Personal Statement

The other day at work, I was asked to read through and correct the so-called Personal Statement of someone's son... who was applying for a coveted place on a degree course at LSE.
The French applicant (aged 23) had written the statement in English, so maybe the pompous style was partly due to the fact it wasn't his native language (or style).
But as I read more about how he was "really ambitious", "absolutely passionate about finance" and "so eager to learn more about financial trading"... part of me tensed up.

I try to be open-minded and non-judgemental, I really do.
But I suppose - like most people - I fail at that most of the time.
So hey ho, let me be honest here (and drop the pretense of open-mindedness): my overwhelming thought as I read this poor guy's application was please God, don't let either of my sons turn out that way!

That may sound strange, right?
I suppose it IS strange, in a way: finance and trading being a fairly worthy (and very lucrative) career by most people's standards.
But I don't know: the sheer dullness of it all... the overwhelming seriousness of this 23-year-old and his money-based "ambitions"... Well, it all just rattled me somehow.
Shouldn't 23-year-olds be more concerned about travelling the world, or saving it, or defending an endangered species or free education? Should they really be so keen to throw away their ideals for a fat pay cheque and the "privilege" of earning a fortune by working their hair grey in just a few years?

Probably I'm not giving our future trader enough credit.
We all know there's a lot of blah, blah, blah involved in most application letters, and who knows? Perhaps he only wants to shoot up the corporate ladder in order to retire at 30 and devote his time and earnings to some worthy cause?

But I know deep down that if either BB or LB one day asks me to edit such a letter... there'll be a tiny drop of disappointment in the pit of my stomach.
I know, also, that we can't live out our frustrations through our kids... and that, if they turn out to be corporate high-fliers, I'll have to embrace those choices, too.

But.. I can't help but hope their dreams will be sprinkled with art, and music, and travel and teaching, and social work and - I don't know - landscape gardening?

I guess that my hopes are those of a privileged generation of parents, for whom higher education is a given, not a bonus.
But they are mine, nonetheless, and if I can somehow foster a spark of idealism in my boys... I will.

FAQ no. 1

Who knows why some days, weeks or months are so much better than others?

I have spent almost 33 years living on this planet, and I still don't get it.

I have a few tentative thoughts on the matter, a flash of inspiration here and there.
But nothing surefire and irrefutable.

Maybe it's all down to an imperceptible hormonal shift?

A sudden increase in the amount of natural light (we have had 10 days of unbroken sunshine here, albeit freezing cold sunshine...)?

A husband who welcomes us home with a hug rather than a scowl?

Or perhaps it's not so much the external stuff as the way in which we choose to position our own blinkers?
The tiniest shift in perspective and the light falls differently: on my job (a fleeting intellectual buzz), on motherhood (a privileged time to be savoured, not a challenge to be battled through on route to something else), on Toulouse (a place where the pinky morning light falls perfectly across the river as one cycles to work). And so on.

I don't know why or how these shifts happen, but I think I know that we can strive to influence them, at least a little bit.

But when I read what a wiser woman than I wrote on her blog, I knew a big part of the answer lay within:
Why can't it all just be great?
It CAN be great. It can't be perfect, but it can be great.

11 Commandments for 2011

1/ I will be a fervent defender of my precious free time. I will make time for those people who truly inspire me, and forget the others.


2/ I will not live my life according to a sense of obligation.


3/ I will travel as much as I can; I will cover kilometres and kilometres and make unreasonable journeys in order to spend a few hours with the people I care about most.


4/ I will know when to take time out: I will greet my solitude like an old friend.


5/ I will read The Economist every week, to keep my brain ticking over.


6/ I will read at least two novels every month, because escapism is a necessity, not a luxury.


7/ I will continue to write - even if I only write one page a month.


8/ I will not be brought down to earth by those who fly the flag of reality... as though amazement and day-dreaming were reserved for the under-5s.


9/ I will not RUSH. If I arrive at work half an hour later than everyone else, SO BE IT!


