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.

For BB: An Anecdote

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I stare in disbelief at the gaping hole, and my mouth contorts into a semi-wail, semi-smile.

To help you understand why I’m in this state: here’s a little background.

At 7 pm, I biked into town with BB, on a mission to purchase a waterproof jacket for his first ever school trip tomorrow.

I knew I’d left it late, but the teacher’s note said “in case of light rain, make sure you provide your child’s waterproof jacket”, and – although I shrugged and took note of the fact BB did not as yet possess a waterproof jacket – I never thought it would actually rain.

Only today at 5 pm did Google think to inform me that rain was predicted. OK. No matter: when FH got home to relieve me of one kid, I hot footed it to Monoprix with the other.

And hey presto, we were in luck. There was one waterproof jacket left in his size. Perfect. We bundled it into the basket with the ingredients for his picnic (also a requirement of the School Trip Which Must Be Perfect), handed over the cash, and cycled home.

Home at 8 pm, and of course, it’s the usual hysteria, made worse by the fact we’re running late and everyone’s more tired and hungry than they should be.

With tears and some shouting from all sides, the boys are coaxed into their bedrooms. FH embarks on the usual story/calming routine, while I run around like a gameshow contestant who’s been instructed to “prepare the perfect day in 15 minutes max.”

I butter bread, slice cheese, pack the dinky water bottle and cheese slices and fruit pot into the dinky lunchbox. Then I whip out the iron, locate the name label, smooth out the spot on the lovely new waterproof jacket where I will lovingly iron on my son’s name.

As I press the hot iron down over the label, I am exhausted and yet filled with a sense of the importance of my mission: I am preparing my son’s first ever school trip. He’s going to have a lovely time and it’s all going to be perfect.

When I lift up the iron after the recommended 10 seconds, an ominous sizzling sound suggests that all is not well. There is an iron-sized hole in BB’s new waterproof jacket.

This is the part where my mouth contorts.

Funnily enough, my first split-second reaction is: that’s pretty funny. But a second later, I want to howl. Literally sink to the floor and cry and yell “It’s not fair!!!”

But here we get to the crux of the story (and if you’re still reading at this point: thank you. I hope you will find the next part rewarding).

While the (irretrievably damaged) iron still sizzles in my right hand, my mind has already flipped into High Alert Survival Mode. I reckon I have about five minutes before FH re-emerges from the bedroom and gets an eyeful of this ridiculous scene. I know with stomach-knotting certainty that this anecdote (and yes, I’m already aware that it will be an Anecdote) absolutely must have a happy ending. This cannot just be the story of "the time I burned a hole through BB’s new jacket”.

So I unplug the iron (I’m no fool), grab my fluorescent cycling jacket and run out of the house.

I pedal like a woman possessed. I reach Monoprix at 9.30 pm. I couldn’t remember whether it closed at 9 or 10, but luck – after deserting me once – seems to be back on my side: the shop’s still open.

I rush in, scan the rows of boy clothes, scrutinise the labels on all the jackets.

And yes, I do find another one in his size. Another one which – I swear – was not there when we came in earlier. Interpret that as you like: personally, I like to think that the good Lord helps us out in little ways when He sees the messes we get ourselves in to.

I pay for my second waterproof jacket of the evening, get back on my bike, start the ride home. And as I pedal along in the dark, tears start to run down my face.

Not because I’m impressed with my heroism, or because I think the jacket has life-altering importance, but because this modest mission has just made me realise something major: a mother will do absolutely anything in her power to make her child happy.

And sure, some of it is about me, about perfectionism. But a bigger part of it is about him. Because I can’t stand the thought of him being the only kid without a waterproof jacket. Or – er – him seeing the jacket we bought together with a stinking great hole in the back.

So BB: this story is for you.

In fifteen years’ time, who knows how you and I will be getting along? You’ll be 18, and chances are I’ll be annoying you like crazy. I know: I annoy myself a lot of the time.

But, if one day you want to read through some of these blog entries and find out a bit more about the little things that made up your childhood, then I hope you’ll read this tale and smile.

And know that your Mum – despite her many faults – once cycled through the darkness for half a hour like a maniac to make sure your first school trip would be perfect.

Or near enough.

