Petit Coin de Parapluie

Something Else

2011-03-13T21:48:00.005+01:00

It's been nearly two and a half years, and it's been a lot of fun.
But quite unexpectedly, I feel the need to take an indefinite break from blogging.
Writing about my life in this way (a dollop of truth, a touch of humour, a drop of fiction) gave me a slightly tilted perspective on the world and my tiny place in it... and that perspective suited me for a while.

The writing suited me too: a chance to flex my style by composing these short texts that constitute - when all said and done - a precious diary of the past two years.
The photos, the ideas... the sense that I could look at my life through a lense and distance myself from it, to a certain extent.

All of this has been great, and served a purpose.
And now that purpose has somehow trickled away or, rather, transformed into something else.
I have the vague hope that the modest time and energy devoted to the blog may be applied to another form of writing (ah! my ongoing novels and my stubborn dreams!). Or perhaps something else altogther: definitely reading, probably yoga or - less predictably, something arty.

Apart from the few loyal family members and friends who've visited me regularly on this blog, I don't know how many people have ever read (or enjoyed) it.
But let me say thank you anyway.
It could have simply been nothing more than a diary... but the fact that there were readers gave me the boost I needed to reflect, compose, cut and paste my thoughts.
Thank you for reading, commenting, discussing, joining in.

And, for most of you, SEE YOU SOON!

Flawed & Perfect

2011-02-23T21:10:00.007+01:00

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

2011-02-19T22:27:00.003+01:00

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

2011-02-12T21:59:00.005+01:00

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

2011-02-09T21:25:00.008+01:00

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

2011-02-07T22:07:00.003+01:00

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

2011-02-02T14:09:00.006+01:00

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

2011-02-01T10:32:00.003+01:00

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!

From the Mouths of Babes

2011-01-29T20:36:00.004+01:00

1/ We're driving along, just me and him, when - entirely out of the blue - BB decides to treat me to his most comprehensive and breathtaking demonstration of bilinguilism so far.

"Maman, in English, CAR. En français, VOITURE!
In English, HOUSE. En français, MAISON!
In English, WINDOW. En français, FENETRE!"

Open-mouthed, I swing round to stare at my triumphant little BB, sitting smugly in the back seat.

I am so astounded I almost crash the voiture.

2/ FH is in the midst of a DIY frenzy. In typical FH style, though, the first few days (weeks) of the frenzy involve a good deal of ripping out and tearing away and not a whole lot of improvement.

Such is the current state of our bathroom. With no sink, no shelves, no cupboard and a lot of haphazard plaster all over the walls, no-one could really claim that the room is at its most advantageous.

Except, evidently, the son of the DIY fanatic.
Call it family loyalty, call it the innocence of the young... BB, on discovering the "new" state of his former bathroom, was heard to exclaim:
"Oh, papa! C'est TRES joli ce que tu as fait!"

Ah, if only I could find it in me to be so encouraging!

FAQ no. 1

2011-01-25T21:18:00.007+01:00

Who knows why some days, weeks or months are so much better than others?

I have spent almost 33 years living on this planet, and I still don't get it.

I have a few tentative thoughts on the matter, a flash of inspiration here and there.
But nothing surefire and irrefutable.

Maybe it's all down to an imperceptible hormonal shift?

A sudden increase in the amount of natural light (we have had 10 days of unbroken sunshine here, albeit freezing cold sunshine...)?

A husband who welcomes us home with a hug rather than a scowl?

Or perhaps it's not so much the external stuff as the way in which we choose to position our own blinkers?
The tiniest shift in perspective and the light falls differently: on my job (a fleeting intellectual buzz), on motherhood (a privileged time to be savoured, not a challenge to be battled through on route to something else), on Toulouse (a place where the pinky morning light falls perfectly across the river as one cycles to work). And so on.

I don't know why or how these shifts happen, but I think I know that we can strive to influence them, at least a little bit.

But when I read what a wiser woman than I wrote on her blog, I knew a big part of the answer lay within:
Why can't it all just be great?
It CAN be great. It can't be perfect, but it can be great.

A Bird in the Hand is Worth...

2011-01-23T20:58:00.005+01:00

The infringement of wildlife onto our little urban oasis continues.
After the mouse in the kitchen (last summer), this Sunday morning kicked off with... a bird in the bedroom.

OK, it was just a sparrow. But, if you're not quite 3 and a half, and just emerging from an 11-hour sleep, believe me: the sight of a sparrow hurtling towards you in the semi-darkness is pretty scary.
I know, I was there.

So, BB was frantic, LB was bemused, FH was flustered and I was trying to be mature about the whole thing. You know, to set an example (or whatever it is us mothers are supposed to do).
And the sparrow... well, he was absolutely terrified, from what we could see.

As FH tried to coax him out from under the bed of the frantic child, the bird stole its chance and made a kamikaze dive for the bedroom door.
It was at that point that I totally gave up the attempt to appear calm, and released a tragic, piercing shriek of my own.
See, I was standing right by the doorway, and so got a nice bit of "wing-lash" as birdie rocketed past.

Well, after that, FH was well and truly on his own.
I barricaded myself into the bedroom with the boys, slipping effortlessly and gratefully into "women and children first" mode.
It's amazing how a mere whiff of danger sets us right back a century or two.

A few minutes later, FH announced that our winged friend had been shown the door.
I insisted he swear on the Bible and a few precious people's heads that this was no lie, knowing FH's penchant for the "say what they want to hear" theory.
He promised.

So, it wasn't even 8.20 a.m., and we'd already experienced major drama. It was definitely going to be "one of those Sundays."

But on the upside, at least that explains the unfathomable noises we've been hearing above the boiler for the past few days.

LB, always cool in a crisis

Upward Spiral

2011-01-22T16:56:00.003+01:00

Friday night, and I'm going out.
In the car, on the way to Sophie's house, I tap my fingers on the steering wheel and bask in the sense of freedom afforded by the darkness, the classical musical, the warmth of the heater and the prospect of the evening ahead.
All the lights are green; I buzz once in the frosty air and Sophie is down in a flash.

Now there are two of us in the car, two bottles of wine, some homemade cakes, a dab of lipstick.
We laugh about something silly that happened earlier, wonder whether I have enough petrol left to get us to Marie's flat and back. Sensibly, I pull in at the next petrol station and pump 10 euros' worth of petrol in. All I have on me is a 10-euro note: the petrol station guy is mighty impressed with the precision of my filling... and Sophie and I have a laugh about that too as we drive off.

Marie greets us with a hug; we proffer our chinking bottles of wine.
She's wearing fluffy slippers, and her new flat is cosy and elegant: we spend a good 20 minutes touring round and exclaiming over the details, though there are only 50 square metres to explore.

Marie is proud of her new corkscrew, but in the course of her bottle-opening demonstration, the cork splits and tiny splinters flutter into the very, very nice wine that is 10 years old and most probably not improved by the addition of bits of cork.
We have a real laugh about that, as we clink glasses.

The hours pass, and sometimes we are all talking at once, all laughing at once, or repeating that same anecdote from 2007 that we all know word for word... that we are embellishing as the years go by, in unspoken agreement.
We laugh about our colleagues: the usual idiosyncracies... the annoying habits that we mimic with affection after the third glass of wine.

Later, we talk about when we were children. We didn't grow up in the same country, of course, didn't watch the same TV programmes or speak the same language... but the way we feel about it all is the same, and that's all that matters.
Then it's 1.30 a.m., and we should really get home to bed.
We chatter our way to the door, chatter through the coat and glove ceremony, chatter our way down the stairs and back to the car and home.

Sophie and Marie and I have worked together, in the same unpretty office, for over seven years.
We see each other practically every working day.
If I think about it, I spend more time with them than anyone else, FH included.
We have had a couple of cross words in seven years: one or two misunderstandings and uncountable hours of conversation and laughter.

There is never a sliver of silence between us.
I never stop to censor what I say in their presence.
They know just about everything that has ever happened to me, and I'm pretty sure I know how they feel about most things.

Sophie and Marie don't know I write a blog. Somehow - through an unavoidable technicality - they got classified into the "colleagues" category in my mind, and I consciously decided not to mix blogging and colleagues.
So the chances are, they'll never read all of the above.

There is absolutely nothing extraordinary about the things we do together, or the conversations we have.
There is absolutely nothing extraordinary about our friendship, in the same way that there is nothing extraordinary about the routine of daily life.
Except that - from time to time, in a flash of lucidity and gratitude - we realise that all this so-called ordinariness may well be the rock that holds us together.

As unbelievable as it sounds, it was only last night that I finally saw what was right in front of my nose, so close I overlooked it for seven years: these are my friends. What would I do without them?

I have spent a lot of energy moaning about the fact my job doesn't provide me with the intellectual stimulation I expect.
But perhaps, in a way, I've been missing the point all along.

Mid-Meeting Musings

2011-01-19T12:27:00.003+01:00

Yesterday, approximately two hours and ten minutes into a meeting that was scheduled to last one hour, I got to thinking. Not about professional stuff, of course (nothing so radical) but rather about time-wasting, mis-management, human nature... and then - naturally - I was a mere step away from contemplating the entire purpose of life.

As you can see, meetings tend to provide me with a real stimulus for reflection.

What I thought was: here we all are, talking about the possibility of work, debating the various ways in which we might work, reflecting on the potential obstacles that will prevent us from working... but not, of course, actually doing any work.
And then I started to do a few loose mental calculations: 9 hours wasted this week in meetings, 4 hours spent on "official" coffee breaks, roughly another 4 hours spent in "unofficial" conversation with my chatty open-space neighbour, 6 hours on lunch, 3 hours on polite conversation with visitors to the open space...