10/ I will not compare myself to other mothers. Especially not unfavourably.


11/ I will be imperfect. Because, even if I fail at all of the above (see points 1 - 10), no doubt the universe will continue to unfold as it should...

Perfect on Paper

So, I realised that if I post just one more message this year, then 2010 will have exactly the same number of messages as 2009.
This is a rather disconcerting observation, and I wonder what it might mean?
I am effortlessly perfect?
Subconsciously symmetrical in all that I undertake?
No more and no less chatty this year than last?

Anyway, so be it.
147 messages in 2010... of which this shall be the last.
A message without a clear message: a message that skims across the surface of a period filled with doubt, unexplained anger and a pinch of gloom.

BB and I went to Marseille, and all was well. Then we came back, and the feeling that daily life requires slightly more effort than I can give returned.
Now I am packing the various bags for our holiday travels (Paris, Ile de Ré...) and trying to reduce the whole exploit to the bare essentials, both physical and mental.

Last night, an acquaintance with whom I spoke briefly after the theatre told me, just before we parted: "Remember this one word: demands."
"Demands...?" I faltered.
"Fewer of them," she nodded. "On yourself. Be less demanding. Just remember that, if you remember nothing else."

So this is the single thought I will slip into the suitcase alongside the eight pairs of tiny underpants, the boots, coats, gloves, etc.
I will meditate on it during those lost moments on trains and in the midst of holiday cheer... as we wait for midnight to strike in a picture perfect setting.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL!

Concentration Span

Call me intolerant, call me a mobile phone novice... but there's something that really shocks me.

We are a group of parents gathered in the school cantine. Opposite us, our three-year old children form a straggling, bouncy line admidst the homemade Christmas decorations.
It is their very first Christmas "concert", and they have a few short songs they wish to dazzle us with.

As the sweet jangle of three-year old singing fills the room, I am suddenly aware of the fact that every single mother (there is only one dad, and he is behind me) other than me is clutching her mobile phone. Granted, some of them are using it to take photos, observing the whole thing through the minuscule eye of a flat screen, but some of them are simply doing what I call the "mobile phone caressing routine": stroking it, staring at it, willing it to ring.

Then, of course (I'm sure you can see where this is heading...), a phone rings. Loudly and insistently. Every mother scrabbles to check whether the ringing phone is her own (not,as you might expect, out of embarrassment, but rather, to make sure they aren't missing anything important).
The lucky recipient identifies the call as her own... and answers.
Just like that: a cheery "Allo?" boomed out right there in the midst of our three-year-olds' first Christmas concert.

There is a general shuffling. You can tell people are distracted. And yes, by "people", I mean the parents, not the kids.
The magic fails to materialise: there is no wonderment, no involvement, no sense of calm.

We worry about the attention span of our kids. As far as I can see, it's the parents we should really be concerned about.

Meltdown

Actually, it turned out not to be "spa or bust" but rather "spa AND bust"!
So much for my flippancy, hum.

So I found myself in the slightly disconcerting situation of feeling VERY low, and at the same time VERY protected (in the muted ambiance of a deserted spa resort, far from the Christmas shopping frenzy, in the company of two wonderful friends who rose to the occasion so brilliantly that one might have thought they'd been serving up herbal teas and good advice most of their lives!).

It was as though my subconscious had glimpsed the tiniest opportunity for a major meltdown - far from family obligations and wide-eyed children - .... and I duly flung myself body and soul into that opening.

Ah well. The first few days were terrible: the days since then have been a lot better.
I am overtaken by the wave of relief that comes from finally letting go, facing the fact you are not perfect and drawing up a tentative action plan (with spouse) to address all the malfunctioning elements that have softly snowballed throughout the year.

Overcoming all my natural, hardworking instincts in one quick move, I hauled myself down to the doctor's on Tuesday and got myself signed off sick for the week. The doctor suggested that perhaps I didn't so much require medication as rest and a few big boxes of chocolate? He winked as he wrote the presecription for "top quality chocolate", and I smiled in relief: my diagnosis was the same as his, but it's always nice to have one's instincts confirmed by a professional.

