Picture Perfect

The other day I was standing in our back garden, manoeuvring myself like a cat into the last patch of sunlight, when I happened to look up at the sky.
It struck me that the view before my eyes was somehow familiar...

After days of searching my brain and the Internet, I finally remembered where I'd seen it before...

Vincent Van Gogh, 1890 (Saint-Rémy), Van Gogh Museum Amsterdam

Shirley, Toulouse, March 2009

It's a Boy!

All the essential information is in the title!
We are delighted at the prospect of having not one but TWO BBs! Though I don't much like the idea of calling new baby "BB2", so I think both boys may have to stop being anonymous soon and reveal their true identities...

And no, I am not in the slightest bit disappointed that new baby is not a girl...
I have long suspected that it is my destiny in life to be surrounded by adoring men, and this trend seems to be confirmed ;-)

My ONLY regret is that I will have to continue keeping my eyes to the ground when faced with rows and rows of beautiful baby girl clothes...
Let's face it: there's some great stuff out there for girls, whereas boys seem to be stuck in the grey / beige / brown zone...


Ah well. As the only female in the family, it seems I am condemned to hog 75% of the total family clothes budget for myself...

I will rise to the occasion.

Teaser

So, this morning we had the 5-month scan.
And all appears to be well: perfect, in fact!
Baby is measuring big for dates and apparently weighs nearly 500 grams already. Gulp. Almost made me wince in anticipation...

Oh... and we also found out the sex.
Anyone want to know?

(I think this is what's known in the trade as a... "cliffhanger"!).
(Forgive me, all's fair in love, war and blogging...).

Mars and Venus

Question: How can two people have such different approaches to one simple act: buying a new car?

Answer: one is male and the other female.

Example: After much “agonizing reflection”, FH and I have agreed that we really should buy a bigger car this year. After all, soon there will be four of us, and the Twingo is basically a nippy, two-person, city-type vehicle. But, because we both feel quite strongly that we don’t want to be a two-car family, this means selling our dear Twingo and replacing it with something bigger.
Both of us are – rather pathetically – quite sentimentally attached to our little green lump of metalwork, hence the “agonizing”.

Anyway, the decision has been made.

But what I didn’t anticipate was all the “groundwork” that – for a man – precedes the actual (simple?) act of buying a new car…

So, over the past couple of months, a typical discussion in our house has gone something like this:

FH (proffering glossy brochure): What do you think of the Clio Estate? Its got a (blah blah blah) engine and (blah blah blah) horsepower and…. (excuse the missing words: my hearing is wonderfully selective at times)

Me: Yeah, fine. Nice.

FH: Mmm… (producing a different glossy brochure plus a car magazine) but then again, maybe it doesn’t have enough boot space. What about the Kangoo? There are petrol and diesel models so – obviously – we’d get a petrol one, and there’s a lot more room in the back. Also, the engine power is (blah blah blah)…

Me: Yeah, good. I agree.

FH (frowning, deep in concentration): Mmm, but maybe it’s too big. I don’t know, I’ve been thinking lately about the Modus. They’ve just brought out a bigger model and (blah blah blah)…

Me (one eye on the TV): Mmm. Yeah. I like the blue one.

The thing is, if it was up to me, I would definitely adopt the same approach to car-buying as to, say, clothes shopping. I.e. I would walk into a garage, say “I want to buy a new car”, wait for them to show me one, then, if I liked it, say “great, do you have it in blue?”

But it’s not up to me. So I am just waiting patiently for the groundwork phase to be over so that – fingers crossed – a new car eventually gets bought sometime before the end of the year…

Gossip Girl

Four good friends...

... No kids (apart from the ones being toted around in bellies)

...Good conversation...

... A few laughs

... And a nice big chunk of carrot cake.

There are worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon...

My Little Fashion Victim

This post does not - as you might expect - refer to the Man City shirt BB is wearing in the above photo (that's another story...), but rather to the little knitted cardigan he is clutching in his right hand.

If you look closely, you will note that BB can frequently be seen sporting this stripey (bobbly) garment (on the scone-making photos, for example).

The reason is: it's his Favourite Thing. He loves that cardi so much he now presents it to me every morning (regardless of whatever else he may already be wearing, regardless of weather conditions and the like...), and has recently even taken to putting it on himself (or making a good attempt to).

He's affirming his tastes and making decisions... so I'm quite happy to oblige and let him wear it all the time.
But... he's just so sweet in his bobbly, grandpa-esque knitwear that it tugs at my motherly heartstrings!

The other day at the park, there we were -mother and son - on the edge of the action, just sitting quietly in the sun, BB clad in his favoutite cardi (despite the heat), holding onto my hand aimiably.
Lately he has been very shy, so while dozens of other kids (wearing flashy, fashionable clothes) raced about rowdily, BB was content just to sit and observe.

I nuzzled his neck, breathing in the strangely intoxicating scent of his well-worn cardi, and had a surge of that overwhelming, fierce love that I suppose every mother feels from time to time.

And I surprised myself by thinking: if any kid ever dares so much as to make fun of his grandpa cardi... I'll... I'll... Well, I reckon I'd be capable of violence!


At the same time, I was all too aware of the fleetingness of it all, the need to soak up every second of our companiable afternoon.

Because, you know, I somehow doubt very much that in fifteen years' time he'll be snuggling up to his mummy in the park... wearing a bobbly old cardigan.

Velvet Revolution

You may have heard that yesterday was a day of national striking and protest in France. It is not my job to go into the whys and justifications… but suffice to say that after a lot of consideration, I decided not to strike. I was torn between my French desire to march through the streets demanding social justice… and my British cynicism about the whole thing (what’s the point?).
But that didn’t stop me feeling uncomfortable and slightly guilty all afternoon.

FH, however, was out marching, so as a family we notched up a 50% turnout, which is not too bad.

Yesterday evening, he came home buoyed up with excitement and (metaphorically) swaying about from his lofty position on the moral high ground. Hum.
I think if there’d been any royalty in sight, he’d have bagged front row seats for the head-chopping…

I was starting to feel quite shamed, when – unfortunately for him – FH let slip that he and a bunch of colleagues had “stopped off for a beer in the sun” during the protest march.

As you can imagine, a certain amount of teasing ensued.
For quite a number of hours.
FH’s smile started to wane, his courageous, revolutionary veneer slipping under pressure.

OK, he conceded finally (without actually admitting that he just might not have gone protesting had it not been a beautiful sunny afternoon…), but whatever you do, DO NOT mention the beer on the blog!

Ahh… that unique combination of revolution and art de vivre… so French!
I love it.