Give or take a bit, that all adds up to 26 hours, does it not?
The official working week is 35 hours. Except I only work 4 days, so in theory, I'm only working 28 hours.
And that's when it hit me.
2 hours.
That's about all the time I have left to squeeze in some actual work.

Is it any wonder I have the feeling I never actually get anything done?

OK. Next step: how to re-phrase all of the above and turn it into a professional-sounding formal request to work from home?

"Shirley?" asks my boss, suddenly. "Anything to add?"

"Oh, yes," I smile, snapping back to attention. "So, what's the actual next step? What do you actually want me to do?"

Blank, disconcerted, awkward, embarrassing.
After a brief pause, the discussion resumes.

Flying Pigs

2011-01-14T16:41:00.003+01:00

The world is a-changing, folks.
Two years ago, a black man was elected President of the USA.
And yesterday - for the first time in history - The Firm's Special New Year Meal (a cousin of the equally renowned Christmas Meal) offered.... a vegetarian option.

OK, this radical new option was not actually on display or anything. It was merely hinted at by a lowly member of the canteen staff (a mere table wiper, if you will)... who passed on the rumour of its existence with the hesitant air of a druggie whispering the name of a dealer.

It had to be asked for. And the first waitress to whom I mentioned it responded with a look of complete and utter blankness. The second one too, actually.
But the third one nodded gravely, instructed me to wait a moment, bobbed out into the mysterious "back room" of the canteen... and reappeared minutes later with something strongly resembling a vegetarian paella.

My hands trembling, I beheld the dish of yellow rice that was placed before me.
No doubt: this was a turning point in the culinary history of south-western France.
Us vegetarians (or rather: I, vegetarian) can at long last exist alongside the eaters of pigeons, innards and fattened geese. We can approach the ordeal of the twice-yearly meat fest with serenity. We can come out of the closet! Vegetarians of France, je vous ai compris!

Frozen in Time

2011-01-11T22:22:00.004+01:00

Our fridge was a donation from the in-laws. It came to live with us in our first rented flat in the Marais in Paris: a lone domestic appliance with only a cardboard box-cum coffee table and FH's student sofabed for company.

The years passed and the furniture clan grew slightly: eventually, there was a small oven to snuggle up to, a "real" bed (well, a futon) and a Swedish bookshelf.
The fridge wasn't pretty or special, but it did its job, survived one move, then another and another and another... with never so much as a rumble of complaint.

It has been with us for over 10 years, though it's actual age (unknown) is probably more like 20.

And now, one marriage, two kids and 10 eventful years later, the fridge is nearing the end. Though it bravely rattles on - stoically cooling the dozens of yoghurts and family-size packs of child-friendly cheese spread we stuff into it week after week - it is starting to show its age.
Were it a human, it would be wheezing and spluttering and crawling into bed for a nap.

Touchingly, it is only now that the end is near and its performance waning that we have started to actually notice it. Oh the injustice of life! Years and years of silent service without so much as a second glance... and yet now, as it struggles towards its last breath, we finally stop, take a look, poke around inside a little.

And the inevitable decision is made: our old fridge must be replaced.
Such is the unforgiving nature of life. Though - if it's any consolation, dear fridge - you should know that, had you fallen into any other household, you would probably have been replaced years ago. In a way, you got lucky.
You fell into the hands of a couple whose materialism thrives in the form of clothes and footwear... but ceases to exist completely when it comes to domestic appliances.

In fact, the mere burden of selecting and acquiring a new fridge tires us. After a few timely clicks on the laptop, FH announces he's found a suitor, and asks if I want to see it.
I don't.
Just order it, I mumble from behind my novel. Domestic appliances, like car problems and certain Swedish furniture stores, are my own personal hell. A sort of quagmire of boredom, the simple prospect of which makes me snappy and irritated.

But, while FH sighs and does the necessary, I do have a passing, tender thought for you, dear old fridge.
I think: you served us well, though you weren't flashy or modern or pretty by anyone's standards. You are part of a different era: you belong to a young, penniless couple setting up home together, an idealistic man and woman who didn't think twice about plonking an upside-down cardboard box in the middle of their living room, and calling it a coffee table.
They just don't make 'em like you anymore. And in a funny sort of way, I'll miss you.

With or Without You

2011-01-09T15:21:00.005+01:00

Prior warning to more romantically minded readers, in case there is any confusion: this really is a positive post overall.

It's a funny old thing marriage, isn't it?
Or perhaps - less funnily - it's just my marriage??

Here I was thinking, "great, FH is off to Paris for 2 days: a break!"
Those of you who don't know FH so well may well raise an innocent eyebrow at this point and inquire candidly "a break from what?"
I shall demur and reply simply: "a break from those little foibles and idiosyncracies that are part of every individual's character... and which may occasionnally seem unbearable when one is over-exposed to them".

In a nutshell: 2 days without lost keys, misplaced objects, DIY experiments gone awry, gormless looks of utter incomprehension when confronted with simple questions, diverse opinions regarding the nature and timing of children's bedtime, empty yoghurt pots down the side of the sofa, etc, etc (yes, I know it sounds mean... but whose husband is perfect?!).

2 days during which I will be the Boss*

And yet, and yet. As is always the way, just a few hours into our short separation, the usual, baffling scenario has played out: I miss him.

The cynical may retort: you just miss the extra help!
Perhaps. But personnally I have long suspected that it was Bono who hit the nail on the head**.

*Although the other two remaining members of the household may not quite have grasped this.

** We finally walked down the aisle together - 8 years ago - to the sweet sound of U2's "Beautiful Day". Even I - though something of a realist in matters of the heart - could not quite bring myself to suggest we get married to "With or Without You"

11 Commandments for 2011

2011-01-05T15:02:00.002+01:00

1/ I will be a fervent defender of my precious free time. I will make time for those people who truly inspire me, and forget the others.

2/ I will not live my life according to a sense of obligation.

3/ I will travel as much as I can; I will cover kilometres and kilometres and make unreasonable journeys in order to spend a few hours with the people I care about most.

4/ I will know when to take time out: I will greet my solitude like an old friend.

5/ I will read The Economist every week, to keep my brain ticking over.

6/ I will read at least two novels every month, because escapism is a necessity, not a luxury.

7/ I will continue to write - even if I only write one page a month.

8/ I will not be brought down to earth by those who fly the flag of reality... as though amazement and day-dreaming were reserved for the under-5s.

9/ I will not RUSH. If I arrive at work half an hour later than everyone else, SO BE IT!

10/ I will not compare myself to other mothers. Especially not unfavourably.

11/ I will be imperfect. Because, even if I fail at all of the above (see points 1 - 10), no doubt the universe will continue to unfold as it should...

Resolute

2011-01-02T14:24:00.003+01:00

BB and me, on a train to Paris / A bus-ride through a slushy city / BB's trusting hand in mine as we clomp down to the metro / The bravery of my big boy, who never once asks to be carried / A hot bath in the hotel / Nana's arrival / A half-bottle of wine and some Marks & Spencer salads / BB and his colouring books, beautiful and neat / Christmas day, snow in Paris / Three generations in the back of a cab / A random Christmas lunch of chips and wine, a shiver of pleasure, the unexpected rightness of the untraditional Christmas traditions we are making up as we go along / Another train, to La Rochelle / FH and LB, on the platform / A reunion, a bridge, a house, "our" Ile de Ré / The ocean, vast, grey, vibrant, alive / Coffee, and wine, lots of wine / Ferrero Rocher and card games / Reading in silence / Biting cold air on an almost deserted beach / A strengthening of the core as vitality returns / A place, an anchor / FH and me, on a train to Paris / The last night of the year / A barge, Notre Dame, the Seine, the Eiffel Tower, friends, surprise, heat, a glow / Dancing, dancing, dancing / A touch, a look, a smile / 6 am in St Germain des Près / New shoes and cold hands / Coffee, croissant, train, sleep / Happy

Each little memory poured into the void: the listlessness is crushed and dispelled.

Some photos to follow, and perhaps some resolutions, too.

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2011
Moment by moment

Perfect on Paper

2010-12-23T14:37:00.002+01:00

So, I realised that if I post just one more message this year, then 2010 will have exactly the same number of messages as 2009.
This is a rather disconcerting observation, and I wonder what it might mean?
I am effortlessly perfect?
Subconsciously symmetrical in all that I undertake?
No more and no less chatty this year than last?

Anyway, so be it.
147 messages in 2010... of which this shall be the last.
A message without a clear message: a message that skims across the surface of a period filled with doubt, unexplained anger and a pinch of gloom.

BB and I went to Marseille, and all was well. Then we came back, and the feeling that daily life requires slightly more effort than I can give returned.
Now I am packing the various bags for our holiday travels (Paris, Ile de Ré...) and trying to reduce the whole exploit to the bare essentials, both physical and mental.

Last night, an acquaintance with whom I spoke briefly after the theatre told me, just before we parted: "Remember this one word: demands."
"Demands...?" I faltered.
"Fewer of them," she nodded. "On yourself. Be less demanding. Just remember that, if you remember nothing else."

So this is the single thought I will slip into the suitcase alongside the eight pairs of tiny underpants, the boots, coats, gloves, etc.
I will meditate on it during those lost moments on trains and in the midst of holiday cheer... as we wait for midnight to strike in a picture perfect setting.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL!

Concentration Span

2010-12-18T11:04:00.003+01:00

Call me intolerant, call me a mobile phone novice... but there's something that really shocks me.

We are a group of parents gathered in the school cantine. Opposite us, our three-year old children form a straggling, bouncy line admidst the homemade Christmas decorations.
It is their very first Christmas "concert", and they have a few short songs they wish to dazzle us with.