So here I am. I have much to learn; we have much to learn as a family. The first step is meltdown. The second is kindness. And indulgence. We'll see how the rest takes shape.

Touchy Feely

Partly, of course, it's because he's the second child.

And second children - although they get a rough deal in some respects - have one major intrinsic advantage over firstborns: they are treated with more indulgence.
I'm sorry, but it's true.

Standards slip, principles slide. In the tumult of daily life with more than one child to tend to, firmly held parenting ideas tend to get watered down: a biscuit is given more readily (please stop moaning for two minutes!), a bit of naughtiness strategically overlooked (I haven't got time to deal with this!), a cry for attention more indulgently received (oh, for a bit of peace!).

And yet partly, it's because it's him.
LB is a curious character. The more I get to know him (and it is about getting to know him - with all his qualities and foibles - and not just about "bringing him up"), the more I realise what an affectionate, sensitive boy he is.
Fits of shouting, when answered with a hug, seem to twindle to nothing.
An extra 5 minutes spent cuddling him in the morning do a happy boy make.
Keeping him tight on my knee for the first 15 minutes in new surroundings make him reassured and sociable: forcing him to join in immediately makes him howl.

Maybe because BB is so different - or perhaps because I am not a major hugger myself - it's taken me a while to understand his modus operandi.
But now that I've cottoned on, I'm adapting.
See, who knew that I could be the kind of mother who would allow her boy to sleep ALL NIGHT in her arms? (and by "in her arms", I mean literally snuggled as tightly up to my belly as he could possibly be without ending up back on the inside...).
BB never did this. Maybe he thought it was not allowed? More likely: he just didn't need to.

But last night, when LB firmly and vocally refused to settle anywhere else but snuggled up to me, I gave in. Something told me to go with this particular flow, and accept that it was something he needed.

And my instinct appears to have been right. Tonight, he's back in his own bed: no fuss, no tears.

There really is no parenting "manual", it seems. But finding the answers through trial, error and sensitivity are somehow more rewarding all round.

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.

SAD

One of the perks of possessing one's very own blog is the option of being able to Look Back.
Like a diary, the blog provides its author with an irrefutable record of the past: its events, emotions and inconsistencies.
This is not always a comfortable thing, of course.
In fact - just like diary entries from the teen years - previous blog posts can seem cringeworthy when dug up and read months or years later.

But sometimes, they provide solace.
After ruminating for a while about how to fill the figurative blank space on this blog, I dared to take a peek at the November/December entries of the past two years.
And there, something became apparent: this is not a good time of year for me.

The two year record contained within this blog (albeit a selective one) seems to demonstrate beyond any doubt that late Autumn is my hibernation period: the time of year during which, try as I might to recover some cheerfulness, I can't help but feel melancholy... and restless.

I guess that knowing this should provide comfort. It's a question of sitting tight, and letting the year slide to a close with as much serenity as I can muster.
It's a time for books, hot tea, the cinema, red wine and dreaming.
Time for the imaginary world to supplant reality.
No harm in that?

In a Nutshell

Somewhere in between work, the creche run and the rather limp sandwich that constitutes lunch-on-the-go... I managed to squeeze in a 15-minute eyebrow plucking session.

Why am I telling you this?
Well, Reader: I tell you this because - believe it if you can - those 15 minutes spent lying down in blissful abandonment, occasionally wincing in pain, were some of the most agreable of the day.
15 precious minutes during which a professional person TOOK CARE OF ME, spruced me up, rubbed a little lotion onto my terse and weary skin and offered up a few cheery remarks about daily life.

Should I be pitied?
Objectively, someone who cites "eyebrow plucking session" as the highlight of their day does not scream "happy fulfilled individual!" by most people's standards.
And yet.
Perhaps the real point here is that an ability to appreciate the simple moments is an enviable talent in itself.
To turn an appointment that could easily loom as a chore into an opportunity for exquisite relaxation is a triumph of mind over matter.

