Long Drive to Freedom

Merry Mummy mutates into Mean Mummy. Eyes glued to the road, she has but one goal: get them all back to Toulouse before anyone throws a dangerous object through the windscreen.

Sweet boy has become Evil Spoilt Child. Hard to believe that only hours earlier, I was thinking how cute he looked in his skinny lycra trunks.

Only LB appears mildly more relaxed at the end of the holiday than at the start.

May we therefore deem the trip "a success"??

The Naked Truth

A few random yet considered observations regarding our week in Provence:

1/ The bigger the car, the more stuff you manage to fill it with.
In the days when we used to travel in a cute four-seater Twingo, it would be packed to bursting when we set off on holiday. Now that we travel in a five-seater Megane, it is still packed to bursting when we set off on holiday.
To be fair, though, we have acquired an additional kid since the Twingo era and - as every parent knows - the smaller the kid, the more stuff he requires.

Luckily, we were several kilos lighter on the way back. The lost kilos corresponded to the quantity of blood sucked out of us by the hoards of mosquitos that were our loyal holiday companions.
Lesson learnt: when the floods subside, the mosquitos come out of the woodwork (and swamps).


2/ Holidaying with young kids is not the same as holidaying among adults. The blandest of platitudes, perhaps, but worth noting anyway.
For the first time, I was glad that our holiday house was part of a large circle of identical holiday houses, all containing a scarily similar reproduction of our own family: two parents plus two kids aged 3 and 1.
Once you put aside your mild panic, learning to serenely accept that yes, you ARE just like everyone else (as far as statistics are concerned): Mr and Mrs Average with their two kids, their buckets, spades, footballs and daily toils... then you realise how much easier life is when you are lumped with those like you.

Same routine, same bedtime, same struggles: all the kids can play together, happily beating each other up over who's turn it is to put sand in the plastic truck that is favoured by all, while the parents look on, glassy-eyed.
Eveyone's kids are shouting and screeching by 8.30 a.m., but for once, it's OK: we're all in the same boat.


3/ Despite the points made in 2/ (above), I am not quite the same as other mothers.
I make this observation without smugness or malice: it is simply that, an observation.
A week's exposure to the parenting techniques of others is an amazing experience - one which I threw myself into wholeheartedly, making almost constant internal notes about what works, what doesn't work, and all the rest.

It was in the course of this research that I became aware of the subtle difference between myself and the other mothers: I don't get involved as much as they do.
As I lay back in my sun lounger, half an eye on BB as he pottered around the pool, I noticed that I was the ONLY mother not knee-deep in the pool itself, chattering away to the swarm of kiddies, enthusiastically filling buckets with water, making excited suggestions about what games should be played next, drawing in my breath sharply and admonishing every time a scrap broke out, or a kid dared to break into a trot "dangerously" close to the poolside.

Is this a good thing or a bad thing?
Probably neither, I decided in the end: it's simply about style.
The thing is: you are who you are, for better and for worse.
And a "laissez faire" mum like me can't be forced to intervene if she doesn't feel it's necessary, even when subjected to a rather pointed stare from what I might term an "intervening mum".
Let them decide for themselves what they want to play, let them fight their own little battles over who gets the truck (as long as they're not hurting each other): surely all this is character forming?
That's my view as it stands today, anyway.
But since I am a mother-in-the-making... don't be surprised if next year's holiday produces a new philosophy.

All Work and No Play?

You know the expression "with friends like these, who needs enemies?"
Yes? Well, you can confidently apply a variant of this incredulous complaint to the week's holiday I have just endured - er, I mean, enjoyed:
With holidays like these, who needs to work??

It actually took a full 24 hours before - exhausted, bewildered and more than slightly miffed - I finally cottoned on: out of the four of us, only two were really "on holiday".
The other two had actually just found a new place of employment... and full-time, no breaks, low paid jobs as Babysitters and Entertainers of Small Children.

I'll leave you to guess who was who in this tangled web of role-playing.

Once I had grasped the notion, discussed it with FH in a foggy daze of fatigue on evening no.2, and heard him confirm that yes, being on holiday was indeed HARDER WORK than being at home, there was a certain liberation.
I just switched mindset and told myself "the holiday is for them, not you. Make them happy, show them a good time."
And the situation improved a little after that.
I tried hard to become Selfless Mother: She who cares not for her own sunbathing time or relaxation... but seeks only to bring a smile of contentment to the ice-cream streaked cheeks of her offspring.

And I did OK for a while. A sort of cross between "merry mummy" and "enthusisastic camp leader". But I confess that these roles do not come naturally to me.
I am only a part-time SAHM (stay-at-home-mum) in Real Life, and boy, that is NOTHING to being a full-time mum. I see that now, and I take my hat off to those brave souls who manage to do it day in day out, I really and truly do.
It is a noble path and a difficult one. The joys are numerous, bien sûr, but my god, it's tiring.