As the sweet jangle of three-year old singing fills the room, I am suddenly aware of the fact that every single mother (there is only one dad, and he is behind me) other than me is clutching her mobile phone. Granted, some of them are using it to take photos, observing the whole thing through the minuscule eye of a flat screen, but some of them are simply doing what I call the "mobile phone caressing routine": stroking it, staring at it, willing it to ring.

Then, of course (I'm sure you can see where this is heading...), a phone rings. Loudly and insistently. Every mother scrabbles to check whether the ringing phone is her own (not,as you might expect, out of embarrassment, but rather, to make sure they aren't missing anything important).
The lucky recipient identifies the call as her own... and answers.
Just like that: a cheery "Allo?" boomed out right there in the midst of our three-year-olds' first Christmas concert.

There is a general shuffling. You can tell people are distracted. And yes, by "people", I mean the parents, not the kids.
The magic fails to materialise: there is no wonderment, no involvement, no sense of calm.

We worry about the attention span of our kids. As far as I can see, it's the parents we should really be concerned about.

The Revenge of Christmas

2010-12-16T09:24:00.008+01:00

And on a more positive note...
If you have a decent memory, you may recall that Christmas is not really my thing. Actually, that is a euphemism for "I am grumpy and negative about Christmas".
However, startling changes are afoot in this household. The (r)evolution is undeniable:

Two years ago, my first blog account of the Christmas season was far from cheery.

One year ago, the situation had improved dramatically... but my words still belied an underlying resistance.

This year... BB is three, and he LOVES Christmas. Egged on by school, and its obsession with decorations, trees, Father Christmas, chocolates and everything else you could possibly associate with the Yuletide ritual (right down to the toilet roll Santa and homemade foil stars...), he wants it all.
And so endearing is is wide-eyed capacity to believe, that he has won me over.
This year... our tree is no artificial, token nod to festive duty. Oh no, no, no! This year, our tree is a big, cheery, natural affair, complete with shedding pine needles and... and... tinsel.
Yes, we now have tinsel (see last year's pledge never to stoop to tinsel, and gasp).

So this is veritably the revenge of Christmas. All it took was a little boy and a couple of years: and Christmas is most definitely in the bag and here to stay.

Meltdown

2010-12-16T09:05:00.002+01:00

Actually, it turned out not to be "spa or bust" but rather "spa AND bust"!
So much for my flippancy, hum.

So I found myself in the slightly disconcerting situation of feeling VERY low, and at the same time VERY protected (in the muted ambiance of a deserted spa resort, far from the Christmas shopping frenzy, in the company of two wonderful friends who rose to the occasion so brilliantly that one might have thought they'd been serving up herbal teas and good advice most of their lives!).

It was as though my subconscious had glimpsed the tiniest opportunity for a major meltdown - far from family obligations and wide-eyed children - .... and I duly flung myself body and soul into that opening.

Ah well. The first few days were terrible: the days since then have been a lot better.
I am overtaken by the wave of relief that comes from finally letting go, facing the fact you are not perfect and drawing up a tentative action plan (with spouse) to address all the malfunctioning elements that have softly snowballed throughout the year.

Overcoming all my natural, hardworking instincts in one quick move, I hauled myself down to the doctor's on Tuesday and got myself signed off sick for the week. The doctor suggested that perhaps I didn't so much require medication as rest and a few big boxes of chocolate? He winked as he wrote the presecription for "top quality chocolate", and I smiled in relief: my diagnosis was the same as his, but it's always nice to have one's instincts confirmed by a professional.

So here I am. I have much to learn; we have much to learn as a family. The first step is meltdown. The second is kindness. And indulgence. We'll see how the rest takes shape.

Therapy

2010-12-10T16:26:00.003+01:00

A few weeks ago, when two fellow mothers and I booked a weekend's "retreat" here, it all seemed rather frivolous and... expensive.

But, now that the countdown to departure time has begun (2 hours to go! Freedom calls!), the whole exploit appears not frivolous but.... vital.

Massage or meltdown?
Pampering or prozac?
Spa or bust?

Looks like we made a wise choice.

The Recipe

2010-12-07T21:15:00.003+01:00

I would like to be the kind of mother who knows how to rustle up a homemade chocolate cake for tea. The kind of mother who always has the right ingredients in stock, in the proper place, in a neatly ordered kitchen cupboard.

I would like to be the kind of mother who doesn't get impatient with a whingy child. The kind of mother who always knows exactly how to deliver the right dose of tenderness and firmness: the kind who doesn't shout.

I would like to be the kind of mother who never runs out of nappies - so never has to cross her fingers and hope the baby doesn't dirty himself for a few hours while squeezed into the very last "emergency" nappy.

I would like to be the kind of mother who teaches the alphabet to her kids after work. The kind of mother who always has energy and a bunch of creative ideas to implement.
I would like to be the kind of mother who doesn't daydream while playing with her kids.

I would like to be the kind of mother who already has a beautifully decorated tree up and glittering by December 7th. Plus a pile of thoughtful presents: wrapped and labelled and enticing.

I would like to be the kind of mother who doesn't feel overwhelmed 90% of the time.

But instead, I am the kind of mother who invites a couple of kids over for tea, starts to make her (first ever) chocolate cake... and realises she forgot to buy the chocolate.
I am the kind of mother who sends her husband out in a panic at 3 pm to buy a slab of chocolate.
The kind who measures out her ingredients according to the Estimate principle, because she doesn't possess any weighing scales.

I am the kind of mother who turns her face away to hide her tears when the cake turns out just fine and everyone loves it.

I am the kind of mother who scrapes by and hopes it will all turn out OK.
But when I see them tucking into the succulent cake I have somehow managed to produce, I think there must be a metaphor in there somewhere... and with a pinch of good luck, my life might turn out fluffy and sweet and heart-warming like this randomly perfect cake.

Off Balance

2010-12-04T20:49:00.003+01:00

Imagine our enthusiasm: a rare opportunity for a night out, made possible thanks to the fortuitous combination of
1/ A group of friends
2/ A kind-hearted babysitter
3/ A good restaurant

So, the evening was fun, the food was OK - but brazenly over-priced - the break from routine was invaluable.

FH started to look a little wobbly on the bike ride home.
Once home, he quickly excused himself and went to bed, while I made tea and had an hour-long debriefing session with the kind-hearted babysitter.

Then, the OK meal removed itself from FH's stomach and deposited itself all over the bedroom, hallway and bathroom in three stages (4 am, 5 am, 6 am) that seemed to roughly correspond to the three courses in which it was served.

No pretty sight, no pretty odour, let me tell you.

A bit of a kick in the teeth for an overwrought couple with few, treasured opportunities for nights out "à deux".

Stumbling out of bed after a sleepless night, thinking of the rather large credit card payment made only a few hours ago, that scene from Fawlty Towers replayed itself in my mind's eye:
Basil's dinner has made one of the snooty guests sick. When the snooty guest's husband asks Basil for a refund - in view of the circumstances - Basil is typically mean-spirited.
"If it was off, why did she eat the other half?"
"Fine!" snaps snooty husband, "in that case, you can refund half now... and if my wife brings up the other half in the night, we'll claim the balance in the morning!"

Classic

Touchy Feely

2010-12-02T21:14:00.003+01:00

Partly, of course, it's because he's the second child.

And second children - although they get a rough deal in some respects - have one major intrinsic advantage over firstborns: they are treated with more indulgence.
I'm sorry, but it's true.

Standards slip, principles slide. In the tumult of daily life with more than one child to tend to, firmly held parenting ideas tend to get watered down: a biscuit is given more readily (please stop moaning for two minutes!), a bit of naughtiness strategically overlooked (I haven't got time to deal with this!), a cry for attention more indulgently received (oh, for a bit of peace!).

And yet partly, it's because it's him.
LB is a curious character. The more I get to know him (and it is about getting to know him - with all his qualities and foibles - and not just about "bringing him up"), the more I realise what an affectionate, sensitive boy he is.
Fits of shouting, when answered with a hug, seem to twindle to nothing.
An extra 5 minutes spent cuddling him in the morning do a happy boy make.
Keeping him tight on my knee for the first 15 minutes in new surroundings make him reassured and sociable: forcing him to join in immediately makes him howl.

Maybe because BB is so different - or perhaps because I am not a major hugger myself - it's taken me a while to understand his modus operandi.
But now that I've cottoned on, I'm adapting.
See, who knew that I could be the kind of mother who would allow her boy to sleep ALL NIGHT in her arms? (and by "in her arms", I mean literally snuggled as tightly up to my belly as he could possibly be without ending up back on the inside...).
BB never did this. Maybe he thought it was not allowed? More likely: he just didn't need to.

But last night, when LB firmly and vocally refused to settle anywhere else but snuggled up to me, I gave in. Something told me to go with this particular flow, and accept that it was something he needed.

And my instinct appears to have been right. Tonight, he's back in his own bed: no fuss, no tears.

There really is no parenting "manual", it seems. But finding the answers through trial, error and sensitivity are somehow more rewarding all round.

Globalised Chaos

2010-11-30T22:28:00.004+01:00

For the past thirty years or so, my department has subcontracted the work it can't do in-house to a handful of local, independent translators (do I need to point out that I wasn't personally involved in this for the first 24 years?).
Or, to paint a more vivid image: most of our subcontractors have been working with my department since the day I was born.

And now, in 2010, globalisation has struck. It has struck - more precisely - in the obsession, among the faceless directors who live and breathe and dictate from up there in the murky echelons of power, with cost-cutting.
In the name of cost-cutting, we were instructed to issue a new Call for Tender. In the name of cost-cutting, we were forced - I mean encouraged - to shortlist dozens of super-duper multinational companies who promised to "do it all" for less.
In the name of cost-cutting, we were obliged to fight to keep our local freelancers on the shortlist.

