Swinging Sixties

I have just seen two great films in two days (I like to cram a month's worth of culture into 24 hours: it's the mother's equivalent of a drinking binge): An Education (screenplay by Nick Hornby) and A Single Man (by Tom Ford, with the lovely Colin Firth).

As I emerge from this dazzling cultural bubble, I realise that I have a new, overwhelming ambition. It is not one of my more realistic ambitions, but I know it would make me happy:
I want to live in the 1960s.
Preferably in America, but London would do. I'm not fussy.

Now all I have to do is fine-tune the plans for my time-travelling machine...

The Rough Guide to Toulouse

Mum/Nana just came over for a few days, so FH and I were freed up to do a little travelling.
Adventurous, energetic young things that we are, we opted for a citybreak. In Toulouse.
This was environmentally-friendly travel at its finest: a hotel located a mere 5 km from home, to which we cycled.
Can a more "green" holiday exist?? I mean, short of simply camping in your own back garden? I think not. We didn't even use any hot water.

To be fair, our choice of destination was not motivated by ethical considerations: we were just too damned tired to go anywhere else.
And this way, we could come home during the day and play an active role in childcare. The boys probably assumed we'd just gone out to buy bread and croissants and taken a very long time about it.

One perk of the citybreak was the buffet breakfast on offer at the hotel. Man, this was every downtrodden parent's dream. All-inclusive, eat-all-you-can, everything you could possibly imagine wanting or needing at breakfast.
Unfortuntely, such breakfasts are rather wasted on me, as I have limited stomach space and a strange inability to eat more than my full.

FH, on the other hand, suffers from no such constraints.
As I watched him pile plate after plate with croissants, brioche, bread rolls, cakes and those cute little nutella jars, I couldn't help but smile. It was suddenly 10 years ago, and we were backpackers on a shoestring, eeking every bread roll out of the buffet breakfast, so that we wouldn't have to pay for lunch.
Ten years ago, seeing FH stuff his pockets with breakfast stuff would have embarrassed the hell out of me.
Five years ago, it would have annoyed me.
Today, it made me happy. We are still young at heart.

Making Winter a Little More Bearable

Just a thought but...
Is there anything more captivating, futile and poetic than couples' ice dancing?

I think I got hooked in 1984, right after that momentus Torville and Dean performance (I was only 6 at the time: I still remember holding my breath and thinking how beautiful it was), and I'm still in awe today, 26 years later.

It must take a hell a lot of work to be so light and free...

The Wife, The Mother and Me

Last night I speed-read a book entitled "Le Conflit, la femme et la mère" by a French sociologist called Elisabeth Badinter. (Speed-reading, like speed-cooking or speed-shopping or speed-showering, are just the techniques we mothers use in order to cram the basics into a too-short 24 hour day...). Basically, the book is about the new post-feminist wave of "naturalism": i.e. a return to the idea that women should set aside their role as individuals (at least temporarily) and devote 100% of their time and effort to their kids, once they have made the decision to have children.
Badinter refutes the intelligence of this idea, but nevertheless points out - very convincingly - just how widespread it is becoming in the year 2010. And it's true: I see evidence of this "return to nature and maternity" all around me.


Women are increasingly pressured to breastfeed (whereas, 10 years ago, the decision to breastfeed was presented as a choice; these days, formula milk is stigmatised and mothers who opt not to breastfeed are perceived as slightly selfish, or lacking the famous maternal instinct...); more and more women are choosing to stop working (fine if it really is a choice: not fine if it's due to outside pressure) to bring up their kids; home births are all the rage; epidurals are bad, bad, bad and prevent mothers from truly bonding with their baby; the psychological well-being of babies and kids has become a source of immense concern... requiring that a sizeable chunk of the mother's time and energy be devoted to it.

Badinter argues that, since women now choose when and how to have kids, they feel they have a certain debt to pay towards the child who "didn't ask to be born"... and must therefore dutifully fulfil the role of perfect mother for as long as it takes. And despite the pitfalls, frustrations and sacrifices involved.