The Tortoise and The... Hare

It's 9.08 a.m., and I'm crammed into a tiny toilet cubicle at work, frantically changing clothes and smoothing down my wet, unruly hair (I cycle to work), when I have one of those sudden flashes.
You know: one of those moments of truth - a timely insight into your life, your state of mind, your daily plight.
A five-second stock take.



And that's when my inner voice whines: would you just look at you?? You spend four fifths of your life in a constant hurry. You rush from place to place, commitment to commitment... with only the odd hour's respite here and there. Your head is spinning most of the time - if you stand up too quickly, you feel light-headed. Your bag always contains a change of clothes, deodorant and a spare nappy (not for me, I stress). Here you are, scrambling around trying to tame your hair into some kind of style, at 9.08 a.m., just so you can slip behind your desk by 9.12 a.m. and look poised enough to fool anyone (your boss) into thinking you've been there diligently since 8.30.

This is my life. Is it normal?

I wonder whether it has to be this way. Perhaps I am partly to blame. I mean - wouldn't it all be just a little simpler if I didn't insist on cycling everywhere? If I could just resign myself to the concept of sitting patiently in traffic, rather than racing between crèche, school and work on a pushbike, sometimes with a 13-kilo kid strapped on the back?
Maybe. But that old cliché about sport being a drug has some truth to it.
There are days when I look at the car, and the grey sky, and the drizzle, and I consider my options. But even on the days when the car wins out, I end up cracking somewhere along the way (usually as soon as I spy the tailend of a traffic jam...), dumping the car back home and switching to two wheels.

It's the freedom, the addictive part. This much, I'm sure of.
But the downside, of course, is the haste, the sweat, the change of clothes, the messy hair.

So now - insightful flash over - it's 9.10 a.m.
I dab at my sweaty face, clip my hair up, sigh, unclip it.

And as I stare at my reflection in the mirror, I realise that actually - all things considered - there's just one thing that would make my life easier.
Just one, small, barely significant thing, that would make the hectic timetable of my life a little gentler to implement, help me win back precious minutes.

Why oh why oh why can I not have hair that falls into place naturally???

LB: CV in Brief

Age: 13.5 months
No. of teeth: almost one!!
Skills: lopsided crawling (two arms, one leg)
Vocabulary: MAMAMAMAMAAAAAAAAN!
Character: STRONG, tempered by affection & cuddliness
Potential: huge

Sweet September

Saturday: an Autumnal breeze, light grey clouds, a pair of socks, retrieved, an hour's escapism for me (a ride into town, a hot black coffee, a good book).

Sunday: a bright blue sky, warm sunshine, perfect stillness, summer returns, a bike ride with friends (one boy on the back of each bike), picnic in the shade, a bunch of flowers, just for me.
September may be dethroning June as my favourite month of the year.

Nice to Meat You

So, it was bound to happen: the vegetarian issue has popped up.

Up until now, I'd handled the meat dilemma well enough: BB never ate meat at crèche, and, at his new school, the staff agreed it was fine for him to be meat-free*

It still is OK, in principle. The canteen staff just serve him the non-meat parts of the school dinner, and there's usually enough left to make a healthy, filling meal (and meat is not on the menu every day, thank goodness).
However, it turns out that some days, the meat element really is too dominant to skirt around.

Apologetic, the canteen lady corners me on Tuesday afternoon to "warn" me that Friday's school dinner will be non-BB compatible. The culprits are a batch of chicken drumsticks. The drumsticks in question will be garnished only with a couple of limp salad leaves: hardly enough to satisfy a growing boy (even a vegetarian one).
To be fair, I sense understanding, rather than judgement, on the part of the staff.

So, I ask nervously, what are my options?
(I am nervous because - beyond the chicken drumstick - this seemingly minor dilemma is actually throwing up all sorts of latent questions I ask myself about my(our) decision to bring up my kids as vegetarians (is it OK to be non-conformist when you're a kid? Will he resent me? Is it better for kids to follow the crowd and make their own choices later? And - on the other hand - why - when I uphold a researched, well thought out principle for myself - should I buckle as soon as my kids are involved?).

Well, she explains, you can either let him eat the chicken drumsticks, or else come and collect him at 11.30 and take him home for lunch.

Can I do that? I ask, frantically trying to calculate whether this option is feasible, crazy, in BB's best interests or not.

Sure, she says, there are other parents who do that. Then you just bring him back after lunch.