And then, lo and behold, we were consulted. Instructed to assess the quality of each shortlisted candidate, we issued a test and reported on the competency of each.
The results were radical.
The sample documents submitted by all the cheap, so-called major companies were sloppy, badly written and littered with avoidable mistakes.
The documents submitted by our local subcontractors were of irreproachable quality.

So, we duly made out our reports and gave our marks out of ten.

And, when the powers-that-be had considered our reports... they decided that the cheapest firms should make it on to the short-shortlist.

At the end of 2010, this kind of thinking passes for "progress".
It seems poignant to me that, the bigger the notion of Quality becomes (it has its own department now, of course, plus a staff of hundreds...), the less of the stuff there is around.
Or, to put it another way: can anyone explain to me how someone intelligent and experienced enough to end up as a senior manager at a place like The Firm can actually believe that quality should be sacrificed for the sake of a few centimes per word?

Upwardly Mobile!

2010-11-28T21:02:00.005+01:00

It doesn't seem two minutes since I was making this announcement for the first time.
And already, it's LB's turn.
My little boy took his first, second, third, fourth, fifth (etc.) steps yesterday.
And, at not quite 16 months, that really makes him something of an "early starter" in our family.

Watching him hobble across the parquet - tracking our reaction with proud eyes - I felt the familiar, exquisite joy start to bubble up inside me.
And I knew with absolute certainty that it wouldn't matter how many kids you had: the spectacle of this first time would never be any the less moving.

Get an eyeful of that movement!

In between the walks... a little office work

A Parcel in the Post

2010-11-26T11:56:00.004+01:00

When the package finally arrived in the post, we already knew what treasures it would contain.
Among other delights... here at last was the new Peppa Pig DVD, direct from England, thanks to Nana and her clever detective work in the long aisles of the local Asda.

As I tugged at the corners of the padded envelope, BB bounced up and down in sheer excitement, his cheeks aglow, his arms a-flapping.

Maman was not quick enough (her clumsy fingers fumbling with the sellotape): the anticipation became almost unbearable.
When at last the new DVD emerged, in its crisp cellophane cover, BB danced around the kitchen in delight.
Could we watch it right away? Right now, now, now?? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeease?

Of course we could.
It was 6.30 p.m., there were meals to be prepared, baths to run, bodies to be rubbed, dried, fed and bedded.
But the excitement was irresistable. The other programme - the sensible bedtime routine - had to be put on hold.

And as I looked at his shining eyes, his little body tense with anticipation, his 3 year-old knees tightly pressed together as he sat, mesmerised and grateful for the immediacy of his treat... I thought "this is the thing we should be able to bottle up and keep forever." The joy, the enthusiasm, the excitement of childhood.
I want his entire life to be sprinkled with days that give cause to jump up and down with joy.
I don't want him to become cynical... or touched by that ambivalence that I can already detect in some children his age.

For a few minutes, I thought: forget intelligence, qualifications, money and all the rest. If I only had time to foster one thing it would be this: an appreciation of and an ability to express simple joy.

The Naughty Chair

2010-11-23T21:42:00.004+01:00

The new HR manager barely glanced up from his screen as I walked in and introduced myself. I'd made an appointment to see him 10 days ago. The new HR manager is a Very Busy Man.

"Sit down, sit down," he ushered, gesturing vaguely in the direction of a spare chair.
Obediently, I sat.
When the new HR manager had finished dispatching his very important email, he strode over and shook my hand.
Ah.
I saw that the new HR manager was about 25 years old, tops. As I took in his crisp white shirt, his brown leather shoes and his perfectly parted hair, the word that sprang to mind was "shiny".
Actually, two words sprang to mind in very quick succession: "shiny" and "corporate".
He smiled. I smiled.
"Young man," I thought to myself, beaming with inner relish, "I will eat you up for lunch."

The new HR manager asked where I was from (though he knew perfectly well), studiously complimented me on my perfect French, then attempted a few words in English, to demonstrate his... fluency.
I smiled indulgently.
Then he signed the contract amendment for me, and strode off to the photocopier (out in the corridor) to scan it (his shiny, corporate legs looked rather becoming as he strode off).
"So, listen: what else was it you wanted to see me about?" he boomed from the corridor. "The thing is, you'd better start telling me straight away, because I'm really really busy and I have to leave in ten minutes."

My eyes narrowed.
I frowned.
Then, I don't know what happened. I opened my mouth and suddenly - from nowhere - my most authoritative motherly voice broke forth.
"I will wait until you come back in here," I informed him... and my voice, normally so soft and inoffensive, boomed outwards all the way to the photocopier, causing him to swing round with a start.
"When you come back in here and sit down, then I'll tell you what this meeting is about," I added.

There was a moment's silence.
One of those brief yet crucial moments of transition.
Oops, I thought.
But then, do you know what happened?

The shiny, corporate, new HR manager slunk (yes, SLUNK!) back into his office, slipped obediently into the chair opposite me... and waited meekly to be spoken to.
I cleared my throat, and spoke.
He listened, made notes, nodded, agreed, sympathised, advised... all the time maintaining such a high level of eye contact that it seemed we may have unwittingly been engaged in a "who will look away first?" stand-off.

And when ten minutes, then fifteen, passed, and I offered: "Oh, but I've kept you too long,", the poor, sweet HR manager shook his head and flapped his hand dismissively: "Oh, no, not at all. It doesn't matter if I'm late."

When I left that meeting, I had two thoughts. The first was: I am 32 years old now. I quite like being 32 years old.
And the second was: a lot of people reckon that taking time out (twice) to have kids equals a bit of a blank space on the CV. And that's true to some extent. But just now I realised that there are some vital skills that we pick up in the course of this parenting journey: skills that would not necessarily sit comfortably anywhere on the corporate CV, but skills nonetheless.

"Stop hitting your brother!" "Take your shoes off the table right now!" "Sit there until you've finished your green beans!"

Wow. Seeing the respect in the eyes of that 25 year old boy as he bowed to my authority was.... eye-opening.

BB, Cassis, end August 2010

Saturday Night

2010-11-20T21:24:00.003+01:00

Saturday night: a glass (or two) of wine, a few books, Internet access, two boys in bed, a husband out of the house but accounted for (with sister), SILENCE.

There may have been a time when I aspired to slightly more than this on a Saturday night. But now... Now... I have to say that this exquisite scenario actually constitutes something bordering on perfection.

Rejected

2010-11-19T13:03:00.003+01:00

Job Dating is the professional version of Speed Dating, which most people know about.
The latter involves a room-full of hopeful Singles and a carefully orchestrated "interview" system, in which each Hopeful has seven minutes to sell him or herself to a potential love interest.
Job Dating at The Firm is a "sparky" new concept that functions on much the same lines.

So, I was invited to one (a Job Dating session, that is).
And then, two days later, I was uninvited.

Seriously, just like that, with nothing more than a bland email informing me that I had been callously de-selected.
Wow. It's a tough old world.
To be rejected based on a lame seven-minute performance, or a bad-hair day, or an ability to nod and smile sufficiently... that, I could have coped with.
But to be rejected before the whole thing has even begun... Man, even the most hardy among us have to scoop up our egos and dust them down.

The reasons for my pre-emptive rejection are unclear (I rushed to check my CV but no, it doesn't contain my photo, so it can't be that I just failed to meet the physical criteria or something). Not that HR should involve physical criteria at all, but hey, this is 2010, the world is an unfriendly place: you never know.

Anyway, allow me to digest. And recoup.
Something tells me that, once my ego has been restored to full health, I'll probably be able to glimpse the bigger picture here.

A Day Early...

2010-11-18T20:58:00.003+01:00

... is better than a day late...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY LOVELY LITTLE SISTER xxx

Save the Date

2010-11-15T21:39:00.009+01:00

November 13th sounds - at least to my prejudiced ears - like it should be one of the dreariest days of the year: gloomy, light-deprived and humid, or "winter without the good stuff".
And yet, it turned out to be just the opposite.
A bright, sunny day that would have done June 21st (or any "nice" sounding date) proud.

A day spent in the Pyrenees with a couple of friends and their children... good food, fine wine, sunshine, a breath-taking palette of Autumn leaves, a log fire when the sun went down... and BB's first afternoon nap with.... a girl!
We were oh-so-proud as we watched our offspring jump into bed, full of excitement and disbelief at the novelty of being able to sleep together.

My only question now is: at what age do you stop being delighted that your little boy is snuggling up in bed with a girl??

Chinese Whispers

2010-11-12T10:34:00.003+01:00

Conversations with a curious 3-year old are often either: amusing, baffling, frustrating or heart-melting (and sometimes a combination of all four).

I admit that - although I occasionally tire of the circular "but why?" conversational classic - I mostly find this age of discovery and communication fascinating.
Day after day, BB throws up comments and answers that give us a precious insight into the way his (already active) mind works... and the revelations are often totally unexpected.

Some time ago, when one of his good friends moved to Marseille, we had the "moving house" discussion, in which I explained simply and (I thought) clearly what it meant to "move".
A few weeks after C. left, BB and I even went to visit him in his new house (as part of our mother-son roadtrip).
Since then, other people he knows have also moved house, though not always outside of Toulouse.