And please, I am not trying to imply that the rest of my life is as dull as dishwater.
I am simply advocating that, in the never-ending cycle of childcare, duty, planning, cleaning up, wiping down, buying in and throwing out... every window of opportunity for self-improvement should be exploited to its maximum potential.

Oh, I nearly forgot.
The second highlight of the day was listening to a political interview on the car radio whilst driving back to work, eyebrows tingling...
Fifteen minutes for the body, fifteen minutes for the brain, fifteen minutes for the soul.
Could this in fact be the recipe for a modest kind of happiness?

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!

Bad Feeling

Anita says she's in a "funk" at the moment. She's not sure what the word means exactly, and neither am I (we are both language exiles, in a way), but I'm starting to feel that I may be in one too.

The ongoing strikes are starting to create a lot of bad feeling. A sort of clammy, hostile environment in which everyone is either: fed up, put out or on strike.
I try not to talk about it too much. After all, strikes are on a par with politics and religion: topics best avoided unless you're absolutely 100% certain that the other person shares your viewpoint.
And to be honest, I don't really have a clearcut viewpoint on this issue.
What surprises me most of all about the anti-retirement reform strikers is their "four legs good, two legs bad" mentality; the sense that it's so obvious who the "baddies" and the "goodies" are in this epic adventure...
Add into the equation the fact that France has a long-term love affair with striking as a form of protest, and you quickly get to the fired up situation (or "social climate", as we say here) we find ourselves in at present.

I don't object to striking. But I don't appreciate being forced into a position, or qualified as morally inferior, for my decision not to strike on this occasion.
So what to do when a pro-strike colleague launches an unprovoked attack, insinuating that I - and those of my "generation" (I guess I should be grateful for the "young people" label...) are cowardly and selfish?
Options include: a serene smile, no comment, a counter-attack, an exchange of insults.
In the event, I choose to point out that every person should be free to make his/her own choice on the matter. And that nobody should callously judge the motives of anyone else's decision.
But I am missing the point: the verbal attack was launched merely to provoke, and no debate is possible. Again, all I hear is a variant of "four legs good, two legs bad", and the insults "selfish" and "cowardly" are flung back at me with a dollop of extra venom.

So, in an atmosphere bristling with unnecessary anger, I switch off my computer, hop on my bike and head off to collect BB from school, where the after-school staff are striking.
And as I pedal along, I think about some of the counter-arguments I would have liked to make, had there been an opportunity for debate, or indeed a point to voicing a viewpoint other than the "Single Acceptable Viewpoint".

I would like to say: people are different. Your desire to strike, wave a banner, shout and protest and fight the good fight depends as much on your convictions as your character.
Those of us who are ill at ease with any sort of group mentality (I am not a group joiner, that's just the way it is) find other ways to manifest our support of or opposition to whatever issue, and surely those other ways are just as valid?
I would like to say: we all have our issues. Some of us feel blood-boilingly angry at the prospect of a raised retirement age... some of us have innate convictions about the superiority of a vegetarian diet, or the bike as a mode of transport (er, no names).
But to what extent should we strive to convert others to our own set of values?
Why should I shout about my moral superiority, when I don't know the first thing about the life, history, convictions or hardships of the person I'm judging/converting/attacking?

But these are just thoughts and the hard reality is: the only person who really cares to hear them is me.
So much of the time, it seems, individuals are rooted in their own beliefs like 200-year-old oak trees set in hardened soil... and what we pass off as "discussion" is little more than two blinkered individuals shouting over one another's head about who is right, and who is wrong.

BB: Bilingual Boy

Warning: this is a geek post about language, so probably only of interest to Anita, and possibly Ingrid, who share - or pretend to! - my fascination with all things language-related.
The rest of you can feel free to skip it, I won't be offended.