I hold a quick debate in my head, while she looks on patiently. I seriously consider caving in. Could this be the moment to admit that vegetarianism might be flexible? BB has never made any reference to meat before - or shown any interest at all in eating any - but could now be the time to give him the option?
I'm about to say "no forget it: let's just go with the drumsticks", when something stops me.

I think of the Muslims, and their firm dietary principles. I think about myself - my decision to "give up" meat at 6 years old. I think about what I know and hate about factory farming.
But - most of all - I think about those chicken drumsticks. Disgusting, reheated frozen chicken flesh in breadcrumbs. I mean, come on.

I'll pick him up at 11.30! I tell the lady brightly. That's no problem.

The thing is: if I'm going to U-turn on a life-long principle, it has to be worth it.
And quite frankly... I don't feel like giving up the battle just yet, not for a measly chicken drumstick.


* Curiously enough, we actually have the Muslims to thank for the evolution in attitudes towards vegetarianism. A few years ago, French schools were strictly secular and there was zero pandering to individual diets. But, since it has been politically correct to respect Muslim diets, the powers-that-be are pretty hard-pushed to refuse other dietary principles as well...

Random Observation of the Weekend

Our day out with friends and their two daughters (six and four) - aside from being a lot of fun - opened my eyes to a very bemusing fact: flirting, or at least a version of it, starts at a very, very early age.

As circumstances contrived to have us drive home with the 4-year old mademoiselle squeezed in the back between our two boys, FH and I listened in with amusement as our two boys giggled and charmed and flirted with her! They were definitely out to impress: who could be most brash and cocky, who could laugh the loudest at her jokes...
And as the hour-long journey drew to an end, BB could be heard clamouring: "hit me harder! Harder!" while our guest slapped his arms and giggled along with him.
Gulp.
Talk about animal instincts...

(and the first person who suggests the flirting gene might be hereditary will be banned from the blog :-))

Bike-ku

You know when something just tickles you?
Makes you giggle so much you can't stop, and suddenly you're shaking uncontrollably at your desk, and looking a bit wild-eyed and ridiculous?

This morning I received an email from a particularly eccentric but touching American colleague.
He's a lovely guy in his late fifties, a truly "young at heart" type who somehow still manages to see the world as a gentle, fluffy, wondrous place, despite having notched up over five decades of life experience.

Updating me on his day to day life, he wrote: I'm cycling to work more and more, and starting to really love it. Actually, sometimes as I'm riding along, I get inspired to compose little poems - haikus - in my head (he then inserted his haiku, which I won't reproduce here for, er, copyright reasons). Well, I call them haikus, but actually, I like to think of them as "bike-kus"

Bike-kus.

One little word that had me shaking with laughter... and gave Monday morning an unexpectedly sweet taste.

Organised Fun

I am a walking paradox. Actually, I am such a rare species that I should probably be stuffed and put on display in a natural history museum: I absolutely hate flying but I absolutely love travelling.

This curious paradox has marked my life for a good number of years already, and looks set to continue.
But, perhaps even more than travelling itself, I love PLANNING to travel.

To be honest, if pressed to put a statistical figure on it, I'd estimate that planning is 30% of the fun (that's allowing for the fact that another 30% of the fun is "looking back on the trip": I'll let you do the math on the rest).

So, here I am, mother of a child of school age, and suddenly, a whole new world of planning opportunities has opened up.
This is a most unexpected and rather thrilling consequence of the rigidity of the school year, and the fixed holiday slots. As FH and I discuss the long stretches of school holidays that will rise to meet us over the course of the year, he utters those seductive words: we'd better plan ahead, you know... and a tingle of excitement ripples through me.

Christmas, February, April, July, August.... a host of days and weeks to fill, a bubbling cup-full of plans to be fine-tuned, journeys to be booked, hotels to be snapped up (before they are overrun and over-priced). Days off to be juggled - that too, of course - but even this takes on the appearance of a jigsaw puzzle to be solved: a fun game in which we're all winners.

Yes, it's uncool. I know that. But us organising-types get our thrills where we can: we muse and research and question and reflect... and boy do we feel happy when all that spontaneous fun happens exactly as we planned!

Dummy Run

Never let it be said that the life of a young mother lacks glamour.

Yesterday was Dummy Day: an entire day devoted to the quest to 1/locate, 2/ buy and 3/ learn to love two new dummies (the old ones being - well - old and, in the case of LB, broken).
Such a mission will undoubtedly seem like a total non-event to anyone who has never confronted the Dummy Problem: the rest of you will empathise.

