Flawed & Perfect

Wednesday - as I think you've probably gathered by now - is not always the most serene day in our household.
Though in theory we have few commitments and no need to rush, in practice, I am usually run ragged by mid-morning, sneaking guilty glances at the clock and wondering how I might possibly engineer the situation to provide me with half-an-hour of "me" time before I am literally too tired to stand up.

But, you know, all in all, it's fun.

Anyway, most Wednesdays include moments during which 1/ Someone is howling 2/ Someone is crying 3/ Someone is shouting.
And yes, I do mean simultaneously.
Just to spice things up a little, there will usually be one major meltdown, probably in public and frequently involving a merry-go-round (last turn on), a sugary edible substance or a disputed toy.
Occasionally, parental sanity has to be preserved via strident means, and thus a howling boy will find himself briefly confined to a single room... while the other people in the house try to pretend that nothing is amiss.

Yes, this is the down side.
But, but! If you happened to take a peak through our kitchen window this afternoon between the hours of 4 pm and 5 pm, you would have seen something that made you gasp. Gasp in true amazement at the perfection of it all: one boy diligently drawing an intricate picture, the other engaged in a serious-looking car game, one deliciously fragrant homemade cake baking in the oven and a classicial music programme on the radio.

Could life ever get cosier than this?
Like all encounters with perfection, this one too was fleeting.
But it is all I will probably remember of the day in question.

Floored, not flawed

One Week To Go

I don't know exactly when I started to divide the year up into half-terms again?

Actually, of course I do know when: last September, when BB started maternelle (kindergarten).
After a respite of almost 10 years (the time it took me to 1/ Finish higher education, and 2/ Have a kid old enough to go to school), the unavoidable "school year" calendar is back!
And, in all probability, here to stay for the next 20 years.

The funny thing is, though I never gave more than a passing thought to the notion of terms and school holidays during that 10 year "freestyle" interlude, since BB has embarked on his educational journey, the whole notion of a definite, longed for and absolutely vital "break" has become a central point of my whole existence.
Whereas before, I could work for a few months at a time, looking forward to nothing more frequent than the prospect of a summer holiday... now, the idea of working for more than - say - 6 consecutive weeks without a week's break seems intolerable.

I am counting down the days to the (slightly misleading) "February holiday" (6 days from now).
And even though I won't actually be on half-term holiday until the week after that (half-terms last 2 weeks here: merci la France!!), I long for the first day BB will get to loll around in pyjamas and defy the routine that serves us so well the rest of the year.

I suppose it's just another example of the ease with which we all become accustomed to "comfort".
And the multiple ways we humans find to mark the passage of time.

BB's Best Day Ever

The new fridge arrives at 7.45 a.m.
It's Saturday morning, and our modest lie-in is shattered by the brisk clank of the doorbell.
FH scrambles out of bed, pulling on clothes and stubbing his toe in the dark, while, in the next bedroom, two boys (awoken by the bell) start to whoop and holler.

I manage to slip into their bedroom just before the front door is pinned back and the gigantic object is heaved into our narrow hallway, closely followed by two sturdy, overall-clad specimens of virility.

"What's happening, what's happening?!" BB clamours excitedly, scooping up teddy and making a bolt for the door.
"It's the new fridge," I yawn, misty-eyed. This is what you get for refusing to set foot in a home improvement store (or whatever they're called) and demanding door-to-door delivery.
LB, who waits for no man or fridge, demands his milk.
I settle him down with a bottle (he is like a mobile phone whose battery must be recharged instantly every morning - the very second you flick him "on": failure to do so results in a very piercing and persistent alarm bell).

Once the milk has duly reached its target and revitalised the youngest member of the clan, we are able to proceed as one into the kitchen, where the new fridge stands tall, almost regal in its splendour.
Wow.
It suddenly becomes apparent that we have been surviving with a very, very small fridge all these years.
The four of us contemplate the beast, wide-eyed and slightly intimidated.
"It's big..." BB observes, in quiet wonder.

Turning our attention away from the mega-fridge, we suddenly notice that every square centimetre of surface space is occupied with fresh food: the entire contents of our old fridge (which has been abruptly unplugged and taken away by the same sturdy men who delivered the beast to our kitchen. Such is the harsh reality of life: survival of the fittest).
We are facing a pile of yoghurts, two bottles of milk, some cheese, and an assortment of other foodstuffs that must somehow make it through the day until the new fridge can be plugged in (in case you didn't know - I didn't, needless to say: you have to wait 12 hours before plugging in a new fridge, to let the liquids settle, or something).
No matter: it's still cool enough outside to transform the garden into a temporary fridge.

But. There's something else.
At the same moment, all our eyes settle upon a half-filled box. A pale yellow container with a flower on top. An innoccuous little box containing something that will not survive the day, even if placed outside.
Something that must be either sacrificed and left to melt... or else consumed at once.

Ice-cream for breakfast.

This is BB's Best Day Ever.

Great Expectations

Sometimes I wonder: all these enthusiastic excursions and activities... all these Wednesdays planned to perfection and overflowing with good intentions and multiple ideas for healthy, outdoor fun...
Who gets the most pleasure out of it all?

Throw that question out today to the two little boys in this household, and you'll get a quick answer flung back: Maman.
Yes, decidedly, Maman.
Because, really, it would appear that a brisk walk, a spot of play in the radiant sunshine and a few bites of baguette and cheese "à la campagne" are a parent's idea of fun.
3 year olds and 1 year olds have radically different opinions on how free time should be spent.

