The Happy Paradox

I bounded into the office full of the joys of spring and my trip to Seville.
I couldn't help but gush: yes, it was fantastic. I had a great time. Look everybody: I brought you back some home-made biscuits from Seville.

A few minutes later, it began to dawn on me: no-one really wants to know how happy you are.
Actually, it's worse than that: it's making them tense. Lips are pursing and heads are nodding crisply even as you wax lyrical about the beauty of a well-danced "sevillana".
The uncomfortable truth is: they have all been stuck in the office for a week, and the fact that you had a good time - and got paid for it - is irritating the hell out of them.

So I slunk back to my seat, and reflected.
I realised how I must have seemed to them: insensitive maybe, or silly, or hyper.
And yet, none of it was calculated: I am simply very happy.
Life is good, my family is great, my work is bearable... and the fact that I've managed to squeeze a few foreign trips and a sliver of intellectual stimulation out of it just makes it even better.

But people (colleagues?) don't want to know this.
Some part of me realises that human nature can be disappointing, and unfair: Jealousy is a sub-conscious constant.

So I am reminded of a popular French saying: "vivons heureux, vivons cachés"... If you want to be happy, be discreet about it (loose translation).
And I repeated this little ode to myself at home time, when a particularly unfriendly colleague (female, of course), snarled "So, you're not in tomorrow either?" as a curt alternative to the traditional "good evening".
"Er.. no, I'm never in on Wednesdays..." I faltered (even though she has feigned surprise at my Wednesday absence practically every week since January).
"Fine. Have fun looking after your baby..." she said pointedly, somehow managing the near-impossible feat of making "baby" sound like a dirty word.

It bothered me for a few minutes, of course it did. I'm only human after all.
But by the time I'd walked to the car, I felt happy again.
It didn't matter, she didn't matter, none of them matters.
My happiness is a priceless jewel that I will tuck away in a box if need be: as long as I know it's there, no-one else can touch it.

Snapshots of Seville

Layers and layers of history and architecture... Doors behind railings concealing other doors, leading onto passageways and gardens and courtyards, with more doors tucked into their corners...
Brown-armed taxi drivers who turn the tiny backstreets into a white-knuckled ride for tourists, while Radio Nacional de Espana shrieks in the background... and who ALWAYS unclip their seatbelt as soon as they leave the main roads...

Larger than life nature: trees taken right from a child's picture book

A black-haired flamenco dancer with fire in her eyes: a flamenco performance for the soul, not for the tourists...

Bursting into tears in the Baby section of H&M, when "Everybody Hurts" came onto the radio.
(Buying a pair of baby trousers, just to feel better...)

Stumbling across the calmest, most elegant square in the city, glancing upwards and beholding.... the French flag. My wry smile.

It's Hard Work, But Someone's Got To Do It...

Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you won't be hearing from me for a while.
Next week I'm off to Seville, on business.

Doesn't that sound good?
I think I'll write it again, just for good measure:
Next week I'm off to Seville, on business.

Actually, all this breezy banter is a cunning way of disguising the fact I'm really in knots about leaving the boys for six whole days.
Sure, there'll be tapas and flamenco and sangria and hopefully a generous amount of sunshine... but on the other hand, I'm going to endure a grand total of TWENTY-FOUR hours on various trains (that's the round-trip, but still...), and a LOT of very irrelevant and self-important chit chat in the middle.
Most importantly, I won't get to nuzzle the necks of these cute boys before I go to bed:



I'm leaving them in very capable hands, since the designated babysitter is of course their father.
But still.
Will he be able to draw dinosaurs quite so captivatingly BEFORE he's even finished his morning coffee??


Or, to put it another way, I am their Maman, ergo I am indispensable.
Or so I believe.

Sigh.
See the problem with having kids?
It's the eternal catch-22: long for a break... then feel heartbroken to be away from them.

Spring Forward

I don't know if it's the first daffodil of the year to raise its head in our back garden... but it's the first one I've noticed.
I know: every spring is the same: every year, a variation of the same photo.
What can I say? I'm a fan of spring.
Each year is a tiny miracle: the first rays of sunlight that carry actual warmth... the first vibrant splashes of colour... the first time I fling open the back doors, unleash the kids into the garden with the giddy instruction: "Go play!"...


Ah, the joys of outdoor play.
Wednesdays have turned a corner: give the boy an old broom, some soil to get dirty in, a ball or two... and hey presto! Relaxed parenting is back!

Baby is left to soak up a few rays: purely in order to boost his vitamin D reserves, of course.
This is what I call "responsible parenting"...

Does spring not merit a shorter crop?
As though shedding my cumbersome winter fur, I get a few curls hacked off, and all is right with the world again.