Here we are, back home at last - er, I mean, back home already! Gosh, how quickly a week flies by! - and look at me: back on my laptop and typing out these lines with the fury and relief of an addict just out of cold turkey.
Yes, I missed my computer. I missed my blog, I missed my solitary coffee moments, I missed my bike... halt! Stop press, pinch me: I think I almost wrote that I missed my job!

Perceptive readers will understand that all of this is of course tongue in cheek.
I didn't have a horrible time. I had fun.
The photos I'll post tomorrow will hopefully testify to that fact.
But also, well, yes, I admit: it's good to be home.

In at the Deep End

Off we go for a week's holiday by the sea!
As usual, we have come up trumps and picked THE destination to avoid: the Var region of Provence, which has been totally flooded over the past few days.
Seriously, it's no joke: entire villages are still drenched, roads are cut off, and over twenty people have died.

But hey ho, off we set anyway, optimistically assuming that "lightning doesn't strike twice in the space of two weeks."

But it sure does give a whole new slant to the brochure's boast: "holiday apartments right on the water!"

See you soon...

Last June in Provence...

Plenty of Room for the Washing Machine

Once you've been escorted around a few houses by various estate agents, you start to realise something.
All these highly talented professional salespeople have attented exactly the same training course.
Their pitch and arguments are always the same. They obviously size us up within 5 seconds, and hey presto! We are treated to the "young couple with kids" sales package.
The package opens with a pep talk about the quality and proximity of the local school, weaves its way through the delights of outdoor play (however dinky or sinister or unkempt the garden, we are always invited to "imagine our little boys running around in it"...) then turns serious and thoughtful with a few words on our "limited budget and its accompanying realistic expectations."

As you may have gathered, I have not yet been seduced by any of these salespeople, or the unappealing products they have tried to pass off as our (realistic) dream home.
Most of the time, I have to fight back laughter or sarcasm.
Today's estate agent deserves a special mention, though. In fact, I have decided to award her the unofficial prize for the most ineffective sales pitch thusfar attempted.

Yes, whilst showing me around a poky, depressing 1970s kitchen with faded orange wallpaper ("very retro!"), she pointed to a murky zone under the boiler and declared with glee: "Look, plenty of room for the washing machine!".

OK. This woman does not know me.
Does she really think I am a woman who is going to choose her future home based on the convenience of the washing machine??
Poor thing: I actually felt compelled to nod. Yes, yes, my hypocritical nod said, never mind the terrible oppressive atmosphere and the traffic noise just outside the door... I can JUST imagine watching my dirty clothes spin around in this room!

Trial Run

This morning, just him and me.
A rare combination these days, but today is a special day.
This morning, hand in hand, we walk the two-minute walk round the corner and down the lane: as we'll do every morning from September 2nd onwards.
But today, it's the first time.

He's impatient, excited, a little nervous, but won't admit it.
His shirt is spotless and freshly ironed; there is no nappy-bulge under his smart trousers.
My baby is not a baby any more.

We are early: he couldn't wait, and our house is so close that idling is impossible.
But at the gates we discover we're not the only ones: two little girls are already waiting, parents in tow.
"Romane et Lou-anne", they reply solemnly, when I ask them their names.
Like BB, their eyes are round and serious and proud and excited.

In the classroom, there's so much to take in, it's hard to know where to begin.
He's cautious - a little intimidated by all these children with slightly longer legs, slightly broader shoulders, slightly more self-assurance.
But the call of the lego box is too strong: he overcomes his reserve and shuffles across, kneeling down to examine the treasures within.
A second later, he swings round, rosy-cheeked, checking I'm still behind him.

I crouch with a couple of the big kids: confident girls in various shades of pink, who want to touch my ear-rings and scarf.
BB eyes them warily: do they not know I am his Maman?

Then it's time to gather round for songs, a story, a guessing game.
Twenty bigger kids in a gaggle: the teacher presides over the throng with calm authority: BB observes the scene solemnly. He stares at the teacher, watching the curve of her mouth, listening to the tone of her voice, sizing her up.
He doesn't join in the song, but he listens. And watches. His little hand lies in my hand: not gripping, not tugging... not quite ready to let go.

Eventually, he shuffles off my knee to sit beside me. There is barely a centimetre between us, but it's there, that tiny sliver of space that means "I am a big boy now."
He turns to look at me, and his face breaks into a smile for the first time.
"Maman!" he exclaims with joy and surprise, "C'est bien la school!"

The Mystery Man

Yesterday something rather rare occurred.
We had a head-on collision with that mysterious thing known as... human kindness.
In fact, outside of close family and friends, spontaneous human kindness is such a novelty that I admit I had a little trouble recognising it at first.

