That Family

Sometimes, we are that family. You know the one: cheerful, contented kids with pink cheeks and boundless enthusiasm... kids who say cute things in earnest, and make everyone around them smile.
Parents who share a laugh and gaze indulgently at their well-behaved offspring.
Babies who rock placidly in swings, gratifying all who pass with a touching expression of pride and glee.
Little boys who snuggle up together in the back of a cycle cart... innocent spectators of the roadshow that is life.





And other days.
Other days, we are that family.
You know the one: noisy, obnoxious kids who can't sit still in cafés, and annoy every other customer in the place by weaving in between tables and gabbling.
Babies who shriek like demons when not awarded the coverted "centre of attention" role.
Bratty boys who demand costly desserts and sulk (both slyly and loudly) when dissatisfied.
Parents whose haggard faces suggest they have recently been usurped as Heads of Household.
Parents who speak to each other just a tad too snappily.
The family people scowl at: the ones with the badly behaved kids.



What to do on those days?
Shrug, smile, apologise... Send eyewitnesses a coy grimace that tries to convey: they are not always like this. Sometimes, we are the other family - the sweet one - honestly, we are! Don't judge us, please!

We think: sometimes, even nice families have bad days.
This is the horrible truth no-one tells you beforehand: even the good parents can't always control their kids.
We savour the compliments on the good days - each "what lovely boys!" tucked away and cherished.
We learn which cafés to avoid.
We have a glass of wine.
We pedal on.

After the Strike... the Holiday

Have petrol, will travel!
Correction: we have enough petrol to get us to Ile de Ré tomorrow... but who knows whether we'll have enough to get us home again a week later?
As the strikes, blocades and general uncertainty force us into a "one day at a time" mentality, I admit that my aim is simply to get there.
Ile de Ré being a bikers' paradise, the car will have a week to recover while the bikes take over.

Four wheels bad! Two wheels good!

At Least God Has a Sense of Humour...

As I hang up the phone, having learned that BB's school will - again - be closed for striking tomorrow, it strikes me (ha ha) that God has a sharp sense of humour. The best laid plans... and all that.

Two months ago, I was banking on a career change. My efforts were focused on making the breakthrough: I'd even had The Chat with my boss, in which I announced (somewhat hastily, as it turns out) my imminent departure for bigger and better things.
And now, several strikes later, here I am: a stay-at-home-mum.
With the best will in the world, I couldn't possible be bounding up any career ladders at the moment. With no school to go to, and no family on the same land mass, BB is entirely dependent on his two primary carers, me and FH.
And you know how life is (we ALL know how life is, in reality): at the end of the day, for all the talk of equality, the accepted status quo is that, when the chips are down and school is closed... it's up to Mum to provide the childcare.

So here we are. Instead of donning heels and a crisp white shirt, I'm in jeans and flats, wondering how BB and I are going to get through another day of improvised home schooling.
I'm thinking we'll try creative tomorrow: perhaps gluing? Crafts? Maybe it's time to start the alphabet?
See, the thing is: I have decided not to be bitter about this. We choose one path, we end up on another. Is this not the essence of life, when it comes down to it?
If we choose to see the positives in every situation, surely we all win in the end?

So, instead of focusing on the closed doors (school, my career), I have simply switched focus and am walking eagerly - temporarily, or semi-permanently or at least, one step at a time - through the open door: the unexpected opportunity to be a stay-at-home mum, enjoying this newfound closeness with BB.

Who knew the anti-retirement reformers would be so successful, so quickly! 32 years old... and basking in early retirement!

Bad Feeling

Anita says she's in a "funk" at the moment. She's not sure what the word means exactly, and neither am I (we are both language exiles, in a way), but I'm starting to feel that I may be in one too.

The ongoing strikes are starting to create a lot of bad feeling. A sort of clammy, hostile environment in which everyone is either: fed up, put out or on strike.
I try not to talk about it too much. After all, strikes are on a par with politics and religion: topics best avoided unless you're absolutely 100% certain that the other person shares your viewpoint.
And to be honest, I don't really have a clearcut viewpoint on this issue.
What surprises me most of all about the anti-retirement reform strikers is their "four legs good, two legs bad" mentality; the sense that it's so obvious who the "baddies" and the "goodies" are in this epic adventure...
Add into the equation the fact that France has a long-term love affair with striking as a form of protest, and you quickly get to the fired up situation (or "social climate", as we say here) we find ourselves in at present.

I don't object to striking. But I don't appreciate being forced into a position, or qualified as morally inferior, for my decision not to strike on this occasion.
So what to do when a pro-strike colleague launches an unprovoked attack, insinuating that I - and those of my "generation" (I guess I should be grateful for the "young people" label...) are cowardly and selfish?
Options include: a serene smile, no comment, a counter-attack, an exchange of insults.
In the event, I choose to point out that every person should be free to make his/her own choice on the matter. And that nobody should callously judge the motives of anyone else's decision.
But I am missing the point: the verbal attack was launched merely to provoke, and no debate is possible. Again, all I hear is a variant of "four legs good, two legs bad", and the insults "selfish" and "cowardly" are flung back at me with a dollop of extra venom.

So, in an atmosphere bristling with unnecessary anger, I switch off my computer, hop on my bike and head off to collect BB from school, where the after-school staff are striking.
And as I pedal along, I think about some of the counter-arguments I would have liked to make, had there been an opportunity for debate, or indeed a point to voicing a viewpoint other than the "Single Acceptable Viewpoint".