I have never read any books about bilingualism (I prefer novels to pretty much any kind of educational or psychological guide, though I did enjoy "Eat, Pray, Love": sorry, I digress...), so I'm basically just following my instincts as far as my boys are concerned.
I always make sure I speak to them in English, and I hope this in itself will be sufficient to ensure a very high level of bilingualism.
Beyond that, I haven't given a lot of thought to the the actual process of language acquisition by young kids. But I listen and observe, and it's all turning out to be pretty fascinating (to a language geek like me).

Up until now, I guess what has struck me most is how instinctive it all is. BB will use the word that comes into his head first: so some things he says in English, others in French. I see that there is little reflection involved; it's a pick n' mix based on personal preference and familiarity (for example, some words he hears more often from me, so it's logical he'll repeat them in English. Etc.).

So my ears really pricked up yesterday afternoon as we watching Fireman Sam together in English. The episode in question was that "renowned classic" (what? you don't know it??) involving a faulty van, a homemade cart, a naughty boy called Norman and a dummy.
The dummy being an inflatable doll, of course: used by Fireman Sam in his safety demonstrations.
Anyway, as the plot thickened, BB piped up "Look Maman, the sucette has gone!"
The sucette??
Ah, suddenly I got it. "Sucette" is dummy in French, but in the sense of a suckable object for babies of course.
So I realised that in fact, rather than simply associating a word with an object in an instinctive manner, BB was actually translating in his head from one language to another!

Imagine my excitement (if you can). This puts him on a whole different intellectual plane, as far as I can see. Because sure, even though his translation was wrong (a dummy in the sense of inflatable doll would be called something entirely different in French), the fact he could actually do it amazed me.

Amazed as I was though, I still found it quite tricky explaining why a dummy was not a "sucette"... Not sure he's quite up to comprehending multiple translation possibilities... (a four-year university degree suffices for most people, though).

Nice to Meat You

So, it was bound to happen: the vegetarian issue has popped up.

Up until now, I'd handled the meat dilemma well enough: BB never ate meat at crèche, and, at his new school, the staff agreed it was fine for him to be meat-free*

It still is OK, in principle. The canteen staff just serve him the non-meat parts of the school dinner, and there's usually enough left to make a healthy, filling meal (and meat is not on the menu every day, thank goodness).
However, it turns out that some days, the meat element really is too dominant to skirt around.

Apologetic, the canteen lady corners me on Tuesday afternoon to "warn" me that Friday's school dinner will be non-BB compatible. The culprits are a batch of chicken drumsticks. The drumsticks in question will be garnished only with a couple of limp salad leaves: hardly enough to satisfy a growing boy (even a vegetarian one).
To be fair, I sense understanding, rather than judgement, on the part of the staff.

So, I ask nervously, what are my options?
(I am nervous because - beyond the chicken drumstick - this seemingly minor dilemma is actually throwing up all sorts of latent questions I ask myself about my(our) decision to bring up my kids as vegetarians (is it OK to be non-conformist when you're a kid? Will he resent me? Is it better for kids to follow the crowd and make their own choices later? And - on the other hand - why - when I uphold a researched, well thought out principle for myself - should I buckle as soon as my kids are involved?).

Well, she explains, you can either let him eat the chicken drumsticks, or else come and collect him at 11.30 and take him home for lunch.

Can I do that? I ask, frantically trying to calculate whether this option is feasible, crazy, in BB's best interests or not.

Sure, she says, there are other parents who do that. Then you just bring him back after lunch.

I hold a quick debate in my head, while she looks on patiently. I seriously consider caving in. Could this be the moment to admit that vegetarianism might be flexible? BB has never made any reference to meat before - or shown any interest at all in eating any - but could now be the time to give him the option?
I'm about to say "no forget it: let's just go with the drumsticks", when something stops me.

I think of the Muslims, and their firm dietary principles. I think about myself - my decision to "give up" meat at 6 years old. I think about what I know and hate about factory farming.
But - most of all - I think about those chicken drumsticks. Disgusting, reheated frozen chicken flesh in breadcrumbs. I mean, come on.

