Pecking Order

Eldest child scenario:

Ten days after his chickenpox eruption, Eldest Child develops a big squishy lump at the back of his neck.
Maman discovers it by chance while stroking his neck absent-mindedly.
As her fingers brush over the lump, she pales, her heart thudding. Omigod. What can this be?? It's a lump. A lump. Oh no.
She prods, squeezes and pokes the lump until Eldest Child squirms in annoyance and - probably - pain.
"It's fine, it's fines," she lies, sweaty with anxiety. "It's nothing to worry about. But - um - we might have to go and see Dr Mazé tomorrow. You like Dr Mazé, don't you?"

Eldest Child hates Dr Mazé, and they both know this.

The next day is a bank holiday (evil, evil, badly timed bank holiday!), so they have to wait 48 hours before Dr Mazé can have his turn poking the lump.
During these 48 hours, Maman resists the temptation to whiz Eldest Child right down to Casualty and get the lump checked out. But only just.
As a reward for such constraint, she continues to prod and manhandle the lump at every opportunity - just to make sure that yes, it's still there.
Eldest Child wriggles and tries to get himself away from her prying fingers.

Finally, they huff and puff their way to the doctor's surgery - a military-style operation that requires a two-adult strategy of bike, car and child-swapping.

They sit, miserably, in the waiting room. And wait.

At last, they are ushered in to the doctor's surgery.
Eldest Child begins to scream in anticipation, and Maman monologues in a high-pitched voice about the lump and the Fear.
Doctor shushes her, has a quick feel of the lump while Eldest Child turns purple with anger, asks "when did he have chickenpox?", says "it's just a swollen gland. That always happens with kids after chickenpox".

Always happens with kids after chickenpox???
So - how come no-one ever thought to tell Maman this?
Why - when Eldest Child was brought in 10 days ago with chickenpox - did Doctor not think to add (breezily, as an after-thought, even): "oh, and by the way, a week from now, he's going to get a big swelling in his neck. But don't worry about it, it's perfectly normal."

Eldest Child and Maman flee and head home.
They are drained, relieved, cried out, pissed off.

Days later, Eldest Child is still preoccupied with his mysterious lump. Maman is cool again - laid back and unconcerned. But Eldest Child has understood the Fear.
He roots around for the lump.
"Moi, bobo.." he laments sadly.


Youngest Child Scenario:

A few days after the chickenpox starts, Youngest Child gets a lump in the back of his neck.
Maman discovers it one evening, as she absent-mindedly strokes his head.

"Oh yeah," she thinks absently, flicking over to the next page of the story they're reading, "that'll be a swollen gland."

End of story.


Tell me: is it any wonder we first-born kids are neurotic??

Chickenpox: The Sequel

Forget Sex & The City, the sequel to "Chickenpox: The Movie" is now showing!
This exciting new film stars LB in the lead role!

This morning, I stumble out of bed at 8 a.m., take one look at LB's spotty face, remember that it's (another) national strike day and that there will be chaos on the roads... and my decision is made by 8.01 a.m.
LB will stay home and convalesce with Maman.
It will do both of us good ;-)

Special Day

So, we finally got to bank holiday no. 4 (that's the fourth since May 1st...) and hey presto!
It wasn't raining!
One out of 4 ain't bad, hey?

But of course, since it was no longer raining it was, naturally, boiling hot.
That just about sums up the Toulouse climate: if it ain't snowing, it's probably scorching.
It has always struck me that we get very little mid-season weather down in this corner of Europe... a definite lack of light-jacket days. Which is a downright shame, since I seem to have an impulsive addiction to light jackets, and possess about fifty of them.
Most are therefore for display purposes only - sad.
Still, they look nice hanging smartly in the wardrobe.


Anyway, two special things occurred this bank holiday weekend: my friend Carla got married... and BB started to use the potty.
No disrespect to my friend: I'm not suggesting that these two events are of equal importance, naturally.
No, the potty thing is far more important! (just kidding).

Carla and Vincent tied the knot accompanied by their two kids, and a bunch of friends and family, including me and "the girls".
Ah, don't we look smart? And so natural?