Exploring Provence

After a few minor setbacks (snow, and sickness), we finally resume our Sunday outings.
The sea, sunshine, Provence, a couple of baguettes... what could be nicer, right?

Unfortunately, despite his initial enthusiasm for the expedition, BB quickly loses heart.
See, Provence is almost always sunny... but there's a good reason for that. And that reason is: wind. Ah, those bracing gusts that chase the clouds away... and drive BB loudly, unconsolably, relentlessly crazy.
"Go home!" he screams, as his parents try stoically to eat cheese sandwiches in the wind.
Finally, scared that his howls are disturbing folks within a 10-km radius, we give in and let him sulk in the car.
In an (uncharacteristic?) outpouring of parental frustration, FH snaps: "Next weekend, you can bloody well sit in front of the TV all day and eat bread!"
(bread is BB's staple diet).
The desired effect is not obtained, however, as BB merely nods enthusuastically at this prospect.

So it makes me wonder: why are we forcing our kids to get out and "have a good time"?
Who's really having fun here?
The answer, of course, is that we're probably doing it for our own benefit. Or because we misguidedly assume that our children will enjoy the same activities as we do.



On the way home, in the stoney silence that follows our most recent exchange of viewpoints (me: "you don't know how lucky you are! I had to grow up in England, you know! It was way colder than this!"; BB: "Wah!!"), I wonder whether we should take account of his opinion a little more. Like, maybe sacrifice our desire to "get out", let him play at home instead, watch his way through a few DVDs.

Then I think no. No, no, no. I'm the parent now. I get to decide how we have fun: surely that's one of the perks?
I nod at FH and he smiles a forced smile, without humour.
An understanding passes between us.
We WILL pursue. We will teach this kid to have fun - our kind of fun! - if it kills us!
And if he never gets it, well... well, then at least he'll have something to rebel against in 15 years time!

Mars and Venus in a Cardboard Box

On Saturday afternoon I helped Delphine pack up some boxes in preparation for the move: she's eight months pregnant, and they're planning to move house next weekend, so she kind of needs any modest help going.

As I pass"stuff" down to her (no disrespect intended, everyone has their stuff: most of it only truly comes to light when we move house...) from my precarious perch at the top of a stepladder, it occurs to me that men and women have very different approaches to moving house.
Here we are, D. and I, casually handing each other linen and pillowcases and shoes and chattering about how old they are and where they came from and what they're made of... while, in the next room, her husband and a male friend huff and puff and carry.

"These bedcovers used to belong to my grandmother!" D. tells me wistfully, stroking them as she sits awkwardly at my feet. "They are so cooling in summer, and yet so warm in the winter! Mmm... I wonder if maybe I might dye them another colour?"

I love to hear the little tales that unfold beneath each dusty object.
I wish we had more time to talk about the things I'm placing hapzardly in cardboard boxes.
And that's when I realise that, for us women, moving is about savouring, evoking, sorting, remembering...
... while for men, well - a glance back out into the living room confirms - for men it's kinda just about putting stuff in boxes.

On the Outside, Looking In

I had just dropped the boys off at creche and was setting off to work, huddled up over the steering wheel with the heater on full blast.
As the car edged its way through the tangle of traffic, I glanced to my left and noticed a lone man taking photos through the railings of the park. As though he had all the time in the world, he was serenely lining up the perfect shot: beautiful thick snow hanging from huge conifers, against the shimmering backdrop of a crystal clear blue sky.

On closer inspection (the traffic really was moving slowly), I realised that the man was a good friend of mine, S.
S. also works at the Firm: he is neither a photographer nor a man with a lot of time on his hands... which made the sight of him, here, now, taking time out, even more touching.

Later that day, I sent S. a little message: This morning I saw a romantic soul taking photos of the park: there's a guy who knows how to appreciate beauty, I thought!

Minutes later, a reply came flying back: I can't believe you saw me! If you knew the importance that little moment held for me...
The thing is, last year, I was driving to work, bad-temperedly, fuming at the traffic and all the rest, when I noticed a guy taking photos of the park, in exactly the same spot. It was a beautiful snowy day. And I promised myself that, next time we had a day like that, well, that guy making time to appreciate the beauty of the moment would be me! So I waited, and that day was today.

You see, I wrote back, I didn't know the background: I just saw a romantic guy taking time to live. I guess that means you've become the person you wanted to be!

S. agreed. But, he said, they're just moments, aren't they? What about the rest of life, the dissatisfaction, the disappointments, the frustration...?

I thought about that, but the answer came to me pretty quickly.
But that's all life really is, isn't it? A series of moments.
If you have the ability to stop your car, contemplate the view, maybe take a photo or two... Then what else matters, really?

Who is the Weakest Link?

1/ The person who: lost his keys, panicked, hid the awful truth from his wife for 24 hours, cracked, called the insurance company, found out it was OK to change the locks, almost had all the locks changed, THEN found his keys stuffed somewhere in the back of the car he'd already searched five times?

