From the Mouths of Babes

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!

A Parcel in the Post

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.

Chinese Whispers

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?"

At Least God Has a Sense of Humour...

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!

For BB: An Anecdote

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.

In Retrospect

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

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

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.

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...

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

Trial Run

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!"

Art and Life

Yesterday morning, BB was inspired to decorate the wet wall: a tasteful play-doh mix that is an undisputed improvement on the original...

And then, just a few hours later - by a cruel twist of fate - his little belly resembled the spotty wall.
At last, the chickenpox!

In Theory: Sticks and Stones...

I've said it before, I'll say it again: so much of the parenting experience comes down to two fundamental opposites - the theory... and the practice.

I was an outstanding student when it came to Theory. Most of us are. 10 out of 10, got it all sussed, will NEVER make that mistake: this was the pre-Mother me.

The post-Mother me is slightly more indulgent. Incredibly indulgent, actually, when it comes down to myself.
But apparently, if the "Stress Management" course I took on Monday (yes, yes I know: I'm a sucker for these things, especially when the Firm is paying...) is to be believed: being indulgent with yourself is probably the very best thing you can do for your health.
Embrace your failings. Throw away all those theoretical notes about how to be the perfect mother, how to bring up the perfect kids. Adjust your expectations. Just do your best.

One of the clauses on my Theoretical Parenting Charter was: My child will never own or play with violent toys.
Ha!
This clause actually proved quite easy to adhere to until BB was 2 years and 8 months old. Until last Sunday, to be more precise.
And then I bought him a sword.
Yes, that's right: nobody forced me, nobody put a gun (or even a sword) to my head: I just did it, of my own free will.
WHY? I hear you cry, astounded.
Well, simply because - no matter what the prevailing theories about nature, nurture and boy/girl education - I have seen with my own eyes that boys, bless their little testosterone-fuelled muscles - ENJOY sticks and stones and... swords.

BB and I were wandering the cobbled streets of Carcassonne, looking at the various trinkets, model castles, dolls, coats of armour, board games, etc. on offer in the souvenir shops... and the only thing he wanted, the only thing that really drew his attention, was a red plastic sword.

So, yes, I bought the sword, thereby betraying the No-violent-toys Clause for a mere 2 euros.

And BB now brandishes it around in a cute-yet-threatening manner. He is happy. He's enjoying himeslf. And as long as he's not drawing blood or bashing heads, I'm OK with that.
Perhaps this is the start of his long slow decline into delinquency: time will tell.
But we're in the Practice phase now, and my new credo is: Forget the theory, thou shalt rely only on instinct and common sense.

The Rough and Tumble

A few days ago, I read an interesting article in The Guardian that was not about the forthcoming British general election (incidentally, as far as I can tell, the words "interesting" and "general election" are a bit of an oxymoron, but that's another story).
To get back to the point, then, the article was about a 2-day life swap experiment: the parents of two girls switched places with the parents of three boys.
Aside from the funny bits, I think the point was supposed to be: girls and boys are different.

Sure, it doesn't sound so revolutionary put like that, but the point was cleverly made, and cute enough to make me read on till the end.

And, you know, it's tempting to dismiss all this clap-trap as easy sociological babble... but after you've spent a Sunday afternoon like the one I had - in the presence of five little boys, two of whom belong to me - you can't help but agree that there's a sizeable dose of truth in the clichés.


Little boys are physical beings.
They like to roll around in grass, and get dirty, and brandish swords, and fight, and kick balls around, and investigate, and prod and poke and taste and get dirtier.
They are not so into sitting around in a quiet circle and chatting.


Before I had my first baby, I really wanted to have girls. I think it's OK to admit that now, though it was hard to acknowledge at the time.
I even shed a tear or two when the sonographer first told me the shocking news that my baby would not be a girl. It wasn't so much that I didn't want a boy: it was just that I had no idea what I'd do with one.
I had always imagined me & future offspring drawing quietly together, or chatting, or trying on clothes, or indulging in quaint activities like embroidery - which is as crazy as it gets, because I don't think I've ever embroidered in my life.

I had no clue what boys did for fun. I was worried I would hate their kind of fun.

And now, nearly three years on, I love it.
I love the rough and tumble, the rolling in the grass and the dirty fingernails.
I don't even feel nostalgic for the dozens of Barbies who may well never make it out of hibernation in my Mum's garage and into the loving hands of my own children.

The article in The Guardian ends with an endearing - if slightly far-fetched - theory that "a mother gets the kids she is cut out to have".
It's a bit of a chicken-and-egg situation, but the idea is that "mums of boys" prefer the boy stuff, and mums of girls are better suited to the girl stuff.

And last Sunday, as I lay squashed and battered under a bundle of hysterical boys waving twigs, I thought that this might well be true.
Mums of boys are like tea bags: you don't know how strong we are until you fling us into a cup of boiling water (and batter us with a big stick)...

And as if further proof were needed...

... Delphine went into labour and gave birth the next day.

I told you it was a tiring morning.

The Camera Never Lies?

Delphine and I thought we had a great plan.
We took 3.5 kids (one is still on the inside - though only just...), gave them a room to play in, chucked in a vast quantity of toys, books and what might be loosely termed "creative materials", made a pot of tea, and sat down to have a chat.

Only, the morning didn't evolve as planned.

Apparently, kids don't always play together happily and autonomously.
They sometimes just get over-excited, over-heated and demand twice as much attention.

But the funny thing is... the photographic evidence of the ordeal makes them look like angels.

So, the camera being the camera, and memories being memories... I reckon that five years from now, we'll look back at these pictures and remember what a lovely, peaceful day we spent with our angelic boys.
Ah, how I love my rose-tinted glasses.