As it turned out, points 1/ and 2/ (above) were easy enough (though they took up a decent chunk of the morning): point 3, on the other hand, sparked off a terrifying series of events that led to:

- two brand new, very expensive (fully organic, physiologically perfect, blah blah blah...) dummies being flung across the living room in outrage,
- an attempt to explain calmly to a 13-month old baby that his preferred brand of dummy is no longer manufactured (explanation aborted when hit in the face by a projectile dummy),
- one frantic phone call to the very expensive organic baby shop to negotiate the buying back of one out of two rejected dummies,
- an additional shopping trip and an additional dummy purchase,
- a parenting "lesson" from a bolshy salesgirl who scolds me IN FRONT OF BOTH MY KIDS for being weak in the face of adversity,
- a scramble (me) to retrieve the old dummies dramatically thrown in the bin (bolshy salesgirl),
- two solid hours of hysterical crying (LB),
- firmness (me), followed by harsh words (me), followed by loss of resolve (me) followed by capitulation (me),
- two boys peacefully tucked into bed with... their old and broken dummies firmly lodged in their mouths.

Total amount of money spent on dummies in one day: 30 euros
Success rate: 0

I'm not sure of much in this murky world of parenting, but I sense that my parenting approach hovers somewhere in the vast space in between FIRM & NO-NONSENSE and WEAK & INDULGENT.

And when I figure out exactly where I stand... well, er, then I'll get them to love the new dummies.
Yes I will.
Won't I?

I told you: some days it really is glamour, glamour, glamour all the way.

Do As I Say, Not As I Do?

The title would suggest I'm going to write about something kid-related, right?
Wrong.
Today's amusing/confusing thought for the day concerns the strike.

As we know, today was a national strike day here in France, the issue being "We defend the right to retire at 60!"
A large chunk of the public sector was on strike, and those of us who work in the private sector were given the choice. Either sit tight and work, or pack up at 2 p.m. and go out to PROTEST!

There are 19 of us in my office. Out of those 19, eight people chose to go on strike.
Up till now, nothing unusual.
Except, when 2 o'clock struck and the strikers left, something rather amusing struck (sorry for the pun) me:
The eight strikers were all aged over 60!!

And the rest of us - the "younger generation" - the ones who will actually be affected by the extended retirement age - simply shrug our shoulders and accept that, as life expectancy increases, we may just have to keep working a little longer. Or, as a fellow 32-year old colleague and I remarked: "come on! We have nearly 10 weeks holiday a year... Is it really so unreasonable to ask us to work a little longer over the course of a lifetime?"

But the really head-scratching question is: if all my 60+ colleagues think it's so important to be able to retire at 60... er.... how come none of them has chosen to retire yet?!
These are the privileged people who actually CAN retire at 60 if they choose!

As far as I can see then (and please correct me if I have missed some political nuance - it's entirely possible!): my 60+ colleagues are defending their right to do something they don't actually want to do?
Or, defending MY generation's right to do something we don't feel the need to do?

It's all quite confusing.
Or perhaps the point is simply... to protest.
I mean, come on. We can't just let the government get away with it. Can we?

Portrait Gallery: An English Summer

King of the world at the local park

Clutching at straws??

A morning with Bob the Builder

Rainy day fun

Between the showers: stoical play

Little boy, big bike

More lazy moments on the blue chairs

King of the living room

A glimpse of Provence

New Kid on the Block

Another day, another teatime

Bridging the generation gap with a smile

Acting tough

Birthday lunch with Nina: his English rose

Three years old

Charmed by ringlets

Ladies who lunch

In transit

Random moment: playing table tennis in front of the British Library, half an hour before Eurostar check-in. And yes, it is me.

All our heartfelt thanks to Mum, for letting us take over her house, her fridge, her wine supply and - at times - her sanity!
We had a wonderful time.

In Retrospect

Naturally, "la rentrée" went very smoothly for BB, who practically galloped through the door of his new school on Friday morning.

Although he disappeared briefly up my skirt when the teacher bent down to say hello, he soon emerged again, and managed to nod and smile, hesitently.
His school has only two classes, two teachers and one classroom assistant. It's in a beautiful old building with a courtyard, and pretty much corresponds to a picture-book ideal of a slightly old-fashioned primary school, complete with blackboard and chalk (I seem to remember hearing that blackboards didn't exist anymore? But I must have been mistaken).
All in all, we're very happy with the idea that he will spend three years there.