And then yesterday, entirely out of the blue, a twist emerged.
Munching on his slice of toast and jam, BB looked up at me in consternation and asked: "Mais Maman... why is our house stuck?"
As one is rarely prepared for these sort of questions, it took me a moment to tune in.
"Mmm, what? What do you mean "stuck"?"
"Stuck!" BB insisted, flapping his arms about to emphasise that our house was incontestably right here, all around us.
"Well, you know..." (sometimes it's hard not to go round in circles), "because it is. It just is. This is - you know - where our house is."

BB nodded, unconvinced.
"Yes but... why doesn't our house move?"

Ahh! The penny dropped with a satisfying tinkle of understanding.
"You mean: why doesn't our house move?" I asked.
"Yes!" he agreed, in relief. "Why doesn't our house move, like C's house? And J's house?"

OK. I gathered my thoughts and launched into a response that I hoped was satisfying (though I would have enjoyed a slightly more attentive audience, and the opportunity to use words like "phrasal verb" and "direct object" would have been nice).
"So," I concluded with a flourish, "PEOPLE move, but HOUSES don't! Got it?"

He nodded reassuringly.
"Oui maman."
I sat back, smiling.
He munched his toast.
A moment later he looked up again:
"Mais Maman... can we move our house, please?"

SAD

2010-11-10T12:16:00.003+01:00

One of the perks of possessing one's very own blog is the option of being able to Look Back.
Like a diary, the blog provides its author with an irrefutable record of the past: its events, emotions and inconsistencies.
This is not always a comfortable thing, of course.
In fact - just like diary entries from the teen years - previous blog posts can seem cringeworthy when dug up and read months or years later.

But sometimes, they provide solace.
After ruminating for a while about how to fill the figurative blank space on this blog, I dared to take a peek at the November/December entries of the past two years.
And there, something became apparent: this is not a good time of year for me.

The two year record contained within this blog (albeit a selective one) seems to demonstrate beyond any doubt that late Autumn is my hibernation period: the time of year during which, try as I might to recover some cheerfulness, I can't help but feel melancholy... and restless.

I guess that knowing this should provide comfort. It's a question of sitting tight, and letting the year slide to a close with as much serenity as I can muster.
It's a time for books, hot tea, the cinema, red wine and dreaming.
Time for the imaginary world to supplant reality.
No harm in that?

In a Nutshell

2010-11-05T22:01:00.005+01:00

Somewhere in between work, the creche run and the rather limp sandwich that constitutes lunch-on-the-go... I managed to squeeze in a 15-minute eyebrow plucking session.

Why am I telling you this?
Well, Reader: I tell you this because - believe it if you can - those 15 minutes spent lying down in blissful abandonment, occasionally wincing in pain, were some of the most agreable of the day.
15 precious minutes during which a professional person TOOK CARE OF ME, spruced me up, rubbed a little lotion onto my terse and weary skin and offered up a few cheery remarks about daily life.

Should I be pitied?
Objectively, someone who cites "eyebrow plucking session" as the highlight of their day does not scream "happy fulfilled individual!" by most people's standards.
And yet.
Perhaps the real point here is that an ability to appreciate the simple moments is an enviable talent in itself.
To turn an appointment that could easily loom as a chore into an opportunity for exquisite relaxation is a triumph of mind over matter.

And please, I am not trying to imply that the rest of my life is as dull as dishwater.
I am simply advocating that, in the never-ending cycle of childcare, duty, planning, cleaning up, wiping down, buying in and throwing out... every window of opportunity for self-improvement should be exploited to its maximum potential.

Oh, I nearly forgot.
The second highlight of the day was listening to a political interview on the car radio whilst driving back to work, eyebrows tingling...
Fifteen minutes for the body, fifteen minutes for the brain, fifteen minutes for the soul.
Could this in fact be the recipe for a modest kind of happiness?

Desperate Housewife

2010-11-02T15:04:00.004+01:00

Every November, the plumber comes round to check the boiler.
After cleaning, purging, disconnecting and reconnecting a bunch of complex-looking wires, he downs a coffee, munches a biscuit and declares us OK to switch the heating on for another winter.

The scenario is always the same: he works, I make the coffee, he talks to me about cars.

But for some reason, this year is different. This year, he doesn't want to talk about cars. This year, despite the fact BB is home with me - gazing at the plumber and his array of tools with undisguised admiration - all the plumber wants to discuss is.... (how to put this politely?): extra-conjugal matters.

Entirely unprovoked, he launches into a frenetic monologue detailing his many - many - extra-conjugal adventures, and the ample opportunities that are the icing on the cake of his profession as a plumber.
While I nod and struggle to remain impassive (we're in my kitchen! We're discussing one man's sexual exploits in front of my 3-year old son!), he paints me a few pictures that may or may not be the truth... but seem to delight him all the same: women who answer the door naked except for a loosely tied bathrobe... bored housewives who grab him from behind while he kneels to bleed a radiator... The fantasies unfold before my eyes.

"Well, you know, I don't judge..." I offer unconvincingly (ten minutes earlier, we were comparing anecdotes about our respective children), whilst raising my eyebrows and nodding in the direction of BB. The point is: please curb the s*x talk in front of my kid. The message he appears to receive is: your stories are certainly making me hot under the collar.

So in confusion I take the last-resort option that is the privilege of every parent: I pretend BB needs me for something - quickly - and I leave the room.
I shuffle BB into the bathroom and force him to use the potty.
We linger as long as we can over the whole operation.

When we return to the kitchen, the randy plumber is packing up to leave, so it is with relief that I hand over the cheque and throw open the door.
"Well, see you next year!" I call brightly, thinking 'damn, we need to find a new plumber'.

"Sure, sure" he grins, toolbox in hand, "and you know - next year... maybe if you're alone..."

What? What?!

I can hardly believe the insinuation. Maybe I'm imagining it. Is he really suggesting some sleazy naked housewife scenario?
Crazy.
We close the door and I can sense BB is disappointed.
I'd promised him an exciting half hour watching a handyman at work (tools, noise, mess: a little boy's dream), and in the event, the plumber was just a boring man who talked a lot.

And to think... I actually answered the door with wet hair.
I shiver as I rush to fetch the hairdryer.

Photo of my hotel room in Rome. A plumber-free zone

That Family

2010-10-31T20:40:00.010+01:00

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

2010-10-22T21:21:00.003+02:00

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...

2010-10-20T13:51:00.003+02:00

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

2010-10-19T13:33:00.003+02:00

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

2010-10-17T21:55:00.006+02:00

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

2010-10-11T22:16:00.005+02:00

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

2010-10-09T22:14:00.013+02:00

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

2010-10-02T14:49:00.004+02:00

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!

BB: Bilingual Boy

2010-09-30T22:31:00.004+02:00

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...

2010-09-29T20:37:00.005+02:00

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

2010-09-26T21:27:00.008+02:00

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

2010-09-22T23:25:00.003+02:00

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

2010-09-22T14:09:00.004+02:00

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

2010-09-19T20:22:00.005+02:00

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

2010-09-19T20:13:00.005+02:00

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

2010-09-15T13:35:00.003+02:00

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

2010-09-13T21:37:00.005+02:00

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

2010-09-13T21:27:00.005+02:00

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

2010-09-10T22:05:00.004+02:00

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

2010-09-09T21:11:00.006+02:00

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?

2010-09-07T21:13:00.002+02:00

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

2010-09-05T14:58:00.022+02:00

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

2010-09-05T14:46:00.002+02:00

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

2010-09-02T14:59:00.003+02:00

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

2010-09-01T14:32:00.008+02:00

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.

Sunkissed Sheffield

2010-08-28T17:52:00.007+02:00

My Day in Manchester (by FH)

2010-08-28T17:41:00.012+02:00

Keep Calm & Carry On

2010-08-26T14:26:00.004+02:00

I know that this is one of life's basic eternal questions but...
How come some days, life seems so easy... and other days so difficult??

This question trots around in my mind as we enter day 4 of my week at home with the two boys.
I am embarrassed to admit it (after all, millions of strong women breeze through this childcare lark for far longer than 4 days without so much as a cross word), but what is a blog for if not for truthfulness?: it's been (not quite) 4 days, and I am already feeling shaky.

On Monday, it was easy. I relished being here with them. I was creative and enthusiastic and chatty... and I showed admirable patience when it came to coaxing a few bites of non-sweet food down BB's throat.
By mid-afternoon, I was feeling so serene I actually started to wonder whether the decision to pursue my career might not have been the wrong one. After all, I was GOOD at being a mother! Just look at my happy, clean, fulfilled little guys! Yup, I was on top of things.

On Tuesday, there was the birthday party and the shopping and the victory of forward planning over potential tantrums. Again, I felt pretty damned chuffed with myself.

On Tuesday night, LB decided that lone sleeping was no longer for him, and screamed until we caved in, shuffled up to the edges of our bed, and let him occupy the middle zone.
I notched up around 2 hours sleep (off and on), before my little bed-friend decided it was time for the day's activities to begin.

Wednesday, I cannot even claim as my own, since FH had the day off work, and the four of us headed to the beach to spend a fun day with my uncle, aunt and cousins.

And now, it's Thursday. My attempt to shower and wash my hair turned into a military operation, restricted somewhat by the handicap of having one child clamped to my leg and another poking at my wet head and asking (in an increasingly shrieking tone): But WHY are you washing your hair, Maman??
It's 37° (did I ever moan about the cold? Me? No....), and the attempt to push the mega buggy to the bakery and buy a baguette (really, my objectives are modest) ends in sweat and tears.
I stick them in front of a DVD and hope to god they won't get sick of it too quickly.
Their constant demands for attention, their absolute and all-encompassing need for me to be right there, right now ALL THE TIME is starting to make my head throb.
As I seriously contemplate piling them into the car, driving over to FH's office and dumping them both on the threshold... the old fear creeps back: what if I'm not actually cut out for this??

