Separate Tables

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

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

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

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

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

FIVE days early

FOUR weeks, FOUR zombies...

THREE holidays

TWO brothers

ONE YEAR OLD!

School's Out

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