Thanks Delphine for the wonderful photos

One Man's Rich is Another Man's Poor

Driving back from the beach yesterday evening, a little voice pipes up from the back:

Maman, pourquoi elle est cassée, cette voiture?
(Maman, why is that car broken?)

I glance to the left, in search of a car with bashed bodywork or a flat tyre.
But what do I see instead?
In the lane next to us: a trendy young guy in a flashy convertible... with the roof down.

FH and I burst out laughing.
We're about to explain, when suddenly we decide the truth is boring.
So FH swivels round and tells our open-mouthed BB:
"I guess that poor man's roof got broken. And he hasn't been able to fix it."

"Ah," says BB, solemnly. "Le pauvre...".

Sweet Moments

We all have "those" days. Days when we feel the thud of failure in our gut, days when we fear that, despite all our good intentions, something has gone horribly wrong. Days when that "awful badly brought up child" (the one kicking up a fuss in the biscuit aisle... the one who pinched another kid at crèche...) is none other than our own.

And yet, to offset those days, there are the great moments.
The great moments are those glimmers of hope, when something really sweet and unexpected happens, causing our parental hearts to swell with pride and flooding our tortured minds with reassurance: "you are doing something right!"

I had one of these great moments on Saturday.
BB and I are devoting a bit of time to our favourite activity: having a coffee, an orange juice and a cake in a café in the city*
We are sipping our drinks, chatting away companiably ("What's that, maman?" "It's a chair, honey." "Oh. What's that, maman?" "It's a bin, honey." "Oh. Where's Daddy, Maman?", etc., etc.) when suddenly I realise that I haven't eaten the tiny chocolate square served with my coffee.
Knowing how much BB will appreciate it, I say "Hey, honey, you can have my chocolate if you like...." and hand it over.
I fully expect him to wolf it down, pig-like, but instead, he looks at it carefully for a few seconds, then studiously breaks it in two and hands me one of the minuscule halves.
"Share, Maman.." he explains soberly, since I must look shocked.

I am dumbfounded.
Can this sweet, thoughtful, well-behaved, generous boy be my own?!
Sure looks like it.
I smile at him tenderly, feeling pretty damned chuffed. And then... well, then I just can't help it. I just HAVE to sneak a look around the café to see whether anyone else has witnessed this wonderful act.
To my dismay, not a single person is looking in our direction. I have no-one to exchange a smug smile with: no older lady who will chuckle and say something gratifying like - oh, I don't know - "My goodness! What a well-brought up little boy!"

Never mind. I know it happened, and like with so much else in life, I guess I'll just have to settle for the warmth of "personal satisfaction".
This will help me keep some sense of perspective next time he has a public crying fit or something... to which there will - inevitably - be at least 10 scowling witnesses...


* Yes, that's right: my boy is not quite 2 and a half, and already he is a little urbane café-goer: give it a few more months and I will also have myself a fashion-sensitive shopping buddy...

Firstborn

There are two little words we've been hearing constantly over the past week: "tout seul!"
Translated, this means "by myself!", and it is the new catchphrase of our strong, independent, I-am-no-longer-a-baby-didn't-anybody-notice? firstborn child, BB.
It is fascinating, and highly endearing, to watch as he struggles to take his own coat off, put his own socks on, brush his own teeth... The joy of succeeding in each of these little tasks provokes a wide, proud smile... and the frustration of failure a stomp and a sulk.

As a fellow firstborn child, I have to say that I feel such tenderness as I witness this desire to be grown up. Is it a trait of all firstborns to copy the adults, do away with all manner of childish things and express a fierce will to do it all "by myself"?
I think so, to some extent.
Your place in the family hierarchy probably determines the rate at which you "grow up". BB has always looked to the adults for inspiration; LB looks to his 2 year-old brother, so the gap is smaller, the pressure less.

The other day, as we ambled along the street, BB, LB and I, an elderly lady stopped to pat BB affectionately on the head.
"Ca va, bébé?" she asked, smiling.
"Non," BB told her squarely, as though explaining the obvious to the simple-minded "c'est pas moi le bébé, c'est lui!"
And thus he pointed to his little brother, popped his own dummy back into his mouth, and strode off, looking almost like a stroppy teenager.
Almost. But not quite.

You'll Be a Man, My Son...

BB assures me that, yes, he absolutely wants to ride the merry-go-round, and yes, he wants to ride on the motorbike.
Doubtful, I ask him to confirm this wish three times before parting with the 2 euro fee.
Yes, he confirms, nodding his head firmly.

The music erupts, the motor groans to life, the merry-go-round starts to spin... and BB looks anything but merry as he grips white-knuckled to the handlebars of his motorbike.
One turn later, fat tears are starting to drip down his red face.
My little boy.
At this point, two thoughts flit through my head:
1/ You should make him stick out the ride. He'll learn about dealing with the consequences of choices, and it'll make him braver.
2/ You should get him off that thing. He's scared.

Actually, it only takes a fraction of a second for me to elect option no. 2.
I pull him off the bike, the merry-go-round in full spin, crouch down and give him a big, tight hug. I stay like that until he stops sobbing.
I don't care that the other parents are watching - maybe judging - and that some of them, especially the dads, might be thinking: "she's going to raise a wimp with that kind of indulgence..."

I get scared sometimes, too. So who am I to judge?
And, right or wrong, it feels right for me to hug him and say "you don't have to do that if you don't want to. I'll look after you."

The thing is, I can't expect him to be braver than I am. I have spent many many years and a lot of energy trying to "get over" certain fears... and you know, I still find that what helps the most is an understanding, non-judgemental hug and an indulgent "you don't have to do it if you don't want to."

And in the end, we're all just doing the best we can.

Photo taken last summer