The four of us were wandering, tourist-like, in a small village in the Lauragais (25 km outside of Toulouse), as we often do these days. We were on the look-out for the future - affordable - house of our dreams, whilst sizing up the village, testing the quality of the local baguettes: you know, important pre-investment ground work.

We met the mystery man by chance, when BB raced through the open door of the local vet's in search of the source of yapping that could be heard from the street.
FH rushed in after him, then I followed, with LB in the pram and a large piece of baguette stuffed in my mouth.
The yapper was a smallish black dog (don't ask me for the breed: I know as much about dogs as I do about cars, i.e. colour and size...), and its owner was a young man of 32 (we found his age out later, of course).

As BB shrank back from the dog (he is not as brave as he likes to think), we got chatting to the man, about the village, the kids, the traffic, the advantages and drawbacks.
Then the vet appeared, and it was time for black dog and his owner to be treated.
"Oh, but, it'll only take ten minutes: if you have time, hang around and I'll tell you a bit more about the area, if you like..." the man offered, smiling warmly.
"Great!" FH grinned, French-style.
"Er... well, if you don't mind, I mean - er - we don't want to take up your time..." I mumbled, English-style.

For ten minutes, we hung around awkwardly, wandered up the street, toyed with the idea of leaving ("he was only being polite! He doesn't really want to be bothered, you know!" I insisted, becoming more and more awkward, reserved and British by the second. Plus, LB hadn't eaten yet, it was lunchtime, and this whole encounter was starting to seem a little too spontaneous for my liking).

Then, suddenly, there they were: man and dog strolling towards us, man casually smoking a roll-up ("hum! bet he can't be trusted.." thought I, stupidly, when I saw the cigarette).
We chatted some more in the street: it turned out that the man's girlfriend had grown up in the West Indies, like FH ("hum! so he's not gay after all.." thought I, stupidly), that they had also lived in Paris, had come to the south seeking a quieter life...

Then, just as I was starting to make some "we'd better get going" noises, the unthinkable happened. Mystery man said shyly: "would you like to maybe come back to my house for a coffee? It's only 15 minutes drive from here, it's kind of isolated, but I'd be really happy to show you around..."
"Great!" beamed FH.
"Er... well," I mumbled, searching for a valid reason to refuse other than "you might be a weirdo".

Of course, we ended up following him back to his house. How could we not? Even though my imagination had flipped right over into "Crimewatch" mode, complete with kidnapping and murder scenario in isolated country ruin, the decent part of me - the optimistic, spontaneous side - knew that if we were to refuse this invitation due to simple fear, it would leave a decidedly bitter aftertaste. It would mean one thing: we no longer trusted other human beings.

So off we drove, for miles and miles, through stunning countryside that made the village we'd just left look like a buzzing metropolis.
At last we arrived at the idyllic house, nestled between vineyards and sunflower fields.
It all looked fine, but we opted for the garden when asked "inside or outside?"
It was only as we settled ourselves down at the long wooden garden table, watching the fat lizards dart up the walls of the house and the indolent cat stretch at our feet, that we finally relaxed.
Mystery man's girlfriend - 8 months' pregnant with a little boy - came out to greet us, smiley and welcoming.
What ensued was a couple of hours of pure happiness: drinks, chat, laughter, good conversation.
It turns out, they were just friendly people who had had a chance encounter with other friendly people, and were open and kind enough to pursue the encounter.

I realised later, as we drove home, content and surprised by the unexpected turn our day out had taken, that this sort of encounter happens so rarely these days. Maybe it's because we have kids, therefore we mistrust everybody; maybe it's simply because we're older, tireder and too attached to our minute-by-minute agenda for the day.
Mystery man showed us that, from time to time, the road less travelled can be just as much fun.

Knowing Me, Knowing You

I don't often write about FH on this blog. Sure, he pops up from time to time - usually as a hapless extra in some mildly amusing anecdote - but he's never really had a starring role.
I suppose the reasons for that are privacy (shoo, shoo, you invasive Paparazzi!), reserve (blogging is as much about knowing what not to write about as what you can write about...) and tone (I aim for light-hearted - sometimes pissed off - but rarely introspective).

But, what the heck, things can change: I've decided to innovate.
Today FH surprised me - so in turn, I will surprise myself by sharing the story.

A couple of weeks ago, I embarked on a career review consultation-thingy ("bilan de compétences", for the Francophiles). Once a week, I meet with an independent consultant, and we discuss my achievements, aptitudes, weaknesses, future plans, etc.... and, well, the theory is that 2 months from now, she processes all this information, tells me what my wonderful (well-paid) fulfilling, ideal career should be, and then I go on to breezily live out the dream.
Yes well. At the moment we're only at session 2, and session 2 requires me to analyse my personality, strengths and weaknesses, and ask a few people close to me to do the same (i.e. what do they think of me?).

