Pecking Order

Eldest child scenario:

Ten days after his chickenpox eruption, Eldest Child develops a big squishy lump at the back of his neck.
Maman discovers it by chance while stroking his neck absent-mindedly.
As her fingers brush over the lump, she pales, her heart thudding. Omigod. What can this be?? It's a lump. A lump. Oh no.
She prods, squeezes and pokes the lump until Eldest Child squirms in annoyance and - probably - pain.
"It's fine, it's fines," she lies, sweaty with anxiety. "It's nothing to worry about. But - um - we might have to go and see Dr Mazé tomorrow. You like Dr Mazé, don't you?"

Eldest Child hates Dr Mazé, and they both know this.

The next day is a bank holiday (evil, evil, badly timed bank holiday!), so they have to wait 48 hours before Dr Mazé can have his turn poking the lump.
During these 48 hours, Maman resists the temptation to whiz Eldest Child right down to Casualty and get the lump checked out. But only just.
As a reward for such constraint, she continues to prod and manhandle the lump at every opportunity - just to make sure that yes, it's still there.
Eldest Child wriggles and tries to get himself away from her prying fingers.

Finally, they huff and puff their way to the doctor's surgery - a military-style operation that requires a two-adult strategy of bike, car and child-swapping.

They sit, miserably, in the waiting room. And wait.

At last, they are ushered in to the doctor's surgery.
Eldest Child begins to scream in anticipation, and Maman monologues in a high-pitched voice about the lump and the Fear.
Doctor shushes her, has a quick feel of the lump while Eldest Child turns purple with anger, asks "when did he have chickenpox?", says "it's just a swollen gland. That always happens with kids after chickenpox".

Always happens with kids after chickenpox???
So - how come no-one ever thought to tell Maman this?
Why - when Eldest Child was brought in 10 days ago with chickenpox - did Doctor not think to add (breezily, as an after-thought, even): "oh, and by the way, a week from now, he's going to get a big swelling in his neck. But don't worry about it, it's perfectly normal."

Eldest Child and Maman flee and head home.
They are drained, relieved, cried out, pissed off.

Days later, Eldest Child is still preoccupied with his mysterious lump. Maman is cool again - laid back and unconcerned. But Eldest Child has understood the Fear.
He roots around for the lump.
"Moi, bobo.." he laments sadly.


Youngest Child Scenario:

A few days after the chickenpox starts, Youngest Child gets a lump in the back of his neck.
Maman discovers it one evening, as she absent-mindedly strokes his head.

"Oh yeah," she thinks absently, flicking over to the next page of the story they're reading, "that'll be a swollen gland."

End of story.


Tell me: is it any wonder we first-born kids are neurotic??

Chickenpox: The Sequel

Forget Sex & The City, the sequel to "Chickenpox: The Movie" is now showing!
This exciting new film stars LB in the lead role!

This morning, I stumble out of bed at 8 a.m., take one look at LB's spotty face, remember that it's (another) national strike day and that there will be chaos on the roads... and my decision is made by 8.01 a.m.
LB will stay home and convalesce with Maman.
It will do both of us good ;-)

Special Day

So, we finally got to bank holiday no. 4 (that's the fourth since May 1st...) and hey presto!
It wasn't raining!
One out of 4 ain't bad, hey?

But of course, since it was no longer raining it was, naturally, boiling hot.
That just about sums up the Toulouse climate: if it ain't snowing, it's probably scorching.
It has always struck me that we get very little mid-season weather down in this corner of Europe... a definite lack of light-jacket days. Which is a downright shame, since I seem to have an impulsive addiction to light jackets, and possess about fifty of them.
Most are therefore for display purposes only - sad.
Still, they look nice hanging smartly in the wardrobe.


Anyway, two special things occurred this bank holiday weekend: my friend Carla got married... and BB started to use the potty.
No disrespect to my friend: I'm not suggesting that these two events are of equal importance, naturally.
No, the potty thing is far more important! (just kidding).

Carla and Vincent tied the knot accompanied by their two kids, and a bunch of friends and family, including me and "the girls".
Ah, don't we look smart? And so natural?

Well, three days on, the marriage seems to be bearing up fine, but the potty usage is a little sporadic. There seems to be a home / creche divide that cannot be crossed: apparently, a grand total of four wet underpants had to be changed by the nursery staff in the space of one hour on Tuesday morning.
Ah well. Rome wasn't built in a day.
Toilet training - like marriage - requires constant effort: each day, we must commit anew to making it work.
And one day... it all falls into place.

