. He'll be household manager for the whole of next week, a gruesome job involving lots of responsibility and few perks.
LB is going through a - how to put this? - difficult stage.
Despite my deep aversion to the categorisation of kids (I don't think any kid should be stigmatised this soon with a label like "Shy", "Boisterous" or "Difficult"), over the past few weeks I have actually found myself uttering the treacherous words "I think LB might be a difficult child."
As soon as I find myself sharing this disloyal thought with another compassionate human being, I quickly backtrack and re-define "He's a good child going through a difficult stage."
Yes, this is a far better way of looking at things. And also, there's a pretty good chance it's true.

Stages can just seem so long when you're in the thick of them.

And without putting too fine a point on it, the original title of this post was "Is it OK to drink whisky at 2.30 pm on a Saturday afternoon?"
You'll be pleased to know that the title got scrapped at the last minute, and the urge it conveys was replaced with a chocolate biscuit.
So all in all, though I'm teetering on the brink, I'm still sort of this side of sane. Sort of.

And P.S., if you're wondering how I'm getting to Rome tomorrow, please don't imagine that I'm taking the simple route.
OF COURSE there is a direct flight from Toulouse!
And OF COURSE I am shunning it in favour of a night train. From Paris.

All roads lead to Rome. Eventually.

See you in a week!

BB: Bilingual Boy

Warning: this is a geek post about language, so probably only of interest to Anita, and possibly Ingrid, who share - or pretend to! - my fascination with all things language-related.
The rest of you can feel free to skip it, I won't be offended.

I have never read any books about bilingualism (I prefer novels to pretty much any kind of educational or psychological guide, though I did enjoy "Eat, Pray, Love": sorry, I digress...), so I'm basically just following my instincts as far as my boys are concerned.
I always make sure I speak to them in English, and I hope this in itself will be sufficient to ensure a very high level of bilingualism.
Beyond that, I haven't given a lot of thought to the the actual process of language acquisition by young kids. But I listen and observe, and it's all turning out to be pretty fascinating (to a language geek like me).

Up until now, I guess what has struck me most is how instinctive it all is. BB will use the word that comes into his head first: so some things he says in English, others in French. I see that there is little reflection involved; it's a pick n' mix based on personal preference and familiarity (for example, some words he hears more often from me, so it's logical he'll repeat them in English. Etc.).

So my ears really pricked up yesterday afternoon as we watching Fireman Sam together in English. The episode in question was that "renowned classic" (what? you don't know it??) involving a faulty van, a homemade cart, a naughty boy called Norman and a dummy.
The dummy being an inflatable doll, of course: used by Fireman Sam in his safety demonstrations.
Anyway, as the plot thickened, BB piped up "Look Maman, the sucette has gone!"
The sucette??
Ah, suddenly I got it. "Sucette" is dummy in French, but in the sense of a suckable object for babies of course.
So I realised that in fact, rather than simply associating a word with an object in an instinctive manner, BB was actually translating in his head from one language to another!

Imagine my excitement (if you can). This puts him on a whole different intellectual plane, as far as I can see. Because sure, even though his translation was wrong (a dummy in the sense of inflatable doll would be called something entirely different in French), the fact he could actually do it amazed me.

Amazed as I was though, I still found it quite tricky explaining why a dummy was not a "sucette"... Not sure he's quite up to comprehending multiple translation possibilities... (a four-year university degree suffices for most people, though).

You take the high road & I'll take the low road...

What does it say about me that, in a traffic jam involving at least ten cars, I was the only person who got out, assessed the situation, spied the fire engines up ahead, sussed out that none of us was going anywhere fast if we didn't back up, walked from car to car explaining the state of play to each driver individually, then supervised the entire "rescue" operation??

As I strutted from car to car, explaining to each occupant that the road ahead was definitively blocked, I saw as many profiles as there were cars:
- Mr Stressed (anger, impatience, steering wheel gripped in fury)
- Miss Cool (couldn't care less, would sit and wait all day if need be, took advantage of the imposed break to reapply make-up)
- Mrs Anxious-but-wishes-she was-cool (tense forehead, cigarette in hand, fingernail clicking against steering wheel)
- Miss Timid (sub-consciously leaning back as I approach, feels like any confrontation with a stranger is an infringement of her privacy)
- Mr Arrogant (tie knotted tightly, ruddy face, refuses to believe that the road will not magically empty for him, despite evidence to the contrary).

So who am I? Of course, I would like to think that my actions prove that I am
Mrs Self-Assertive.
Either that or Mrs Control Freak, right?

Anyway, it's back to cycling for me. Driving is far too much responsibility.

Ten Years On

Ten years ago, FH and I were a young, carefree couple who lived in the trendy Marais district of Paris.
The life we live today probably bears little resemblance to that (aside from the fact we still cycle), but does that mean we are different people on the inside? Where it matters?

These were some of the questions I was asking myself this weekend, as we headed to Sète and Montpellier to meet up with friends of ours from that Parisian era: an Australian couple, who'd also been living and working in Paris in the stress-free, economically booming year 2000.
We hadn't seen them in exactly - er - ten years, but when they contacted us to suggest a meet-up on the French leg of their European holiday, we said OK.

We were open-minded and - in that typically 2010 Facebook-esque manner - curious to see how they'd "turned out".
The saving grace was, of course: they've also had two kids since the Parisian era.

So ten years on, there were not four of us, but eight, and we didn't go to an expensive bar at 11 pm... we went for an early bird supper in an appropriately down-market beach restaurant that we wouldn't feel too guilty about messing up.
We didn't manage to sustain a longer-than-three minute conversation... but we smiled with empathy and affection as we watched each other jump around trying to coax wily kids back into their seats or (as the case may be) admonish brazen little boys who enjoy whipping their trousers off on the beach and peeing into the wind.

We were all different and yet, all so very much the same as we were.

So I wonder if we ever do really change all that much? Maybe - as two good friends and I mused lately - we simply grow more into ourselves as we get older.

And - call it politeness if you will - we all gushed as truthfully as possible that none of us had changed physically in the past ten years.
"But," pointed out Dan, "that's probably normal. It's the 35 - 45 leap that'll be most shocking!"

Time will tell.

*Dan is a semi-professional photographer, which somehow seemed to intimidate FH and I into leaving our phone-cum-camera in its case for most of the weekend. The only shots we have (below) are the ones from Sunday afternoon, after they left.