I think I have a lower-than-average tolerance of whinging. I think I have an above-average need for solitary time. I think I just found a piece of glass wedged into my big toe.

I think I just need to Keep Calm and Carry On.

HR Manager

2010-08-24T12:16:00.003+02:00

This afternoon, we have a Red Indians birthday bash to attend.
The party will take place at 2 pm, which makes life a little tricky, if we consider that:
1/ BB usually sleeps from around 1.30 till 4.30
2/ BB's personality morphs from sweet & endearing to Unbearable if he doesn't sleep from 1.30 till 4.30.

BUT! But!
Supermums the world over know that, with a little forward planning & a few cunning adjustments to schedules, catastrophe can be avoided.
So, by rushing the boys out early and tiring them out, I contrive to get them home for 11.30 am, tricking them into thinking it is already nap time.
And down they go. Out for the count, sleepy and - if my calculations are correct - destined to be beautifully rested by the time they are deposited at the party.

Ah, how the success or failure of a day hinges on astute forward planning.

I cannot help but think of the mean manager who interviewed me three weeks ago. How wrong he is, how misguided.
Surely anyone with an ounce of intelligence can see: Mothers are the ultimate HR Managers. Our lives are an ongoing exercise in HR management!

I could have done THAT job with my eyes closed!!

The Good, The Bad and... The Birthday

2010-08-24T11:42:00.002+02:00

Hello. We are back.
But the photos are still in the phone, the suitcases are still full (and being used as a makeshift wardrobe) and the brain is still a little frazzled.
If you are interested in seeing some of the great photos FH took during our trip to England and Paris, you will have to bear with me. And keep checking this space. At some point in the next week - who knows! - we may actually find a moment to download them.

In the meantime, our trip home was filled - as always - with some acutely stressful and some wonderful moments.
Train travel is long, tedious, sweaty and physical.
But on the other hand, it also offers some exquisite memories, of which:

- Me, playing table tennis in front of the British Library in London. A random encounter with a PHD student... Half an hour filled in the most unusual manner "en route" to St Pancras station...

- Four of us in the back of a taxi, riding through Paris on a balmy summer's evening. LB, looking almost regal as he surveys the city through the glass...

- A random encounter with one of FH's cousins on Sunday morning, as BB and I take a stroll in the Buttes Chaumont in Paris. One of those "30 seconds later and our paths would never have crossed" moments. Ensuing improvised birthday party for BB at cousin's flat...

- Racing to grab a cab in Toulouse, at 11 p.m. Two little boys with arms waving, hailing a taxi like seasoned travellers.

- The joy on their faces as we arrive home.

Packing Up

2010-08-20T21:53:00.002+02:00

Tomorrow, we will begin the trek home.
Another looooooong ride through fields and tunnels, including a night in Paris and a day (BB's third birthday) spent lolling around a Parisian park and (hopefully) replenishing our vitamin D stocks...

"Mamam," BB mused thoughtfully this morning, "le train, c'est vraiment un long way, non?"

Yes, my honey. It really is a long way. But you're a good boy to accompany Mamam on her mega train expeditions. And I only hope a teeny tiny appreciation of "the importance of the journey, not just the destination" filters down to you, somewhere along the way...

El Dorado

2010-08-18T12:24:00.003+02:00

In August, airports are filled with couples jetting off to exotic destinations like Sydney, New York or the Bahamas....
Huh. How banal.
FH and I go for a romantic three-day break to... Sheffield.

The implicit sarcasm is of course, entirely unfair, because Sheffield turns out to be sunny, fun and relaxing. It also has the unrivalled bonus of being my sister's place of residence, so we are able to spend drinking and eating time with her and Adam ("th'usband", as they say in Yorkshire).

As we dump our overnight bags on the floor of our plush room in one of Sheffield's finest hotels, we are full of plans. We will visit the city, stop for drinks, take in the watercolour exhibition at the Winter Gardens... But - hang on - why don't we just lie down and relax for a few minutes.
Just a few minutes, you understand. Because we're not that tired, really.

Two hours later, we emerge groggily from the heaviest slumber we have experienced for some time. Just over a year, to be precise.
Our bodies have seized up and shut down, in yet another testimony to the breath-taking superiority of nature over man's best-laid plans.
It's as though, the moment we reach a child-free zone, a secret "off" switch is flicked somewhere deep inside. The body kick starts the regeneration process - months and months of fatigue to be alleviated.
A strange sort of paralysis. A good book, a bed, silence.
Holidays.

The Land That Summer Forgot

2010-08-13T15:10:00.005+02:00

Question 1: What happened to summer?

Question 2: How is it possible for one country to be subjected to so much rain and yet STILL maintain a hosepipe ban???

Question 3: How do I entertain two energetic, house-bound boys from 6 a.m. till nightfall?

Question 4: Will it ever ever stop raining??

Separate Tables

2010-08-11T12:41:00.004+02:00

On the third and final train (the London to Manchester "express"), I realise that the child-blessed (note how nice I sound) and the child-free are living in two distinct universes. There can be no mutual ground between us... at least, not in the temporary living space offered by a train.

We are crammed around a small fold-down table. The "fold-down" is an important detail: it means that BB can have sustained fun folding it up and banging it down.
One the one side: me and my two offspring (FH has somehow managed to elope to a seat across the aisle: he will not get away with it for long). On the other side: a smart professional couple in their late thirties, child-free.

When they realise that these are their allotted seats, and that they are condemned to spend 2 hours in our company, their dismay is both visible and audible.
Something inside me prickles, and I shoot them my blackest look.
Sure, if I was them, I would feel dismayed too... but you know, maternal instinct is a very unique mechanism. It means: it's OK for ME to be horrified at the idea of sharing confined living space with these grumpy, excitable kids... but it's not OK for YOU to be horrified, you mean, intolerant, chic, clean people!

So the train rattles forward and - oh joy of joys! - both kids fall asleep pretty quickly.
Smug, I stroke BB's sleepy head and sit back, hoping the chic couple are shamed. Hoping they might actually say "Oops, we judged you too quickly there, didn't we?"
For a while, the only sounds in the carriage are the soft breathing of sleeping children and the flutter of pages turning.

Then the guy's mobile phone rings. Loudly.
I gasp in annoyance, but LB only shifts around and falls back to sleep.
But to my absolute, intolerant horror, chic guy takes the call and proceeds to talk - loudly - to whoever is on the line for the next twenty minutes.
Worse: it is obviously a professional call, and he is discussing mentally ill patients. Right there, in front of me, the other passengers and the kids who have not slept since they woke up in Paris at 7 a.m. this morning.
My blood boils. I out-sigh and out-gasp anything they could subject me to. His girlfriend looks like she just might have cottonned on to the fact I am irritated, but still the call goes on.

And half-way through that call, the woman's phone also rings. A parallel 20 minute call ensues: this one complete with juicy gossip about another woman's relationship trials, and a 2-pence pseudo psychological analysis of her "issues".

I am beside myself with outrage. LB wakes, red-eyed, confused and vocal. I now have a crying child on my hands, and Mr and Mrs Child-free are back to tutting and sighing.

We are so close, and yet so far. The one metre that separates us could just as well be an immense gulf of misunderstanding.
Whose intolerance is justified? Why is it unacceptable for crying kids to disturb other passengers... but a loudly related personal conversation is considered civilsed behaviour?

The only solution I can offer at this point in my life is, sadly: separate carriages.

Bon Voyage

2010-08-10T12:54:00.004+02:00

Oops, forgot to mention that we have upped sticks and moved to England for two weeks.
Via Paris, a bunch of West Indian cousins and 2 days on various trains, of course (what else??).

Since a slight professional setback requires a recovery period (I'm sure you will agree), I am now off work for 4 weeks. There's something quite giddying about the thought that the Firm shall not be graced with my presence until September 6th.

That's working mothers for you, hey?
Never there :-)

I will update you about our inter-continental adventures as and when, starting with the exciting opening episode entitled "The Taxi That Never Was."
I'll leave you to imagine the sordid details of such a tale... which ends with a frantic Sunday morning phonecall to a friend, two frazzled adults and two bewildered kids racing down a platform to catch the train that almost eluded them... and threatened to abort the entire expedition before it even began...

The Cost of Living

2010-08-06T18:30:00.003+02:00

Today, for the first time, I saw what it means to be a working mother. Or – to put it differently – a competent professional woman, who is also a mother.

I was interviewed for a job at which I would excel: for an hour and a half, I gave intelligent, thoughtful and convincing answers to probing questions, and I convinced the Spanish manager and his assistant that I would be a great asset to their team.

And then, I told them that I have two young kids. And that I work 4 days a week.

I explained about balance and motivation and the fact that I would be 100% committed to the job 80% of the week.

And I watched as their faces closed off, their arms folded, their lips pursed.

Behind the manager’s head, a chirpy motivational poster hung on the back wall: A manager does the right thing... But a true leader does what is right!

Non-negotiable.

You might be the best candidate for the job, but we need someone full time.

Their self-important air let me know that this job merited more than a mother could give.

However, perhaps I would be prepared to negotiate?

I swallowed my disappointment, picked up my bag, thanked the manager for his time.

Walked to the door with as much self-assurance as I could muster.

Non-negotiable. For me too.

In the car, I shed a few tears. I wipe them away before I let myself into the house.

An explosion of clatter and babble: BB gives me a sticky hug, LB whimpers and holds out his fleshy arms.

I nuzzle their hair: they smell of baby shampoo, urine and chocolate.

They are my boys, and they deserve to have me to themselves one day a week.