I'll pick him up at 11.30! I tell the lady brightly. That's no problem.

The thing is: if I'm going to U-turn on a life-long principle, it has to be worth it.
And quite frankly... I don't feel like giving up the battle just yet, not for a measly chicken drumstick.


* Curiously enough, we actually have the Muslims to thank for the evolution in attitudes towards vegetarianism. A few years ago, French schools were strictly secular and there was zero pandering to individual diets. But, since it has been politically correct to respect Muslim diets, the powers-that-be are pretty hard-pushed to refuse other dietary principles as well...

Organised Fun

I am a walking paradox. Actually, I am such a rare species that I should probably be stuffed and put on display in a natural history museum: I absolutely hate flying but I absolutely love travelling.

This curious paradox has marked my life for a good number of years already, and looks set to continue.
But, perhaps even more than travelling itself, I love PLANNING to travel.

To be honest, if pressed to put a statistical figure on it, I'd estimate that planning is 30% of the fun (that's allowing for the fact that another 30% of the fun is "looking back on the trip": I'll let you do the math on the rest).

So, here I am, mother of a child of school age, and suddenly, a whole new world of planning opportunities has opened up.
This is a most unexpected and rather thrilling consequence of the rigidity of the school year, and the fixed holiday slots. As FH and I discuss the long stretches of school holidays that will rise to meet us over the course of the year, he utters those seductive words: we'd better plan ahead, you know... and a tingle of excitement ripples through me.

Christmas, February, April, July, August.... a host of days and weeks to fill, a bubbling cup-full of plans to be fine-tuned, journeys to be booked, hotels to be snapped up (before they are overrun and over-priced). Days off to be juggled - that too, of course - but even this takes on the appearance of a jigsaw puzzle to be solved: a fun game in which we're all winners.

Yes, it's uncool. I know that. But us organising-types get our thrills where we can: we muse and research and question and reflect... and boy do we feel happy when all that spontaneous fun happens exactly as we planned!

Do As I Say, Not As I Do?

The title would suggest I'm going to write about something kid-related, right?
Wrong.
Today's amusing/confusing thought for the day concerns the strike.

As we know, today was a national strike day here in France, the issue being "We defend the right to retire at 60!"
A large chunk of the public sector was on strike, and those of us who work in the private sector were given the choice. Either sit tight and work, or pack up at 2 p.m. and go out to PROTEST!

There are 19 of us in my office. Out of those 19, eight people chose to go on strike.
Up till now, nothing unusual.
Except, when 2 o'clock struck and the strikers left, something rather amusing struck (sorry for the pun) me:
The eight strikers were all aged over 60!!

And the rest of us - the "younger generation" - the ones who will actually be affected by the extended retirement age - simply shrug our shoulders and accept that, as life expectancy increases, we may just have to keep working a little longer. Or, as a fellow 32-year old colleague and I remarked: "come on! We have nearly 10 weeks holiday a year... Is it really so unreasonable to ask us to work a little longer over the course of a lifetime?"

But the really head-scratching question is: if all my 60+ colleagues think it's so important to be able to retire at 60... er.... how come none of them has chosen to retire yet?!
These are the privileged people who actually CAN retire at 60 if they choose!

As far as I can see then (and please correct me if I have missed some political nuance - it's entirely possible!): my 60+ colleagues are defending their right to do something they don't actually want to do?
Or, defending MY generation's right to do something we don't feel the need to do?

It's all quite confusing.
Or perhaps the point is simply... to protest.
I mean, come on. We can't just let the government get away with it. Can we?

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!!

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.

The Awkward Conversation

I have been in my boss's office (door closed, tone emotional veering on heated) for close to an hour when it happens.

I start to cry.

Unthinkable, mortifyingly embarrassing, but there it is. I am upset.

I am planning to leave, and he knows it now. We have discussed the whys and the hows and the "what ifs" and we are both feeling a little emotionally drained.