Alas, to cut a long story short (I'm sure you can factor in the enthusiasm / whining / tears / thinly disguised disappointment in the appropriate slots), here's the brief summary of "Wednesday with Mum".

I pack up a huge bag of stuff and heap of outer garments, and drive for over an hour to take them here:

It is glorious and serene and slightly on the cool side but oh-so-invigorating.
And one of them refuses to get out of here:

... while the other expresses his displeasure from here:

And finally, after sharing a slab of cheese and half a baguette in the car, I concede defeat and drive them back here:

At which point, my two whingy, tearful, complaining kids suddenly morph into cheerful little boys.
Back home. Just doing exactly what they always do: drawing, painting and pushing felt tip pens along the table top.

Hum hum hum.
Who was it said "youth is wasted on the young"?!


There is an enigmatic post scriptum to this humble tale.
As I was jerking the car into reverse and preparing to drive away from my "day of outdoor fun", I couldn't help but admonish BB: "you know, you really are too soft! OK, there's a SLIGHT breeze and it's a BIT cold, but this is nothing compared to the weather in England! It's colder than this in England, you know! And windier! AND it rains! You should think yourself lucky to live here!"
I don't know quite what response I was expecting from a 3 year old, but the solemn little words spoken from the backseat were certainly intriguing:
"Yes, I know Maman. But I'm not scared in England."

Ah. I squinted into the rearview mirror and caught BB's eye.
That shut me up.

The First Sip of Beer

The title is a reference to a book by Philippe Delerm, a book that celebrates a selection of life's simple pleasures.
I would highly recommend it to any romantic soul... though I should warn you that it has (quite justifiably) been dismissed as "too French" by someone who - er - is not French.

Anyway, that's really beside the point.
This Sunday marked not the first sip of beer but the first outdoor lunch of 2011. (The blustery picnic we cobbled together and forced the boys to "enjoy" in mid-January doesn't count).
That magical first lunch of the year that is preceded by the hesitant words "Mmm... you know, we could almost... I'd say it's warm enough to... what do you think?"

And it was warm enough. A table laid for three adults and two little boys, a dish of Provençal vegetables, fresh fish and a bottle of champagne... for no reason other than to celebrate the first outdoor lunch of the year. And because - in my humble opinion - champagne goes best with unplanned moments, its taste so much sweeter when it celebrates "nothing in particular".

It's not the end of winter. But it's a glimpse of the beginning of the end.
And LB has a rosy sunkissed nose.

Personal Statement

The other day at work, I was asked to read through and correct the so-called Personal Statement of someone's son... who was applying for a coveted place on a degree course at LSE.
The French applicant (aged 23) had written the statement in English, so maybe the pompous style was partly due to the fact it wasn't his native language (or style).
But as I read more about how he was "really ambitious", "absolutely passionate about finance" and "so eager to learn more about financial trading"... part of me tensed up.

I try to be open-minded and non-judgemental, I really do.
But I suppose - like most people - I fail at that most of the time.
So hey ho, let me be honest here (and drop the pretense of open-mindedness): my overwhelming thought as I read this poor guy's application was please God, don't let either of my sons turn out that way!

That may sound strange, right?
I suppose it IS strange, in a way: finance and trading being a fairly worthy (and very lucrative) career by most people's standards.
But I don't know: the sheer dullness of it all... the overwhelming seriousness of this 23-year-old and his money-based "ambitions"... Well, it all just rattled me somehow.
Shouldn't 23-year-olds be more concerned about travelling the world, or saving it, or defending an endangered species or free education? Should they really be so keen to throw away their ideals for a fat pay cheque and the "privilege" of earning a fortune by working their hair grey in just a few years?

Probably I'm not giving our future trader enough credit.
We all know there's a lot of blah, blah, blah involved in most application letters, and who knows? Perhaps he only wants to shoot up the corporate ladder in order to retire at 30 and devote his time and earnings to some worthy cause?

But I know deep down that if either BB or LB one day asks me to edit such a letter... there'll be a tiny drop of disappointment in the pit of my stomach.
I know, also, that we can't live out our frustrations through our kids... and that, if they turn out to be corporate high-fliers, I'll have to embrace those choices, too.

But.. I can't help but hope their dreams will be sprinkled with art, and music, and travel and teaching, and social work and - I don't know - landscape gardening?

I guess that my hopes are those of a privileged generation of parents, for whom higher education is a given, not a bonus.
But they are mine, nonetheless, and if I can somehow foster a spark of idealism in my boys... I will.

Home Alone

February 1st: my first bout of sickness so far this winter.
I suppose, with hindsight, it was inevitable. Only last week I heard myself boasting to a couple of sniffly colleagues: "It's amazing! None of my family has been sick so far this winter! You know, I really think our immune systems are tip top now..."

Yes, naturally, I deserved to get sick after such a blatant flouting of superstition.

So, yesterday afternoon I writhed about a bit at crèche, fuelling suspicions that "no. 3 is on the way."
No, no, no, absolutely not.
But you know how it is: you puke up at crèche in front of a gaggle of mothers, and the rumour is launched. It will probably take another 6 months to demonstrate beyond any doubt that it really was just a tummy bug.

I then made a quick "sick stop" on the journey home - much to LB's disgust - and proceded to be sick for most of the evening.

Today, I feel better, but really: what's the point of rushing in to work with an empty stomach, a headache and a pressing urge to be horizontal?

This is the new me: the one who is kind to herself.

Today it's home alone: just me and the soft purr of the washing machine: that unique feeling of physical weakness mingled with euophoria: I have a day to myself! No pressure! No expectations! Just rest up and get better!