To be honest, the first two people I asked to provide a character analysis were Sophie (a good friend) and my boss. And then, almost as an afterthought, I thought I'd ask FH if he wanted to contribute.
As a truly modern woman, I asked him this via an e-mail sent from work (e-mail being our most effective communication method these days: its major advantage is that it does not require us to shout over the heads of two noisy boys in order to exchange an opinion or two).

To my surprise, an hour later, FH replied with a detailed, well thought out list of my qualities and character traits... and a summary of how he thought I should evolve career-wise.

I was amazed, truly amazed.
Everything he wrote was so spot-on, perfectly expressed, truthful and poignant, and totally lacking in negative judgement.
Perhaps my surprise surprises you? Maybe it's a given that a husband should know and understand his wife right down to the finer points of her personality: I don't know.
The thing is, though, when you're in the "baby years" (as I affectionately refer to this crazy phase of life), and the majority of your husband-wife conversations revolve around domestic logistics and - very occasionally - vague future aspirations... you forget that beneath all that, there is a man you chose to marry. For good reasons.

When I read his e-mail, I felt my heart flutter in that clichéd but oh-so-exciting first date fashion. I felt I had just had an exquisite chance encounter with a man who understood me. Understood and - perhaps - loved me for who I was.
A man who saw the little weaknesses... and turned them into positives.

Believe me, every day is not like this. I cannot honestly say that we are the poster couple for "sweet marital harmony". But who is?
And these moments occur, so they're worth mentioning. I tuck them away, saving them up both on my hard drive and in my mind... poignant reminders that the man I married know who I am, and loves me.

Cocktail Confessions

There's a great scene in the new Sex & The City film (what? We all have our cultural references; no judgement, please!) where Charlotte and Miranda get slowly drunk and start to confess that motherhood is - er - not always a bed of roses.
Despite all the other poignant and hilarious moments the film throws up, this scene is top-notch entertainment for us mothers-of-young-kids / dictators.

My friend Sophie and I didn't look at each other in the darkness of the movie theatre... but I could hear some distinct sniffing in between the bursts of laughter.

How great to hear my old pals (yes, I am referring to Char and Miranda) voicing the very thoughts that creep guiltily through my own mind from time to time*
Thoughts that run something like this: I love them so much they drive me mad I love them so much I can't wait to get five minutes away from them I love them so much can I please please be the one to do the food shopping - this is how I relax now I love them so much... etc, etc.

Yes, we're all growing up alongside those Sex & The City girls. Same dilemmas, same hopes, better clothes.
And I know it's just a film, and it's all tailor-made to appeal to us thirty-something women, and all the rest... but despite that, I still feel eternally grateful to be living in a century where it's OK to be an independent woman, it's OK to say your kids drive you crazy (sometimes), it's OK to aspire to non-maternal fulfilment, it's OK to leave the kids with Dad and go out to see a film with the girls. Every week if necessary.


* practically every day

Home Sweet Home

... and one of the unexpected consequences of our unofficial house-hunt has been:
A heightened appreciation of how nice our own place is.

So maybe we simply need to cut a deal with Grumpy Old Man and get on with building a staircase up to the first floor....??

(this rather original but nonetheless feasible idea was voiced by GOM himself only last week.
Pretexting a bag of rubbish that needed to be dumped in the communal bin, he shuffled over and mumbled something cryptic about his dodgy old ticker and the fact he felt "the end might be approaching". Took us a while to figure out what he was getting at, but we think he might have been trying to sell us his flat.
"Anyway, we'll talk about it more when the day comes... but it won't be long," he sighed with melo-dramatic weariness.
Hum, right.
In my experience, people like GOM - the ones with a hundred different ailments and a "death's just round the corner for me" tale of doom - usually end up staggering on into their late 90s).

No staircase just yet.

On the Sly

We are not planning to move house until next year. We are not looking for a new house.

This is the gist of what was officially decided at the last Board of Directors meeting between the two (official) managers of this household: me and FH.

And yet, somehow, we seem to have started looking for a new house.
It started with the odd, casual perusal of web sites. A sort of "Sunday afternoon" filler activity.
Then one or other of us would bring home a newspaper, or a magazine.
And both of us would grab it and scrutinise the house adverts.
One fine day, FH cracked and called an Estate Agent.
We visited a house. Then another.
And now it occurs to me that we're visiting a house every weekend.

But neither of us has admitted that we're actually house hunting.
Maybe we're not. It occurs to me that this may simply be our new, nice-weather hobby.
After all, there's something very pleasant about the whole game. Circle an ad, make an appointment, pack a picnic, drive out for a visit, indulge in a little post-visit criticism.

Or maybe we're simply like those couples who aren't officially trying to get pregnant... until the day when - wow, shock, horror! - it happens.

Anyway, we're still not officially moving house. So I suppose we're just indulging in a little innocent flirting with other properties.
Don't tell anyone, will you?