I know what a can of worms this is, and I want to stress that I'm not advocating one or the other viewpoint. I don't think there's a "right" answer to the way maternity should be approached. But I do get a bit niggled when I witness the attitude of "voluntary submission to our kids" that I see happening more and more. When I hear about the virtues of a home birth without pain relief, I can't help thinking that it's easy for my generation to be blasé about science and medicine... because we've never lived through a time when women frequently died in childbirth.
Likewise, a generation ago, formula milk was seen as progress, because it allowed mothers some freedom: many of us grew up drinking formula milk and, for the most part, well, we seem to be doing OK. Now, suddenly, it's akin to drugs in a bottle...

OK, this is a VAST subject and I realise that whatever points I make here will be too superficial, but if anyone feels like continuing the debate with me, then feel free.

I just have one final thought: I am by no means a career-minded, convenience food, pack-the-kids-off-to-creche-with-a-light-heart kind of mother. And if the state offered me a year's maternity leave, I would happily take it.
But if, at the end of a day devoted mostly to looking after my kids, I have a couple of hours to myself: well, I would rather read a sociology book than chop up and mix vegetables for homemade purée. And I'd rather my baby slept in his own bed, so that I can take some time for myself, my husband, my brain, my enjoyment.

The shocking thing is, these days, that probably seems shocking to a lot of mothers...

Parents' Evening

Something quite radical happened on Wednesday evening: FH and I went out to a dinner party. Together.

In order for this to happen, of course, someone had to come and look after the kids, and that someone was an 18 year old girl named L. who we'd never met before. In other words, as I whined to FH, a total stranger.
The point was, I was half torn up with worry about the idea of leaving the boys with a babysitter, and half looking for a pretext not to venture out but simply slip into bed with a book ASAP (i.e. pursue my usual post-boy bedtime project).
But something about the manly way FH insisted that we "needed a break" convinced me. In a decidedly non-PC way, I rather liked the authoritative tone in which he said this.

So, the babysitter came at 8, and we all hung out together for half an hour, just to make sure she wasn't a freak and the boys didn't hate her (and vice versa). I watched her like a hawk, all the while making friendly, breezy conversation and showing her where all the essentials were located (Sex & the City DVD collection, for example).
Of course, there was no need to worry. It was blindingly obviously that she was absolutely lovely from the minute she walked in. By the time FH and I left at 8.30, BB was so absorbed in the story she was reading him (I swear he was actually batting his eyelashes at her: a shameful ripple of jealousy ran through me...), he barely even acknowledged us.

And it was fun to get out. My head was swimming, my eyelids were drooping, but at least we were out of the house and in company, and that felt like something of an achievement.

And now we have ourselves a babysitter.
It's hard to let go, it's hard to make guilt-free time for yourself, it's hard to admit that another person can look after your kids just as well as you can, at least temporarily.
But in order to be a good parent, it's probably vital to do all of the above.

Creatures of Habit

One of my colleagues just got back from a 6-month stint in the UK. It was her first time "over there".
As we chatted about her experiences and impressions, she told me that the thing that struck her most was her British colleagues' attitude to food, and more specifically, lunch time.
"I couldn't believe it!" she told me, clearly baffled, "lots of people actually preferred to eat a sandwich at their desk... or even - even! - eat alone in their car!"

I nodded and "ummed" non-commitally, not quite sure where this was going.

"I mean, isn't that weird?" she insisted, obviously looking for some sort of validation on my part. "Why would anyone prefer to eat a sandwich alone, when there's a canteen and colleagues to share lunch with?!"

I debated whether to choose honesty, but really, I didn't want to upset her. Nay, maybe I didn't want to lose the esteem I had obviously earned from her as a "non-typical Brit".
So I just agreed that yes, it was odd. It was one of those "British things".

Actually, I never tell anyone when I sneak off to eat a sandwich in my car. I tend to just gallop off with a breezy "see you later!" that implies I have some kind of exciting lunch engagement.
It's simpler that way.

But I never realised until now that my attraction to solo / time-out lunch breaks might be a remnant of my cultural heritage.
I thought it was just me.
But no, maybe it's the British me.

Sweet Moments

We all have "those" days. Days when we feel the thud of failure in our gut, days when we fear that, despite all our good intentions, something has gone horribly wrong. Days when that "awful badly brought up child" (the one kicking up a fuss in the biscuit aisle... the one who pinched another kid at crèche...) is none other than our own.

And yet, to offset those days, there are the great moments.
The great moments are those glimmers of hope, when something really sweet and unexpected happens, causing our parental hearts to swell with pride and flooding our tortured minds with reassurance: "you are doing something right!"