Well, three days on, the marriage seems to be bearing up fine, but the potty usage is a little sporadic. There seems to be a home / creche divide that cannot be crossed: apparently, a grand total of four wet underpants had to be changed by the nursery staff in the space of one hour on Tuesday morning.
Ah well. Rome wasn't built in a day.
Toilet training - like marriage - requires constant effort: each day, we must commit anew to making it work.
And one day... it all falls into place.

Happy Campers

Just a regular Saturday, hanging out in my teepee in the back garden...

So much fun that my big brother wants to join me...

Time to think about moving... this teepee just ain't big enough for all of us!

Multi-tasking

At 8 a.m. I drop the boys off at crèche: quick trip to the Baby room (2-minute chat about the weather and the appropriateness of a long-sleeved sleepsuit as opposed to a sleeveless one); quick trip to the "Bigs" room (2-minutes' coaxing of 2 yr-old, gentle persuasion aimed at extracting said child from the folds of my dress); rush back to the car, forgetting to remove blue plastic crèche shoes.

At 10 a.m., I have a 6-page annual financial report to translate: head-aching succession of specialist financial terms to search for / guess at; hours and hours of Googling and brain-racking, courageous attempt to undertsand words such as "sundry" and "contingent liabilities".

At 1 p.m., I have a meeting at BB's future school: discussion about potty training and confidence building and vegetarianism and socialising and when can you come and spend a day here with him? Is a Monday morning OK?
I nod, smile, agree, accomodate... and at 1.30 p.m. I jump back in the car and rush back to the office, eating a half-cold cheese panini with one hand on the steering wheel.

At 3 p.m., I'm back with the "contingent liabilities": 2-hour proof-reading session with my boss, including perusal of bilingual financial reports dating back to 1995.

At 5.05 p.m., I email the translation to the Director's secretary, just 5 minutes behind schedule. Shut down my computer and hurry back to the car: have left the building before Windows has even gone to sleep.

At 5.45 p.m., I'm back in the Baby room, head spinning with "non-trade receivables and refundable launch aid"... struggling to tune right back in to the discussion about sleepsuits and nappies and the consistency of baby poo.

Such is the daily lot of a "working mother".
It all boils down to one thing: multi-tasking.
There should be a degree in it.

9 p.m.: day-dreaming about a simpler life. Resolve to become less pragmatic the older I get.
Motion discussed and validated by FH.

The Lap of Luxury

My favourite meal is about a simple as it gets, and hasn't changed much over the past ten years: a few slices of top-quality cheese, a chunk of baguette and a glass of rosé.
Best eaten outside, picnic-style, by the sea if at all possible.
And - though I don't often mention this bit, lest I seem strange - this exquisite meal is actually enhanced if the meteorological conditions are less than perfect.
There's just something about picnic-ing in the wind, wrapped up in a big jumper, trying to keep strands of hair from blowing into your plastic wine glass that sends little ripples of contentment through me.
I suppose this must be a throwback from my British childhood: a latent stoicism that rejoices in "making the best" of trying circumstances...

Or nostalgia for that "voyage of discovery" through Italy with Ingrid and Anita... travelling on a tight budget that didn't include a real bar or even proper wine glasses (but, isn't it funny, the things you remember? Even now, I can feel the anticipation as Anita hacked away at the cork with her penknife, willing the bottle to open... I can recall the mouth-watering taste of cheap wine drunk from an improvised plastic cup...).

In any case, whatever the complex mix of memories and nostalgia underlying my penchant for simple, blustery picnics, it seems to me that what I really enjoy most is "non perfection".
I would truly, honestly, sincerely choose a seaside picnic in the wind over a 5-star restaurant any day (not that I often have the option... or indeed ever, but you reap what you sow, n'est-ce pas?).

Unfortunately, BB does not have this nostalgic baggage to help him appreciate the joys of outdoor eating.
So yesterday at the beach, Mr Spotty sat alone in the car while the rest of us picnicked with friends.
This is not as heartless as it sounds: he had an ample stock of books and CDs, and seemed to quite enjoy being temporarily in charge of Megane. And, you know, we checked in on him from time to time.

And whatever his current aversion to the wind and cold, who knows? Time being time and memory being selective, one day these blustery weekends by the sea might just be the stuff of happy memories.

Photo taken last October. Different season... same face.