I would like to say: people are different. Your desire to strike, wave a banner, shout and protest and fight the good fight depends as much on your convictions as your character.
Those of us who are ill at ease with any sort of group mentality (I am not a group joiner, that's just the way it is) find other ways to manifest our support of or opposition to whatever issue, and surely those other ways are just as valid?
I would like to say: we all have our issues. Some of us feel blood-boilingly angry at the prospect of a raised retirement age... some of us have innate convictions about the superiority of a vegetarian diet, or the bike as a mode of transport (er, no names).
But to what extent should we strive to convert others to our own set of values?
Why should I shout about my moral superiority, when I don't know the first thing about the life, history, convictions or hardships of the person I'm judging/converting/attacking?

But these are just thoughts and the hard reality is: the only person who really cares to hear them is me.
So much of the time, it seems, individuals are rooted in their own beliefs like 200-year-old oak trees set in hardened soil... and what we pass off as "discussion" is little more than two blinkered individuals shouting over one another's head about who is right, and who is wrong.

Rocky Road

When will my support for people's right to strike start to wane?
Now, as we enter week 2 of school closing early, or not opening at all?
Tomorrow, when I have to explain to my boss why I'll be leaving at 3.30 p.m., and why I can't come to work on Tuesday?
The middle of next week, when the Post Office is closed again, and my Recorded Delivery awaits - inaccessible - under a pile of unsorted mail?
Or perhaps next weekend, when the oilworkers' strike has succeeded in making petrol a rarity, and we don't have enough of the stuff to go on the holiday we have booked and paid for?

I get that it's a good thing to defend your rights. I agree that capitalism is unfair, and it's probably a short-sighted and questionable strategy to increase retirement age.
But after a while, I can't help but wonder: who is really paying the price of all this striking?
Not Nicolas Sarkozy: he can probably afford a nanny.

My dear France, we're in this for the long haul, so there's no doubt I'll stand by you, but really: sometimes you make it so hard for me to love you!

Interlude

I was planning a heartfelt post about something that happened on the way to Rome, but somehow can't quite muster the energy for heartfelt this evening.

So instead, here is a little LB interlude.

After a few weeks of regular grouchiness, LB has suddenly blossomed into a happy, mature (well, you know, "mature" in comparison to - say - a 12-month old..), autonomous little boy... who can feed himself.

We look on as the sense of pride glows from all his features... and it is his evident delight that curtails our urge to clean up, wipe down, help out.
After all, as every parent knows, a happy baby is well worth a bit of mess...

A Roman-tic Tiff

I don't think Rome is to blame, but I don't think it's all my fault either.
The two of us simply didn't hit it off.
I guess you could say we're just not on the same wavelength.


Rome is beautiful, sexy and charming, and it has a great body. Of course, I see that.

Rome is trying really hard to impress me... but that kind of in-your-face flirting just doesn't do it for me.
"Look," I sigh, "I know you have history. I know the treasures you're offering are unique. I can even see the success you're having with everyone else around here. But... don't be offended, OK? I just think we're not suited, you and I."

For the sake of politeness, I hang around a while and chat. I try to be open-minded, I listen to what Rome has to say, I nod politely and smile.
I dig a little deeper, searching for the common ground that will cause us to click, lock eyes and fall in love.
But the sparkle doesn't seem to materialise.
I'm just going through the motions: my heart is untouched.

Finally, Rome shrugs its shoulders, lets me go.
"No hard feelings!" it promises cheerfully as we say goodbye over a last ice-cream.
When our bowls have been licked clean, I weave my way gratefully through the crowd of admirers, searching for the train that will take me home.


Still, Rome's pride has been hurt by my gentle letdown: it spitefully declines to display the platform number for my train, forcing me to rush, panic and finally leave in a flurry of uncertainty.
Hum, that wasn't so very Christian of you now, was it?

The thing is though, it was never really going to happen between Rome and me.
The fact is, there's someone else.
An old flame, if you like. Someone who, when I saw him again after my brief flirt with Rome, seemed only to have grown in charm and attractiveness.

Ah Paris! My dearest France! The years pass... and yet my heart still pounds when I see you again.

Time Out

I'm going to Rome for my wedding anniversary.
Unfortunately, FH won't be joining me.

The romantic destination belies a mundane purpose: another 3-day language conference, in the company of semi-strangers I meet up with twice a year.
Still - to a certain extent - it will be nice for me to celebrate eight years of marriage in the eternal city. And, encouraged by my recent viewing of "Eat, Pray, Love" with Julia Roberts (she goes to Rome for 4 months... and eats), I have vowed to eat as much pizza, pasta and pastries as The Firm's budget will allow. I'll even sacrifice a few taxis if need be.

I'm a little concerned however that the wedding anniversary won't be quite as much fun for FH. He'll be household manager for the whole of next week, a gruesome job involving lots of responsibility and few perks.
LB is going through a - how to put this? - difficult stage.
Despite my deep aversion to the categorisation of kids (I don't think any kid should be stigmatised this soon with a label like "Shy", "Boisterous" or "Difficult"), over the past few weeks I have actually found myself uttering the treacherous words "I think LB might be a difficult child."
As soon as I find myself sharing this disloyal thought with another compassionate human being, I quickly backtrack and re-define "He's a good child going through a difficult stage."
Yes, this is a far better way of looking at things. And also, there's a pretty good chance it's true.

Stages can just seem so long when you're in the thick of them.

And without putting too fine a point on it, the original title of this post was "Is it OK to drink whisky at 2.30 pm on a Saturday afternoon?"
You'll be pleased to know that the title got scrapped at the last minute, and the urge it conveys was replaced with a chocolate biscuit.
So all in all, though I'm teetering on the brink, I'm still sort of this side of sane. Sort of.

And P.S., if you're wondering how I'm getting to Rome tomorrow, please don't imagine that I'm taking the simple route.
OF COURSE there is a direct flight from Toulouse!
And OF COURSE I am shunning it in favour of a night train. From Paris.

All roads lead to Rome. Eventually.

See you in a week!