Happy Campers

Just a regular Saturday, hanging out in my teepee in the back garden...

So much fun that my big brother wants to join me...

Time to think about moving... this teepee just ain't big enough for all of us!

Multi-tasking

At 8 a.m. I drop the boys off at crèche: quick trip to the Baby room (2-minute chat about the weather and the appropriateness of a long-sleeved sleepsuit as opposed to a sleeveless one); quick trip to the "Bigs" room (2-minutes' coaxing of 2 yr-old, gentle persuasion aimed at extracting said child from the folds of my dress); rush back to the car, forgetting to remove blue plastic crèche shoes.

At 10 a.m., I have a 6-page annual financial report to translate: head-aching succession of specialist financial terms to search for / guess at; hours and hours of Googling and brain-racking, courageous attempt to undertsand words such as "sundry" and "contingent liabilities".

At 1 p.m., I have a meeting at BB's future school: discussion about potty training and confidence building and vegetarianism and socialising and when can you come and spend a day here with him? Is a Monday morning OK?
I nod, smile, agree, accomodate... and at 1.30 p.m. I jump back in the car and rush back to the office, eating a half-cold cheese panini with one hand on the steering wheel.

At 3 p.m., I'm back with the "contingent liabilities": 2-hour proof-reading session with my boss, including perusal of bilingual financial reports dating back to 1995.

At 5.05 p.m., I email the translation to the Director's secretary, just 5 minutes behind schedule. Shut down my computer and hurry back to the car: have left the building before Windows has even gone to sleep.

At 5.45 p.m., I'm back in the Baby room, head spinning with "non-trade receivables and refundable launch aid"... struggling to tune right back in to the discussion about sleepsuits and nappies and the consistency of baby poo.

Such is the daily lot of a "working mother".
It all boils down to one thing: multi-tasking.
There should be a degree in it.

9 p.m.: day-dreaming about a simpler life. Resolve to become less pragmatic the older I get.
Motion discussed and validated by FH.

The Lap of Luxury

My favourite meal is about a simple as it gets, and hasn't changed much over the past ten years: a few slices of top-quality cheese, a chunk of baguette and a glass of rosé.
Best eaten outside, picnic-style, by the sea if at all possible.
And - though I don't often mention this bit, lest I seem strange - this exquisite meal is actually enhanced if the meteorological conditions are less than perfect.
There's just something about picnic-ing in the wind, wrapped up in a big jumper, trying to keep strands of hair from blowing into your plastic wine glass that sends little ripples of contentment through me.
I suppose this must be a throwback from my British childhood: a latent stoicism that rejoices in "making the best" of trying circumstances...

Or nostalgia for that "voyage of discovery" through Italy with Ingrid and Anita... travelling on a tight budget that didn't include a real bar or even proper wine glasses (but, isn't it funny, the things you remember? Even now, I can feel the anticipation as Anita hacked away at the cork with her penknife, willing the bottle to open... I can recall the mouth-watering taste of cheap wine drunk from an improvised plastic cup...).

In any case, whatever the complex mix of memories and nostalgia underlying my penchant for simple, blustery picnics, it seems to me that what I really enjoy most is "non perfection".
I would truly, honestly, sincerely choose a seaside picnic in the wind over a 5-star restaurant any day (not that I often have the option... or indeed ever, but you reap what you sow, n'est-ce pas?).

Unfortunately, BB does not have this nostalgic baggage to help him appreciate the joys of outdoor eating.
So yesterday at the beach, Mr Spotty sat alone in the car while the rest of us picnicked with friends.
This is not as heartless as it sounds: he had an ample stock of books and CDs, and seemed to quite enjoy being temporarily in charge of Megane. And, you know, we checked in on him from time to time.

And whatever his current aversion to the wind and cold, who knows? Time being time and memory being selective, one day these blustery weekends by the sea might just be the stuff of happy memories.

Photo taken last October. Different season... same face.

Good Sport

Because I am a Good Sport, I will now reveal the post-hair crisis me.
Like I said, it's not pretty, it's not an improvement... but at least it's no longer purple.

And now, because I am a Very Good Sport - and because we British are nothing if not relaxed with the idea of self-mockery... I will reveal / remind you of that legendary event known as The First Hair Crisis. Twelve years ago. Thought it would be nice to have a change.

Blondes have more fun???

(stop laughing! Stop laughing! I can hear you, you know...)