Good Sport

Because I am a Good Sport, I will now reveal the post-hair crisis me.
Like I said, it's not pretty, it's not an improvement... but at least it's no longer purple.

And now, because I am a Very Good Sport - and because we British are nothing if not relaxed with the idea of self-mockery... I will reveal / remind you of that legendary event known as The First Hair Crisis. Twelve years ago. Thought it would be nice to have a change.

Blondes have more fun???

(stop laughing! Stop laughing! I can hear you, you know...)

Art and Life

Yesterday morning, BB was inspired to decorate the wet wall: a tasteful play-doh mix that is an undisputed improvement on the original...

And then, just a few hours later - by a cruel twist of fate - his little belly resembled the spotty wall.
At last, the chickenpox!

Loose Screws

So, after 10 days and two cancelled appointments, a plumber finally comes round to inspect the wet wall.
The plumber looks like he could be Grumpy Old Man's long-lost twin brother, which is disconcerting enough.

After a few minutes' "inspection", a trip upstairs and a long chat with GOM and FH, the plumber delivers his verdict.

He thinks the leak was probably caused by rainwater.

I am speechless.
I blab on - again - about the torrent of water I heard just hours before the wall got soaked, GOM's wife, the toilet, the bidet: the whole sordid tale.
The plumber just nods and strokes his mustache.
I point out that there have been heavy showers practically every day since May 1st, yet no more water has soaked through the ceiling.
FH just shrugs, in that irritatingly Gallic way, that suggests the whole issue is simply too big and complicated to contend with.

"So, what happens now?" I ask FH later (I couldn't bear to hang around for the end of the plumber's visit: I was afraid I might shake him in frustration or bang my head against the wall or something un-Gallic like that).
"Well, you know, the plumber will come back another day, do some tests... We'll see. It'll get sorted," says FH, still shrugging.

Do you ever get the feeling that the rest of the world is crazy? That you are perhaps the only sane one left?
Part of me whispers the unthinkable: I might be wrong.
But whenever I look up at the soggy wall, the other 95% of me still shouts: they're all crazy!

Photo taken 2 years ago. When I had normal hair.

Scary Hair

I don't have a lot of wisdom to pass on after 32 years' experience of life on this planet. But I do have one nugget of advice that just might help someone, somewhere.
It goes something like this:
If, one day, you are feeling a little restless and the idea strikes you that it would be fun to change your hair colour... Stop and Think.
Half an hour's fun with a 10-euro do-it-yourself-cheaply-and-easily hair product - a beauty treatment that neatly doubles up as entertainment for your two small kids, who particularly enjoy watching the rivers of red water stain the white bathtub as you attempt to rinse it away - is NOT GOOD SENSE.
Neither economically, nor in terms of pyschological well-being.

In the event, it is more than likely that, the day after this little experiment, you will be forced to hot-foot it to a reliable hairdressers, endure 5 minutes utter humiliation while staff and customers alike have a good snigger at your plum/violet locks, beg a trained professional to sort it out (offering to pay "whatever it takes" to obtain a less punky look), then sit for hours and hours having various things done to your damaged locks.
When you finally re-emerge from this ordeal, you will have spent a sizeable chunk of the month's budget, and you will just look "OK".
Not better than you did 48 hours ago, not pretty, certainly not better than you did in the first place, before the whole saga began: just "OK".

And the worst thing is - as those of you who have known me for over ten years can testify - this is not the first time I have learned this lesson.

There are no photos to accompany this post. For obvious reasons.

Boy Zone

One of the perks of having three... er, I mean two... boys is that, if you stick a Bob the Builder DVD on and plonk them down on the sofa... then you've pretty much earned yourself a peaceful, solitary breakfast in the kitchen with a good book!
Long live Bob and his DIY skills!

Mind Over Matter?

Forget self-indulgence: I am feeling guilty. And confused.
I'm wondering whether my body is playing tricks on me... or whether my mind is doing its own thing, regardless.

See, this morning, I was supposed to be on a creche outing: 18 little kids and a bunch of adults, including 4 volunteer parents, i.e. moi.
I was supposed to be helping shepherd all these kids through a modern art museum, keeping little hands away from fragile sculptures while braver people than me strived to introduce exuberant two-year olds to the nuances of modern art.
And I was looking forward to the prospect, I really was.

