Flawed & Perfect

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

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.

Great Expectations

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.

With or Without You

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"

The Revenge of Christmas

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.

The Recipe

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.

That Family

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.

Time Out

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!

Random Observation of the Weekend

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 :-))

Dummy Run

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.

Keep Calm & Carry On

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

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!!

Summer

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...

All Work and No Play?

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.

Knowing Me, Knowing You

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.

Cocktail Confessions

There's a great scene in the new Sex & The City film (what? We all have our cultural references; no judgement, please!) where Charlotte and Miranda get slowly drunk and start to confess that motherhood is - er - not always a bed of roses.
Despite all the other poignant and hilarious moments the film throws up, this scene is top-notch entertainment for us mothers-of-young-kids / dictators.

My friend Sophie and I didn't look at each other in the darkness of the movie theatre... but I could hear some distinct sniffing in between the bursts of laughter.

How great to hear my old pals (yes, I am referring to Char and Miranda) voicing the very thoughts that creep guiltily through my own mind from time to time*
Thoughts that run something like this: I love them so much they drive me mad I love them so much I can't wait to get five minutes away from them I love them so much can I please please be the one to do the food shopping - this is how I relax now I love them so much... etc, etc.

Yes, we're all growing up alongside those Sex & The City girls. Same dilemmas, same hopes, better clothes.
And I know it's just a film, and it's all tailor-made to appeal to us thirty-something women, and all the rest... but despite that, I still feel eternally grateful to be living in a century where it's OK to be an independent woman, it's OK to say your kids drive you crazy (sometimes), it's OK to aspire to non-maternal fulfilment, it's OK to leave the kids with Dad and go out to see a film with the girls. Every week if necessary.


* practically every day

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??

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.