They don’t know or care that I just turned down a job for the luxury of being able to spend a few extra hours a week watching – helping – them grow up. Sharing a baguette in front of Peppa Pig or applauding as they whizz down the big slide for the first time.

And I don’t want them to know or care. That’s my business.

I am sad that this is 2010, and yet, mentalities have not changed as much as we are led to believe.

But that’s not the really sad thing.

The really sad thing would be to sacrifice our Wednesdays to the narrow-mindedness of others, to negotiate the non-negotiable.

A career, yes. But not at any cost.

Party Season

2010-08-03T14:54:00.010+02:00

No need to wait for the next Hello! magazine to hit the shelves: here are a selection of shots from LB's birthday bash.
My first attempt at hosting a birthday party: now that my initial reticence has been overcome, there may yet be many more!

Mini-Magnum

2010-08-03T14:38:00.008+02:00

Surely BB takes first prize in the "Maximum Enjoyment of a Mini Ice-Cream" category?!

(thanks to Delphine and her unfailing eye for detail for all the great photos...

There is, however, a worthy runner-up.
An admirable attempt for someone who has yet to cut his first tooth...

One

2010-07-31T14:13:00.009+02:00

FIVE days early

FOUR weeks, FOUR zombies...

THREE holidays

TWO brothers

ONE YEAR OLD!

School's Out

2010-07-30T09:10:00.003+02:00

30th July 2010

The story behind the picture:
BB, almost 3, last day of crèche, macaroons for the teachers, proud, blue sky, holidays, 5 whole weeks to fill, big school in September, little boy, so grown up

The Awkward Conversation

2010-07-27T22:18:00.003+02:00

I have been in my boss's office (door closed, tone emotional veering on heated) for close to an hour when it happens.

I start to cry.

Unthinkable, mortifyingly embarrassing, but there it is. I am upset.

I am planning to leave, and he knows it now. We have discussed the whys and the hows and the "what ifs" and we are both feeling a little emotionally drained.

And as the tears start to spill over, I am suddenly struck by the bemusing side of it all: give or take a few words, any nonplussed eavesdropper would think we were talking marital break-up, not career move.

"There have been things wrong here from the start..." I proffer at one point.

"Yes, I know, but no-one's perfect!" he counters, rather needily.

"You've tried to stifle me!" I protest.

"No, no, that's unfair. Look, we've been through some hard times. Times are hard now!"

Then, when the accusations have reached a certain pitch, the tone softens, and we are both riddled with regrets.

"It's not your fault, it's not my fault," I soothe, "I've changed, that's all. My aspirations have changed."

"I know that. Don't forget, I know you so well, Shirley. It's been seven years..."

"I just feel it's time to move on. There's nothing you can really say or do to make me stay. It's my decision."

"And I respect that. I'll do everything possible to help you."

And lastly, the ultimate cliché: the "we'll always be friends" line.

"I hope we'll still a lot of each other, even after you move on..."

"Oh, of course! I hope so too."

Yes, it was funny, and sad, too.

I'm not leaving tomorrow, but the cards are on the table, and I have a few potential options.

It's been one of those cases in which months of reflection have resulted in a single, clear and obvious choice: I need a new job (within the Firm, all being well).

And what I don't mention to my boss, as I sniff and wipe my nose, is that Something had to change. I got to the point in my life where, well, to put it bluntly, it was "them or me."

Personal fulfilment: the starting block from which relaxed Mum and loving Wife can sprint off, each morning, when the gun fires...

Ghost Writer

2010-07-26T13:04:00.002+02:00

I just finished yet another book by Kate Long: "Queen Mum".
As with all her others (her most famous one being, I think, "The Bad Mother's Handbook"), I consumed it greedily in less than three days.

I love Kate Long. I love her books so much that I accidentally ordered the American edition of a book of hers I already have (the British version has a different title), so thrilled was I at the thought that there was another work of hers out there that I'd yet to read.

She writes the kind of easy, stylish, thoughtful and people-based novels I wish with all my being that I had written myself.
I hold her books dreamily, stroke their covers in between paragraphs (forcing myself to slow down, lest the pleasure be consumed too quickly...) and imagine it is my name, not hers, in embossed lettering.

When will I put all the stories in my head to paper? When will the words and characters flow as elegantly and as compellingly as hers do?

What an achievement, to write like that. Try as I might to draw a line under all this fantasizing and embrace more corporate ambitions, I still can't help but believe that there is no greater accomplishment than this: put your name to two-hundred readable pages... slide the little volume off the shelf... stroke its cover and know it's all yours.

The Curious Incident of the Mouse in the Daytime

2010-07-24T21:39:00.003+02:00

I wander into our kitchen on an uneventful Saturday afternoon, and there's a mouse in there.

A picture-book mouse, just sitting there, rather snootily, if I have to choose an adverb.
I gasp - inhale - clutch my chest, as one does when in shock.
I think: "yes, I know I said I wanted to live in the country... but this is not the country. This is no place for a mouse. If I was in the country, then of course I would expect to see a mouse, and be entirely calm. But here, I do not expect to see mice in my kitchen, so that is why I am not calm" (this is how we justify our silly fears, I know: the rather shameful chasm between the person I imagine myself to be, and the person I am).

Then I flash back to our house in England: I am a kid or a young teen - I can't remember which - and there's a huge rat in our kitchen. After he has gone to inspect and confirm the rat sighting, my Dad (a grown man!) runs back into the living room, visibly scared and uttering a four-word expletive. While he panics, Mum goes off to calmly deal with the rodent.

So what to do?
Survival instinct for non-murderous yet non-rodent-loving urban vegetarians: I throw a big plastic bowl over the mouse, thus rendering it captive.

Then I rush out of the back door, sprint over to our neighbour's back door and yell "there's a mouse in my kitchen!!"
As you may have gathered if you are a regular reader of this humble blog, I am not on hugely friendly terms with my neighbours. I guess you might say "we put up with each other." As people who share a communal garden must.
And yet - and yet - today I am weak-kneed with gratitude: I HAVE neighbours and they are kind enough to be at home!
They come at once to help - three of them: two scared females and one wonderously virile male carrying an A3 size hardback tome that he will use as Utensile B in my grand mouse-evacuation plan.

The mouse is moved, in its plastic prison, out of my kitchen, out of my house and across the road. Us three females, and a wide-eyed BB, trail behind my male neighbour, like a gaggle of groupies.

The mouse is deposited on a patch of grass, scuttles free, glances up to take stock.
As one, the cortege of females plus child takes a step backwards.

Then, as the mouse (who is admittedly fairly cute when not inside property I own) sniffs and scampers on its new patch of turf, the neighbours and I laugh and chat and make fun of each other, sitting along the low wall opposite our house.
We are soon joined my Grumpy Old Man and Wife, who are never slow to pick up on a whiff of drama.

For a few minutes, we are friendly, chatty, relaxed, connected.
And I'm so happy to have neighbours.

Summer

2010-07-24T18:35:00.003+02:00

French Connection

2010-07-21T13:33:00.004+02:00

... And, as if purchasing my first mobile phone after all these years of "abstinence" wasn't enough... yesterday I actually managed (all alone, with no help from anyone) to connect up our new landline phone.
The one that - shamefully - has been sitting in its box, untouched, since December 2009*.

Man, this has been one major week for telecommunications.

* Not strictly true: I did make an attempt to connect it sometime last spring... but aborted the mission sometime around 1 a.m. when the Freebox and the phone line just refused to hook up.
The phone only narrowly escaped a grizzly end at the bottom of the bin lorry then, let me tell you.

I Want to Break Free?

2010-07-19T21:25:00.004+02:00

For the third time in a week, I flicked on the car radio and the sweet yet resolute mantra "I want to break freeeeee!" hit me head-on.
Seriously. Twice in the same week might be considered a coincidence... but surely three times qualifies as a divine message?? God... or Freddy Mercury... or my own subconscious?
Somebody is trying to tell me something.

The thing is, I DO want to break free.
But I'm not sure from what. Or why. Or where to go.
Does this ever happen to you?
The niggling feeling that you're just muddling along, happy enough, but perhaps not as happy as you could be?
And even as I write these self-indulgent lines, the Optimist in me is smiling wryly and thinking "you just need (another) holiday", and the Realist in me is frowning and cautioning: "You know that 99% of the inhabitants of this planet are not as lucky as you are."

But is it not OK to wonder sometimes? To ask yourself where you want to go from here, ideally... I mean, given that we do have the luxury of a slim catalogue of choices (I say "slim" because, you know, we have two kids and a mortgage and a fairly well-sharpened sense of responsibility... so that eliminates certain alternative lifestyles).

A few things have happened lately to prise open the Question box (the one in my head, I mean).

- Some very close friends moved house yesterday. We used to see them all the time: now they have joined the already swollen ranks of "friends we love but don't see very often".
They are the second ones to leave Toulouse in a year. So I wonder about places to live, and what counts most: culture, climate, family, friends, career prospects?

- We have been house hunting. We started off in the country, dreaming of simplicity and harmony... and the more we looked, the more we saw isolation and - dare I even think it? - boredom.
Then we started looking in town... and we saw Suburbia (and accompanying wave of panic).

- I am officially trying to change jobs. I thought about sleeping through the child-rearing years in a pressureless, mind-numbing job, and decided against it. I thought about handing in my resignation and trying to go it alone... then I opted for "change from the inside."

- Ingrid wrote about a couple she met who have opted to live on a boat. As I read this, the Dreamer in me started doing cartwheels (I absolutely love to hear about people who opt out of conventional society and live differently: it's my thing)... while the Cynic taunted: "You would go crazy within three days, and you know it!"

