Creatures of Habit

One of my colleagues just got back from a 6-month stint in the UK. It was her first time "over there".
As we chatted about her experiences and impressions, she told me that the thing that struck her most was her British colleagues' attitude to food, and more specifically, lunch time.
"I couldn't believe it!" she told me, clearly baffled, "lots of people actually preferred to eat a sandwich at their desk... or even - even! - eat alone in their car!"

I nodded and "ummed" non-commitally, not quite sure where this was going.

"I mean, isn't that weird?" she insisted, obviously looking for some sort of validation on my part. "Why would anyone prefer to eat a sandwich alone, when there's a canteen and colleagues to share lunch with?!"

I debated whether to choose honesty, but really, I didn't want to upset her. Nay, maybe I didn't want to lose the esteem I had obviously earned from her as a "non-typical Brit".
So I just agreed that yes, it was odd. It was one of those "British things".

Actually, I never tell anyone when I sneak off to eat a sandwich in my car. I tend to just gallop off with a breezy "see you later!" that implies I have some kind of exciting lunch engagement.
It's simpler that way.

But I never realised until now that my attraction to solo / time-out lunch breaks might be a remnant of my cultural heritage.
I thought it was just me.
But no, maybe it's the British me.

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...

Sleeping Like a Baby

About ten nights ago, LB decided to stop sleeping.
He had been slowly chipping away at our parental sleeping quota since Christmas, but this seemed more radical: it was like he was telling us: thanks, but I'm done with sleeping now. Don't really need it anymore, thanks.
This, as you can imagine, is every parent's dream (I mean nightmare).

The worst part was, we couldn't figure out why.
Again, this is all about the illusion of retaining some semblance of "control" over our lives (which are, evidently, completely out of our control from the moment we decide to have kids). But the theory goes: if we can figure out a "cause", then we can take action and correct the situation, right?

So, the usual round of pained interrogations began: is he hungry, is he in pain, is he wet, is he constipated, is he anxious???... and so on ad infinitum.

In desperation, I turned to my Miriam Stoppard baby bible. The only thing I could find about unexplained waking at 6 months was.... an entire page devoted to "separation anxiety... particularly in babies whose mother GOES OUT TO WORK".
Ooh... bad, bad, bad working mothers! Scandalised as I was (I checked out the publishing date: nope, it didn't in fact date from the early 1960s, as the above paragraph might suggest...), well... I couldn't help but wonder.
Because, as mothers, our guilt quota is unfortunately several times that of other people.

Two sleepless nights later, I was certain. I - bad working mother - was the problem. LB had stopped sleeping because he was tense, anxious, scared and angry with the mother who abandoned him 3 days a week.
At 3 am I found myself whispering to him "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I won't ever leave you, I promise, I only go to work to pay for the house we live in, I don't really want to, you know!" (yep, this seems excessive, but try drinking a cocktail of 7 sleepless nights & 1 outdated, self-important Miriam Stoppard book, and see what state you end up in!).
He looked at me and smiled: I thought I glimpsed a little sympathy.

And then, finally, we confessed our distress to someone medical. Someone medical and sensible. And she suggested that maybe LB was just suffering from indigestion.
Indigestion.... Not deep physchological distress and separation anxiety... but simply, indigestion.

This makes sense, and things seem to be improving now we are treating this possible ailment.

Thank you, Miriam. You've been nice company, but you know, I think it might be time to return you to the very top shelf... I hope you won't feel abandoned...

A New Twist to the Tale of the Chicken & the Egg

Naughty me, I hardly ever wear a helmet when I cycle to work. And by “hardly ever”, I really mean… er… never.

But I started to feel that, as an adored mother of two (I like to think I’m adored…), this was quite irresponsible of me.

And so today, for the first time, I renounced the prospect of OK-looking hair and donned an unattractive helmet.

And today, for the first time, I fell off my bike.

What can this mean?

Was my ‘fall” pre-ordained, and some kind of instinctual premonition / guardian angel made me wear a helmet?

Or, did the fact I was wearing a helmet make me more foolhardy and less attentive, so less likely to fall?