However, this being France, there is of course a hitch.
The hitch is that - after a 2 month summer break and (so far) one full day of school, it turns out that Tuesday will be a strike day.
Yes that's right: the teachers will be out on strike, so school will in effect be closed.
So as I return to work on Monday after a 4-week holiday, it may be that I have to ask for Tuesday off.
C'est la vie. This is France, for better and for worse... and always with an indulgent smile at its clichéd foibles...

La Rentrée

In France, "la rentrée" is a national institution. It doesn't just signify the start of the new school year: it is probably even more important than January 1st as a marker of the passage of time.
Thus, on September 2nd, Summer officially ends, holidays grind to a halt, sand is shaken out of shoes and everyone dons their Autumn attire (even though the temperature still reaches 30° most days: this "September = Winter clothes no matter what" mentality has always amused me).

Until now, we weren't too concerned by the "rentrée" in our household.
But this year - and probably for the 25 years to come - the "rentrée" will signify the end of some things, and the start of others, for us too.

Tomorrow, BB will start school.
As I iron the name labels (thanks Anita!) onto his clothes, prepare his backpack and his "dummy box" (a mini version of the ubiquitous lunch-box, and destined - as its name suggests - for safe dummy storage), I can feel the lump forming in my throat.
I tell myself it's not really such a big deal. School at this age is kind of just a glorified crèche, after all, isn't it?
But at the same time... I know it's more than that.
I know that I'm nostalgic for the big day that awaits us tomorrow, but also for all the other big days to come. All the other "firsts" that will mark his life and what is - essentially - his long, steady journey towards independence.

I smile as he bubbles with excitement. I bite my lip and nod as he tells me gravely "Maman, at school, I will say 'bonjour Maîtresse!' and be a nice boy."
I hope I won't cry. I know I will cry. That heart-breaking mix of vulnerability and bravery just gets me every time.

On The Road

Before I show you the rest of the England photos, how about a quick Provençal interlude?

BB and I are just back from our first mother-son road trip (the first that he will have any chance of remembering, in any case...). I had mixed feelings about the trip beforehand - apart from one lunchtime visit to friends in Marseille, it literally would be just him and me - but as happens so often these days, I decided to take the plunge anyway.
He's just turned 3 after all. On Friday he will start school ("maternelle"). A mother-son road trip is not on every parent's "rite of passage" agenda, but it happens to feature on mine, so Sunday morning, with cheery waves to Papa and LB, off we set.

Any apprehension I had was dispelled pretty quickly.
Being on the road with Mum, discovering a new place together, sleeping side by side in a quaint hotel by the sea... All of this seemed only to make BB grow in stature and heart-breaking maturity.
I looked on tenderly as moments that may well have triggered tantrums under normal circumstances (an ice-cream refusal... a particularly violent wind...) were borne with a tight lip and a real, visible effort to "be brave".
Mostly, it was about balance. Sometimes, we were buddies. And occasionnally, something intangible would shift, and he would become a mischievious 3 year old, and I would revert to Mum.
Travelling alone with a child, however, brought me a whole heap of wonderful moments that solo - or even family travel - could not.
For three days, I experienced the world from BB's perspective.
The details a 3 year-old picks up on are not necessarily those that strike an adult, so (somewhat bemusingly), while I might be pointing out a beautiful sweep of pine trees, or a breathtaking view of the bay... he would be exclaiming over the presence of a wheelie bin, or (usually) some kind of power drill.

Add to that the adorable gestures. The time he stopped dead in his tracks on the street, stooped down to pick something up off the ground and squealed "Maman! Look! A heart!"
What he'd found was a flimsy red paper heart - most probably cast-off confetti from a recent wedding - and he pocketed it preciously and held on to it for the rest of the holiday.

If our road trip were to have a soundtrack, it would be "80s pop classics".
Papa Don't Preach... Always on my mind (Pet Shop Boys version)... these are the tunes that played in the background of the local café where we breakfasted in the morning.
We smiled across at each other over coffee, juice and two greasy croissants, and I thought "at this precise moment, and maybe only for a few minutes, my childhood and his are combined."
Surreal, sublime, perfect.