So I suppose I'm just sitting here pondering all this, and wondering what do it with it.
Live in the present and live every second to its full potential: that's my credo. But I need to see the big picture too.
I just have the sense that - for now - the colours are all mixed up, and the canvas is a little bare.

In the meantime, the work-in-progress that is life continues... and I remind myself that true contentment lies in the present moment.
Boredom - many would say - is happiness: better to be submerged with questions than consumed with worry, right?

Date Night

2010-07-17T10:46:00.003+02:00

So, FH and I have devised an original new way of dating.

He goes to the cinema on Friday night. I stay home and babysit.
I go to the cinema on Saturday night. He stays home and babysits.

Sunday afternoon, if we're lucky enough to get a conversation slot, we exchange a few words about the film we both saw.
It's date night stretched over three days... with two kids factored in :-)

For Whom the Bell Tolls

2010-07-15T22:34:00.006+02:00

Ladies and gentlemen: sit comfortably and be prepared for a shock.
Tomorrow, I will do something I never imagined I would do.
I will force myself to cross the threshold of one of those horrible, negative-vibe infested stores that have sprung up like ugly wild mushrooms these past few years, and I will purchase...
a mobile phone.

What has happened? I hear you cry.
Well, let's summarise.
In the case of "Western Consumerist Society versus Shirley B.", it would appear that Western Consumerist Society has won.
But let it be known that Shirley B. did not go down without a fight.

For years, even as friends, family, pensioners, kids and the rest of the human race began swarming like flies towards the cow-pat of telecommunications, I resisted.
I stood tall, principled and defiant: I firmy and utterly believed (believe) that mobile phones are unnecessary. Unnecessary, over-used and one of the main culprits behind the decline in common courtesy. They render their slaves child-like and incapable of those two un-glamourous skills I vaue so greatly: Forward Planning and Organisation.
Their use at the wheel makes me froth at the mouth.
Their ubiquitous presence, the drug-like power they seem to assert on their poor, addicted owners, who caress and stroke and gaze at them at every opportunity - even in the company of others - makes me cringe.

But you know all that.
Let's move on to the more interesting part: why I have conceded defeat.
Well, ladies and gentleman, despite all my misgivings (nay, disgust), it has over the past few weeks become apparent to me that I can no longer aspire to play a full role in society without possessing - moi aussi - one of these vicious little objects.
We phoneless are being gradually pushed out of existence: gone are the handy payphones on every corner... gone are the people who know how to fix a meeting 3 days in advance, and stick to it.
I have finally had my fill: sick and tired of pitching up at the allotted place and time, only to find that the person I've come to meet has changed the place, or the time, or whatever... but hasn't been able to get in touch to tell me.
And yes, folks, the pendulum has swung so far that these missed meetings are now actually considered to be MY FAULT. My fault, because I don't possess a mobile, of course.
People - all people - even nice people, even professional people - do not plan anymore.
We live in a spur-of-the-moment, wait-and-see-if-something-better-comes-along kind of society... in which it is vital to be able to receive text messages.

So here I go.
Faced with the serious threat of becoming friend-less and forgotten, I have opted to take the plunge.
And yes, I do know what's going to happen.
Us latter day converts are - laughably, ridiculously - condemned to be the most addicted of all.
We are the born-again Christians of the mobile revolution!
I doubt that me and my new communication tool will ever be separated.

So budge up and make some room for me on that bandwaggon.

Anyone want my number??

Photo taken August 2007

Girl Talk

2010-07-13T21:52:00.004+02:00

Three harrassed mums - I am one of them - drop their gaggle of kids off at creche.
It's already too hot: the day has barely begun, and we're already tired. And hot (did I mention that it's hot? It's hot).
It doesn't seem physically possible, and yet, we are managing to be both lethargic AND rushed at the same time.

We know we're running late for work. We exchange a couple of quips about how we're always pitching up to our respective jobs late.
We exchange wry reflections on the bizarre atmosphere in offices, pre-July 14th. The emptiness, the disconcerting feeling that you've absent-mindedly wandered into work on a Sunday.
The inability to concentrate on anything other than holiday plans.
The pardox of tomorrow's public holiday (a break from work: a full day entertaining overheated kids).

Three mums laugh and empathise, leaning against the car bonnet.
They will now be much later for work than is reasonable.

But their day will be so much brighter.

Hot and Bothered

2010-07-13T21:42:00.005+02:00

It was too hot to carry the camera around, it was too hot to take photos, it was too hot to do anything other than jump into a large expanse of cool-ish water. And drink rosé.

If you'd like a glimpse of what I did last weekend, you'll have to pop over here.

It sure was nice to swim in open water with old and new friends, though.

An Englishwoman in France

2010-07-09T13:12:00.003+02:00

Here's a snapshot of the baffling interactions that mark the daily life of a young Englishwoman in the south of France:

At the shoe/belt/bag repair shop at Leclerc. Have come in to pick up my new leather belt. Had left it there an hour earlier with gruff yet smart middle-aged Frenchman, who was supposed to fix a thin leather strap onto the belt, to make it stay in place.

Me (being shown the belt): "Ah, great. Looks good. How much do I owe you?"

Him: "14 euros 90, I'm afraid. That's the set price."

Me: "Wow - that's a lot. I mean, it's just a tiny piece of leather."

Him: "I know. That's the set price, see. But let's say 7 euros."

Me (confused but smart enough not to let a good deal go): "Great, thank you!"

Him (smiles flirtatiously).

Me (hands over money, smiles flirtatiously).

Me: "Au revoir, Monsieur!"

Him: "Au revoir, Madame!"

End of transaction.
Net value of flirtatious smile = 7 euros 90

Choices

2010-07-08T22:36:00.003+02:00

"It's all about choices," my Dad used to say.
It was one of those annoying 'answers to everything' that used to irritate me like mad at 15, make me smile at 20... and today, at the grand old age of 32, makes me nod wisely.

Today, I no longer have the privilege of hearing him utter these ubiquitous words, but were he around, I would happily endure them one more time.
Luckily, though, I am an excellent pupil, so I have now learned to say them to myself (a shadow of the mentor hovering benevolently somewhere close...).

We get to points in our life when the choices seem more critical, more laden with consequences, than others.
Have kids? Have another kid? Move? Marry? Quit the city? Opt out? Opt in?
(no implied order, here, of course... It's just about timing, and taking one path rather than another).

Now, I can choose to sit tight in the job I've got - "comfort zone" personified: zero challenge but a nice reassuring dollop of stability... - or I can choose to move on.
I can pick up the phone, overcome my natural reserve, sell myself. Networking.
As the days slip by, the results far exceed my expectations, and I realise that I can do it.
The flutter of excitement: the call of change, the certainty that if change occurs, it will because I made it happen, and only because I made it happen.

I never thought of myself as an "ambitious" person. As though the very term "ambitious" was tinged with capitalist greed... or connotations of being a less than devoted mother.
"Of COURSE you're an ambitious person!" exclaims my boss, when I boldly tell him of my plans.
"You are not content to sit tight: you have goals, you like to push yourself, tu es très volontaire..."

I am?
Yes, perhaps I am.
The comfort zone is familiar and friendly and they let you out at 5 pm.
The rest is unknown.
But the really important thing to remember, of course, is that we DO have choices: about who to marry, where to live, how to live, where to work.
And the very fact that our lives are determined by Choice is the most immense of privileges, the greatest gift we could hope for.

Bedtime Story

2010-07-06T22:39:00.005+02:00

I've just spent an hour stroking and cuddling and cajoling LB to sleep.
For the past few weeks, this long drawn out bedtime has been an almost nightly occurrence.
Maybe it's just one of those innumerable and vague "stages" that some babies go through.
Or maybe it's just him.

As LB's personality starts to emerge and take form - giving us little glimpses of the future boy, the future man he will one day become - I realise that he is a loving, affectionate child who enjoys nothing more than the company of others.
Whereas BB would be content to curl up and sleep with the briefest of "goodnights", his brother needs a long hug... caressing fingers on the soft pink skin of his belly... eye contact.

It takes a while for the penny to drop: these two boys are not one and the same. They came from the same mould, but a child is so much more than the sum total of his genes.
What's good for one is not good for the other.
We must adapt: struggle through the tiredness and the preconceived ideas to tune in to this little person who has come to live with us, trying to show us who he is.

A few nights ago, I told myself We have to teach him to fall asleep by himself. All this cuddling up together and extra time... We have to be firmer.

Tonight, I've spent an hour lying silently next to my almost naked baby, simply looking into each other's eyes - smiling, sometimes kissing fingers - as the light faded, night crept in and the fan whirred above us.
Some time later, I noticed that he had fallen to sleep.

And I looked at his little contented face and for the first time I thought: Maybe I don't have to teach him anything. Maybe he's the one who has to teach me.

Hired Help

2010-07-04T23:39:00.007+02:00

Some fine folks have been over to visit...

And it's been so hot that half of the family no longer requires clothing.
Which saves on washing and outfit-planning.

And now that this hot, fuzzy, family interlude is over, it's back to reality with some hard choices for Professional Maman (She who must emerge unscathed from the domestic and maternal trials of each weekend... to be re-born sleek, confident and business-like each Monday morning. Preferably with no yoghurt stains on her skirt). But more about that later...

Long Drive to Freedom

2010-06-29T22:16:00.006+02:00

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

2010-06-27T15:06:00.015+02:00

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?

2010-06-26T21:52:00.002+02:00

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

2010-06-18T16:36:00.004+02:00

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

2010-06-16T22:40:00.002+02:00

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

2010-06-14T14:33:00.004+02:00

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

2010-06-13T14:05:00.006+02:00

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

2010-06-08T21:32:00.003+02:00

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.