For Whom the Bell Tolls

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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...