Or,

2/ The person who: dragged two little kids to a huge supermarket, whizzed around with a pram, a buggy board, a hyperactive 2 yr-old kicking a balloon bigger than his head, bought two packs of scandalously expensive baby-milk, drove them all home, got them into bed, unpacked the bag and realised she'd bought the wrong brand of milk?


May the public decide.

The Futility of Planning (part 1056)

The past couple of days have provided yet more hard evidence to support my new theory: there is little point planning anything. Especially when kids are brought into the equation.

On Sunday, we were supposed to be here:

But instead, BB threw up six times, made a miraculous recovery, infected his parents, then proceeded to run riot whilst they agonized and vomited.

Two days ago, spring had arrived. We hung up scarves and gloves, extracted lighter jackets from the depths of the wardrobe, got a new haircut (me) that cunningly left the neck nice and vulnerable and uncovered.
And then, today, the view from our back door looked like this:

And lastly, well, there's no real anecdote here, but we woke up to discover someone had had fun removing the four hubcaps from what I now affectionately think of as our "doomed car".

Testimony to the mental leaps I have made in the past few months: this morning I cycled to work as the first flakes of snow swirled to the ground, caressing my frozen cheeks with their icy softness. When I got to my desk, hung up my helmet and set out my dripping gloves to dry, my colleague leaned over and asked, full of concern:
"Oh dear, you came by bike! But... it's going to snow all day, you know. How on earth are you going to get home?"

I looked at her, smiled the sad little smile of life's stoics and said (truthfully):
"You know, I have no idea. I'll just cross that bridge when I come to it. At the moment, I've got used to just living one half-day at a time. Beyond that, well, I tend not to plan too much."

She laughed, I laughed. And OK, I was exaggerating a little. That is the drama queen in me.
But there really is a grain of truth in what I said. And the funny thing is, this attitude brings a certain bracing gust of freedom to these confusing times.

PS I got over the snow hurdle thanks to a friend, who kindly offered to drive me home. So the moral to this tale of recklessness seems to be: it's fine not to plan... but always make sure you have a few good friends to hand when you are 1/ Phone-less 2/ Transport-less 3/ Plan-less

Is It Me or Is Something Funny?

I am just emerging from a 3-day long meeting (OK, technically we were allowed to go home and sleep at night, but it really did feel like a 72-hour slow torture...), so please excuse my absence and the picture-less appearance of this blog.
Colour will make a comeback soon, I promise.

On the first day of the "cross-cultural" meeting, I went to introduce myself to a British guy I'd never met before. Let's call him "Steve", to preserve his privacy.
"Hello, are you Steve?" I asked.
"Oops, yes, why: who's asking?" quipped Steve, putting his hands up in mock surrender.
I laughed. Hard.
"Police!" I joked back, holding up my company badge in the manner of a Detective Inspector.
What a wit, hey?

The thing is: this seemingly minor exchange says SO much about us Brits.
It's that humour thing again, isn't it?
Two Brits, using humour to get over initial awkwardness and smooth the path towards conversation.
This is such a cultural curiosity for me: I don't think I have ever observed two French people (or any other nationality, for that matter) use this "social humour" in the same way, right from the outset.
Contrary to common misperceptions, the French DO have a good sense of humour, and I reckon most of them enjoy a laugh as much as the rest of us... but they wouldn't think it appropriate to use it quite so liberally, or be quite so "upfront".

In fact, I can almost guarantee that, if poor Steve uses his "oops, the game's up!" joke on an unsuspecting French person, well, he's going to hit a cultural hurdle head-on.
To put it simply, they'll think he's deranged.

But it's OK for two complete strangers, who both happen to be British, to laugh and joke and be silly from the first second they encounter each other. And most of their first chat will probably be marked by laughter, silliness and the odd bit of wink-wink sarcasm.

It's fun, it's acceptable, it's heart-warming, it is second nature for me.

But, outside of the UK, it really must be used with moderation.

What Goes Around Comes Around

My 32nd birthday kicked off at 2 a.m., with a bout of hysterical crying.
No, the crier wasn't me - freaked out at the thought of getting even older - but LB. Or rather, a scrunched up, angry, unconsolable version of LB.

The crying continued for a good hour, but I managed to be stoical. "You chose to be a mother", repeated my wise, inner voice. The voice of a well-adjusted 32 year-old woman?

Of course, there was a silver lining to this hysterical cloud.
Thanks to LB, I could completely empathise with how my own mother must have been feeling at the same hour exactly 32 years ago: tired, overwhelmed, shell-shocked and slightly annoyed with those friends who told her having a baby would be a fantastically amazing experience.

God has a sense of humour, doesn't he?