And as the tears start to spill over, I am suddenly struck by the bemusing side of it all: give or take a few words, any nonplussed eavesdropper would think we were talking marital break-up, not career move.

"There have been things wrong here from the start..." I proffer at one point.

"Yes, I know, but no-one's perfect!" he counters, rather needily.

"You've tried to stifle me!" I protest.

"No, no, that's unfair. Look, we've been through some hard times. Times are hard now!"

Then, when the accusations have reached a certain pitch, the tone softens, and we are both riddled with regrets.

"It's not your fault, it's not my fault," I soothe, "I've changed, that's all. My aspirations have changed."

"I know that. Don't forget, I know you so well, Shirley. It's been seven years..."

"I just feel it's time to move on. There's nothing you can really say or do to make me stay. It's my decision."

"And I respect that. I'll do everything possible to help you."

And lastly, the ultimate cliché: the "we'll always be friends" line.

"I hope we'll still a lot of each other, even after you move on..."

"Oh, of course! I hope so too."

Yes, it was funny, and sad, too.

I'm not leaving tomorrow, but the cards are on the table, and I have a few potential options.

It's been one of those cases in which months of reflection have resulted in a single, clear and obvious choice: I need a new job (within the Firm, all being well).

And what I don't mention to my boss, as I sniff and wipe my nose, is that Something had to change. I got to the point in my life where, well, to put it bluntly, it was "them or me."

Personal fulfilment: the starting block from which relaxed Mum and loving Wife can sprint off, each morning, when the gun fires...

I Want to Break Free?

For the third time in a week, I flicked on the car radio and the sweet yet resolute mantra "I want to break freeeeee!" hit me head-on.
Seriously. Twice in the same week might be considered a coincidence... but surely three times qualifies as a divine message?? God... or Freddy Mercury... or my own subconscious?
Somebody is trying to tell me something.


The thing is, I DO want to break free.
But I'm not sure from what. Or why. Or where to go.
Does this ever happen to you?
The niggling feeling that you're just muddling along, happy enough, but perhaps not as happy as you could be?
And even as I write these self-indulgent lines, the Optimist in me is smiling wryly and thinking "you just need (another) holiday", and the Realist in me is frowning and cautioning: "You know that 99% of the inhabitants of this planet are not as lucky as you are."

But is it not OK to wonder sometimes? To ask yourself where you want to go from here, ideally... I mean, given that we do have the luxury of a slim catalogue of choices (I say "slim" because, you know, we have two kids and a mortgage and a fairly well-sharpened sense of responsibility... so that eliminates certain alternative lifestyles).

A few things have happened lately to prise open the Question box (the one in my head, I mean).

- Some very close friends moved house yesterday. We used to see them all the time: now they have joined the already swollen ranks of "friends we love but don't see very often".
They are the second ones to leave Toulouse in a year. So I wonder about places to live, and what counts most: culture, climate, family, friends, career prospects?

- We have been house hunting. We started off in the country, dreaming of simplicity and harmony... and the more we looked, the more we saw isolation and - dare I even think it? - boredom.
Then we started looking in town... and we saw Suburbia (and accompanying wave of panic).

- I am officially trying to change jobs. I thought about sleeping through the child-rearing years in a pressureless, mind-numbing job, and decided against it. I thought about handing in my resignation and trying to go it alone... then I opted for "change from the inside."

- Ingrid wrote about a couple she met who have opted to live on a boat. As I read this, the Dreamer in me started doing cartwheels (I absolutely love to hear about people who opt out of conventional society and live differently: it's my thing)... while the Cynic taunted: "You would go crazy within three days, and you know it!"

So I suppose I'm just sitting here pondering all this, and wondering what do it with it.
Live in the present and live every second to its full potential: that's my credo. But I need to see the big picture too.
I just have the sense that - for now - the colours are all mixed up, and the canvas is a little bare.

In the meantime, the work-in-progress that is life continues... and I remind myself that true contentment lies in the present moment.
Boredom - many would say - is happiness: better to be submerged with questions than consumed with worry, right?