I had one of these great moments on Saturday.
BB and I are devoting a bit of time to our favourite activity: having a coffee, an orange juice and a cake in a café in the city*
We are sipping our drinks, chatting away companiably ("What's that, maman?" "It's a chair, honey." "Oh. What's that, maman?" "It's a bin, honey." "Oh. Where's Daddy, Maman?", etc., etc.) when suddenly I realise that I haven't eaten the tiny chocolate square served with my coffee.
Knowing how much BB will appreciate it, I say "Hey, honey, you can have my chocolate if you like...." and hand it over.
I fully expect him to wolf it down, pig-like, but instead, he looks at it carefully for a few seconds, then studiously breaks it in two and hands me one of the minuscule halves.
"Share, Maman.." he explains soberly, since I must look shocked.

I am dumbfounded.
Can this sweet, thoughtful, well-behaved, generous boy be my own?!
Sure looks like it.
I smile at him tenderly, feeling pretty damned chuffed. And then... well, then I just can't help it. I just HAVE to sneak a look around the café to see whether anyone else has witnessed this wonderful act.
To my dismay, not a single person is looking in our direction. I have no-one to exchange a smug smile with: no older lady who will chuckle and say something gratifying like - oh, I don't know - "My goodness! What a well-brought up little boy!"

Never mind. I know it happened, and like with so much else in life, I guess I'll just have to settle for the warmth of "personal satisfaction".
This will help me keep some sense of perspective next time he has a public crying fit or something... to which there will - inevitably - be at least 10 scowling witnesses...


* Yes, that's right: my boy is not quite 2 and a half, and already he is a little urbane café-goer: give it a few more months and I will also have myself a fashion-sensitive shopping buddy...

Sleeping Like a Baby

About ten nights ago, LB decided to stop sleeping.
He had been slowly chipping away at our parental sleeping quota since Christmas, but this seemed more radical: it was like he was telling us: thanks, but I'm done with sleeping now. Don't really need it anymore, thanks.
This, as you can imagine, is every parent's dream (I mean nightmare).

The worst part was, we couldn't figure out why.
Again, this is all about the illusion of retaining some semblance of "control" over our lives (which are, evidently, completely out of our control from the moment we decide to have kids). But the theory goes: if we can figure out a "cause", then we can take action and correct the situation, right?

So, the usual round of pained interrogations began: is he hungry, is he in pain, is he wet, is he constipated, is he anxious???... and so on ad infinitum.

In desperation, I turned to my Miriam Stoppard baby bible. The only thing I could find about unexplained waking at 6 months was.... an entire page devoted to "separation anxiety... particularly in babies whose mother GOES OUT TO WORK".
Ooh... bad, bad, bad working mothers! Scandalised as I was (I checked out the publishing date: nope, it didn't in fact date from the early 1960s, as the above paragraph might suggest...), well... I couldn't help but wonder.
Because, as mothers, our guilt quota is unfortunately several times that of other people.

Two sleepless nights later, I was certain. I - bad working mother - was the problem. LB had stopped sleeping because he was tense, anxious, scared and angry with the mother who abandoned him 3 days a week.
At 3 am I found myself whispering to him "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I won't ever leave you, I promise, I only go to work to pay for the house we live in, I don't really want to, you know!" (yep, this seems excessive, but try drinking a cocktail of 7 sleepless nights & 1 outdated, self-important Miriam Stoppard book, and see what state you end up in!).
He looked at me and smiled: I thought I glimpsed a little sympathy.

And then, finally, we confessed our distress to someone medical. Someone medical and sensible. And she suggested that maybe LB was just suffering from indigestion.
Indigestion.... Not deep physchological distress and separation anxiety... but simply, indigestion.

This makes sense, and things seem to be improving now we are treating this possible ailment.

Thank you, Miriam. You've been nice company, but you know, I think it might be time to return you to the very top shelf... I hope you won't feel abandoned...

A New Twist to the Tale of the Chicken & the Egg

Naughty me, I hardly ever wear a helmet when I cycle to work. And by “hardly ever”, I really mean… er… never.

But I started to feel that, as an adored mother of two (I like to think I’m adored…), this was quite irresponsible of me.

And so today, for the first time, I renounced the prospect of OK-looking hair and donned an unattractive helmet.

And today, for the first time, I fell off my bike.