But yesterday afternoon, I was struck down. My body shifted into sick-mode, I felt hot, sweaty, tight-throated, achy: incapable of dragging my weary muscles anywhere other than into bed.
So I guiltily fled home from work, curled up under the bedcovers and lay rigid and sorrowful for the next few hours.
In the meantime, FH warned the creche that they'd have to find a replacement: another mother with a more pressing inclination to herd a troop of two-year olds through the museum.
I felt bad, I felt I was letting the side down... but I was too ill to move, so I let the guilt go.

This morning, FH and the boys left at the crack of dawn: they had to be dropped off earlier so that BB would be on time for the outing.
I helped dress and feed them, still in a fog of suffering, and at 7.45, they all left.

And then. Then.
A miracle occurred.
I got better.

Seriously: the fog lifted, my muscles relaxed, my head cleared: I felt OK again.
Which brings us just about full circle to the fact that I'm sitting here feeling confused, and guilty.
Am I a hypochondraic? Was I subconsciously so afraid of the incongruous mix of small kids & modern art that my body seized up in terror?
Or did I just need time for myself. Imposed bed rest?

Whatever the cause, it's a funny old thing, the Mind.

In Theory: Sticks and Stones...

I've said it before, I'll say it again: so much of the parenting experience comes down to two fundamental opposites - the theory... and the practice.

I was an outstanding student when it came to Theory. Most of us are. 10 out of 10, got it all sussed, will NEVER make that mistake: this was the pre-Mother me.

The post-Mother me is slightly more indulgent. Incredibly indulgent, actually, when it comes down to myself.
But apparently, if the "Stress Management" course I took on Monday (yes, yes I know: I'm a sucker for these things, especially when the Firm is paying...) is to be believed: being indulgent with yourself is probably the very best thing you can do for your health.
Embrace your failings. Throw away all those theoretical notes about how to be the perfect mother, how to bring up the perfect kids. Adjust your expectations. Just do your best.

One of the clauses on my Theoretical Parenting Charter was: My child will never own or play with violent toys.
Ha!
This clause actually proved quite easy to adhere to until BB was 2 years and 8 months old. Until last Sunday, to be more precise.
And then I bought him a sword.
Yes, that's right: nobody forced me, nobody put a gun (or even a sword) to my head: I just did it, of my own free will.
WHY? I hear you cry, astounded.
Well, simply because - no matter what the prevailing theories about nature, nurture and boy/girl education - I have seen with my own eyes that boys, bless their little testosterone-fuelled muscles - ENJOY sticks and stones and... swords.

BB and I were wandering the cobbled streets of Carcassonne, looking at the various trinkets, model castles, dolls, coats of armour, board games, etc. on offer in the souvenir shops... and the only thing he wanted, the only thing that really drew his attention, was a red plastic sword.

So, yes, I bought the sword, thereby betraying the No-violent-toys Clause for a mere 2 euros.

And BB now brandishes it around in a cute-yet-threatening manner. He is happy. He's enjoying himeslf. And as long as he's not drawing blood or bashing heads, I'm OK with that.
Perhaps this is the start of his long slow decline into delinquency: time will tell.
But we're in the Practice phase now, and my new credo is: Forget the theory, thou shalt rely only on instinct and common sense.

Turning on the Waterworks

Saturday May 1st, a rainy bank holiday weekend (but is there any other kind of bank holiday weekend??)

11 am
FH and BB have just gone out, in search of something to do to pass the time until the rainy bank holiday weekend is over.
I put LB to bed, make myself a cup of tea, settle down to drink it in the living room.
Five seconds later, the startling sound of gushing water makes me spring up.
It sounds like a torrent of water is about to pour through the ceiling onto my head
(the torrent of water in question is not rainwater: there is a flat above us, and two occupants: Grumpy Old Man and Wife).

11.05 am
Panicked, I rush outside, and as luck would have it, Grumpy Old Man is standing around in the communal garden, ostensibly supervising a tree-felling operation taking place in the neighbour's garden.
I grab him, explain in a breathless tumble of words that something terrible is happening, and he must come and see.

11.07 am
Grumpy Old Man stands in my living room, cocks his ear and listens thoughtfully to the ongoing whoosh of water above our heads.
He admits it sounds dubious, but fails to express the kind of panic I expect.
He trudges off, unhurried, to investigate.
I remain paralysed in the living room, waiting for the ceiling to cave in.