Or, is it just a coincidence?

Ooh, tricky.

The philosophical debate is open.

Multiculturalism at its Finest

At the mighty Firm, lots of (French) people like to think of themselves as bilingual.
The higher up the professional scale they creep, the more English words they feel compelled to throw around... breezily... you know, in a kind of "ooh-I-just-can't-THINK-what-that-word-would-be-in-French" spirit.

This is generally quite amusing for the few native English speakers among us.

Indeed, the little incident during today's meeting really deserves a mention.

It's a serious meeting: the speaker is the Head of Something Important Sounding. He is sharing important information with us about an upcoming project. Unfortunately, most of what he is saying is fairly incomprehensible, due to the fact that every fifth word is in English (the rest is in French). His English accent actually defies belief: it's almost like he's parodying zee French acc-ant...

Eventually, he informs us that the Important Sounding Project will involve "monthly reviews". What he actually says is "reevious zat are moosley".
He's already breezed on confidently to the next point, when suddenly my 65 year-old English colleague (a serious-minded woman) cups her ear and asks: "What, sorry? "Muesli"? Why "Muesli"?"
Important Manager looks as confused as my English colleague, and there is an embarrassed silence as a few people (me included) bite their lips and study their feet.
At last, another diplomatic Brit comes to the rescue, leans over discreetly and tells her "Monthly. Ahem. He said "monthly""...

"Oh! Sorry..." exclaims my hapless colleague, still deadly serious. "I thought you said muesli!"

Curiously, nearly everyone in the room has a little coughing fit for the next 30 seconds...

Yet More Car Stuff

Yes, I know that, for a would-be environmentalist with a passion for two-wheeled, engine-less vehicles, I do seem to go on about cars rather a lot.
What can I say?
I have to appease my male readers somehow, so let's just say that the car stuff is here to balance the baby stuff...

Anyway, this week, we are once again in possession of a brightly coloured Twingo!
Exit the character-less Megane... welcome back youthfulness!
Sadly, it's only a temporary return to the carefree days of small car driving: Megane is finally having her hailstone damage repaired, and the Twingo is our courtesy car for the duration.

I love it. I feel like myself again. Suddenly, I can park! Suddenly, I am no longer holding in my breath and preparing for the next accident every time I slide behind the wheel!

I will say one thing though.
When we first got the Megane, I scoffed at all the so-called sophisticated gimmicks, like, for example, the electronic card that replaces a key, and works by "automatic recognition". What a load of unnecessary rubbish, thought I primly, as though it's really too much effort to push a button or turn a key to open one's car!
Well, yesterday, as I stood nonplussed beside my new Twingo, arms laden with kids and stuff, wondering why my car door was not opening automatically... I realised that we DO get used to these "unnecessary" luxuries. In fact, it's amazing how quickly something futile can mutate into something that serves a purpose.
Or, in other words, it's surprising how quickly one becomes accustomed to luxury...

The Big City

I've been away in Paris for the past few days, taking a little break from Manic Motherhood to spend time with my Mum and sister.
Because we've done the tourist thing before (no snobbiness intended: it's just that, I did used to live there, and mum and sis have visited lots of times...*), we decided to devote the entire trip to cafés and restaurants. We managed to notch up a grand total of 11 such establishments in just over 24 hours, which is good going by anyone's standards...


Freezing weather and the odd spot of rain helped our mission nicely, and made all those coffees, hot chocolates and apéritifs seem justified.

As we attemped to wander among the speeding masses, I reflected on the hectic-ness of big city life. Paris has its charms, of course, but such a hectic pace of life is no longer my thing. I don't want to have to crick my neck in order to catch a glimpse of sky, bump my pram down dozens of steps to join the throngs in the underground, inhale exhaust fumes whilst having my ears assaulted by all the ambiant noise and aggression.

I guess then, that this is yet another tale that ends with the predictable "the grass is not necessarily greener elsewhere".
I'm happy, for now, here in my provincial(ish) backwater, where two-hour lunches are a way of life, not a luxury, and spring starts to peep through the clouds as soon as Januray is out of the way...

* Still sounds snobby, right?