What can this mean?

Was my ‘fall” pre-ordained, and some kind of instinctual premonition / guardian angel made me wear a helmet?

Or, did the fact I was wearing a helmet make me more foolhardy and less attentive, so less likely to fall?

Or, is it just a coincidence?

Ooh, tricky.

The philosophical debate is open.

Multiculturalism at its Finest

At the mighty Firm, lots of (French) people like to think of themselves as bilingual.
The higher up the professional scale they creep, the more English words they feel compelled to throw around... breezily... you know, in a kind of "ooh-I-just-can't-THINK-what-that-word-would-be-in-French" spirit.

This is generally quite amusing for the few native English speakers among us.

Indeed, the little incident during today's meeting really deserves a mention.

It's a serious meeting: the speaker is the Head of Something Important Sounding. He is sharing important information with us about an upcoming project. Unfortunately, most of what he is saying is fairly incomprehensible, due to the fact that every fifth word is in English (the rest is in French). His English accent actually defies belief: it's almost like he's parodying zee French acc-ant...

Eventually, he informs us that the Important Sounding Project will involve "monthly reviews". What he actually says is "reevious zat are moosley".
He's already breezed on confidently to the next point, when suddenly my 65 year-old English colleague (a serious-minded woman) cups her ear and asks: "What, sorry? "Muesli"? Why "Muesli"?"
Important Manager looks as confused as my English colleague, and there is an embarrassed silence as a few people (me included) bite their lips and study their feet.
At last, another diplomatic Brit comes to the rescue, leans over discreetly and tells her "Monthly. Ahem. He said "monthly""...

"Oh! Sorry..." exclaims my hapless colleague, still deadly serious. "I thought you said muesli!"

Curiously, nearly everyone in the room has a little coughing fit for the next 30 seconds...

Yet More Car Stuff

Yes, I know that, for a would-be environmentalist with a passion for two-wheeled, engine-less vehicles, I do seem to go on about cars rather a lot.
What can I say?
I have to appease my male readers somehow, so let's just say that the car stuff is here to balance the baby stuff...

Anyway, this week, we are once again in possession of a brightly coloured Twingo!
Exit the character-less Megane... welcome back youthfulness!
Sadly, it's only a temporary return to the carefree days of small car driving: Megane is finally having her hailstone damage repaired, and the Twingo is our courtesy car for the duration.

I love it. I feel like myself again. Suddenly, I can park! Suddenly, I am no longer holding in my breath and preparing for the next accident every time I slide behind the wheel!

I will say one thing though.
When we first got the Megane, I scoffed at all the so-called sophisticated gimmicks, like, for example, the electronic card that replaces a key, and works by "automatic recognition". What a load of unnecessary rubbish, thought I primly, as though it's really too much effort to push a button or turn a key to open one's car!
Well, yesterday, as I stood nonplussed beside my new Twingo, arms laden with kids and stuff, wondering why my car door was not opening automatically... I realised that we DO get used to these "unnecessary" luxuries. In fact, it's amazing how quickly something futile can mutate into something that serves a purpose.
Or, in other words, it's surprising how quickly one becomes accustomed to luxury...

The Big City

I've been away in Paris for the past few days, taking a little break from Manic Motherhood to spend time with my Mum and sister.
Because we've done the tourist thing before (no snobbiness intended: it's just that, I did used to live there, and mum and sis have visited lots of times...*), we decided to devote the entire trip to cafés and restaurants. We managed to notch up a grand total of 11 such establishments in just over 24 hours, which is good going by anyone's standards...


Freezing weather and the odd spot of rain helped our mission nicely, and made all those coffees, hot chocolates and apéritifs seem justified.

As we attemped to wander among the speeding masses, I reflected on the hectic-ness of big city life. Paris has its charms, of course, but such a hectic pace of life is no longer my thing. I don't want to have to crick my neck in order to catch a glimpse of sky, bump my pram down dozens of steps to join the throngs in the underground, inhale exhaust fumes whilst having my ears assaulted by all the ambiant noise and aggression.

I guess then, that this is yet another tale that ends with the predictable "the grass is not necessarily greener elsewhere".
I'm happy, for now, here in my provincial(ish) backwater, where two-hour lunches are a way of life, not a luxury, and spring starts to peep through the clouds as soon as Januray is out of the way...

* Still sounds snobby, right?