11.12 am
A full FIVE minutes later, the torrent finally dwindles and stops.
I rush outside and hover, jumping impatiently from one foot to the other as I wait for news from Grumpy Old Man.

11.14 am
Grumpy Old Man huffs and puffs his way down from his own flat. He ambles across, looking sheepish (or as sheepish as his stern features will allow).
"Nothing to worry about," he assures me, in a tone that is striving for affable. "Just my wife... er... you know, using the bidet. Ha, ha. Finished now. Voilà."

End of story, apparently.
I nod, rather shaken, but too flustered at the idea of discussing bottom-washing with Grumpy Old Man to pursue the conversation.

The day moves on.


4.45 pm
We have just spent a pleasant 45 minutes chatting with our Canadian friends on Skype. I click off the computer, pull out the plug... and something pulls my gaze upwards.

There is a huge water stain adorning our living room wall.

My gaze follows the stain upwards to the ceiling, over a swollen pouch of water that is threatening to spill over at any second, and along the entire length of the ceiling-to-wall joint, that is dripping wet.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, open them, yell for FH.


5 pm
For some reason that I cannot fathom, Grumpy Old Man is back in my living room.
Our back door tends to be open most of the time, except in winter, and he must have heard the commotion and decided to take a look.
Or maybe I went into stress-induced unconsciousness for a few minutes, because I now see that FH is busily pointing out the water stains and analysing them with GOM (let's start using initials: he's popping up too frequently to spell out every time) in a man-to-man way that is making me anxious.
"Er.. but remember what happened this morning..." I squeak, because nobody seems to be mentioning that, "It must be a leak from your flat, right?"
"Oh, non, non, pas du tout!" GOM assures me, wide-eyed and incredulous, "what happened this morning was just the sound of my wife flushing. But THIS looks like something more serious. It must be the rain. My bet is: there's a crack between next-door's roof and your wall."
FH is nodding thoughtfully.
"Yep, I think that must be it. Next door's roof is in a right state..."
"Er... look, I don't mean to insist, but this morning..."
The men shush me. There is a definite undertone of "Woman: stay out of this one."
I purse my lips. Tears of panic well up and prick my eyes: BB comes over to comfort me.


5.30 pm
The insurance company is closed because it's a bank holiday, even though it's also a Saturday. Closed until Monday.
The lady who answers the "emergency assistance" number is tired, fed-up and bitchy.
From my 5-second description of our predicament, she deduces that it's not her problem. Not the problem of our insurance company, to be more exact.
"But, the wall is in OUR flat!" I insist.
"Why don't you understand what I'm saying, Madame?!" she snaps, "What's wrong with you?"
A giant sob bubbles up in my throat and I hang up.


6 pm
Another neighbour, also male, is now in our living room. The three men stare up at the watery wall while BB and LB snuggle up together on the sofa, in awe, and I sniff unhappily in the corner.
The other neighbour says that, if we're unlucky, the problem is our own water system. Pipes that haven't been replaced since the last war, and have burst.
"Not covered by insurance, probably cost you a fortune," he concludes grimly.
GOM nods his agreement.
I turn my face away so the kids don't can't see the panicky tears rolling down my cheeks.


9 pm
The troop of neighbours passing through to give their verdict has finally left.
The boys are in bed.
The rain has slackened.
The wall is drying, slightly.
The stain is still there.

There is a moment of complete silence.
FH and I look at each other... and suddenly, the penny drops.
He opens and closes his mouth.
I open mine, find my voice and say darkly:
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but have we ever, EVER, in the four years we have lived in this flat, heard a noise like the one I heard this morning??"

"Er..."

"No, we have not. And correct me if I'm wrong, but have we ever, EVER had a load of water come down from the ceiling before??"

"N...."

"Do you think... do you actually think..." (my voice is rising: I am Wronged Woman rising from the ashes of submission) "that these two events constitute a COINCIDENCE???"

"Non."

"What???" I yell.

"Non," FH says meekly.

GOM may be old. He may be "doddery". But hell, he's got a nerve.
Just when I thought it was safe to dream ... the ominous chime of domestic turmoil has struck again.

To be continued...