For BB: An Anecdote

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I stare in disbelief at the gaping hole, and my mouth contorts into a semi-wail, semi-smile.

To help you understand why I’m in this state: here’s a little background.

At 7 pm, I biked into town with BB, on a mission to purchase a waterproof jacket for his first ever school trip tomorrow.

I knew I’d left it late, but the teacher’s note said “in case of light rain, make sure you provide your child’s waterproof jacket”, and – although I shrugged and took note of the fact BB did not as yet possess a waterproof jacket – I never thought it would actually rain.

Only today at 5 pm did Google think to inform me that rain was predicted. OK. No matter: when FH got home to relieve me of one kid, I hot footed it to Monoprix with the other.

And hey presto, we were in luck. There was one waterproof jacket left in his size. Perfect. We bundled it into the basket with the ingredients for his picnic (also a requirement of the School Trip Which Must Be Perfect), handed over the cash, and cycled home.

Home at 8 pm, and of course, it’s the usual hysteria, made worse by the fact we’re running late and everyone’s more tired and hungry than they should be.

With tears and some shouting from all sides, the boys are coaxed into their bedrooms. FH embarks on the usual story/calming routine, while I run around like a gameshow contestant who’s been instructed to “prepare the perfect day in 15 minutes max.”

I butter bread, slice cheese, pack the dinky water bottle and cheese slices and fruit pot into the dinky lunchbox. Then I whip out the iron, locate the name label, smooth out the spot on the lovely new waterproof jacket where I will lovingly iron on my son’s name.

As I press the hot iron down over the label, I am exhausted and yet filled with a sense of the importance of my mission: I am preparing my son’s first ever school trip. He’s going to have a lovely time and it’s all going to be perfect.

When I lift up the iron after the recommended 10 seconds, an ominous sizzling sound suggests that all is not well. There is an iron-sized hole in BB’s new waterproof jacket.

This is the part where my mouth contorts.

Funnily enough, my first split-second reaction is: that’s pretty funny. But a second later, I want to howl. Literally sink to the floor and cry and yell “It’s not fair!!!”

But here we get to the crux of the story (and if you’re still reading at this point: thank you. I hope you will find the next part rewarding).

While the (irretrievably damaged) iron still sizzles in my right hand, my mind has already flipped into High Alert Survival Mode. I reckon I have about five minutes before FH re-emerges from the bedroom and gets an eyeful of this ridiculous scene. I know with stomach-knotting certainty that this anecdote (and yes, I’m already aware that it will be an Anecdote) absolutely must have a happy ending. This cannot just be the story of "the time I burned a hole through BB’s new jacket”.

So I unplug the iron (I’m no fool), grab my fluorescent cycling jacket and run out of the house.

I pedal like a woman possessed. I reach Monoprix at 9.30 pm. I couldn’t remember whether it closed at 9 or 10, but luck – after deserting me once – seems to be back on my side: the shop’s still open.

I rush in, scan the rows of boy clothes, scrutinise the labels on all the jackets.

And yes, I do find another one in his size. Another one which – I swear – was not there when we came in earlier. Interpret that as you like: personally, I like to think that the good Lord helps us out in little ways when He sees the messes we get ourselves in to.

I pay for my second waterproof jacket of the evening, get back on my bike, start the ride home. And as I pedal along in the dark, tears start to run down my face.

Not because I’m impressed with my heroism, or because I think the jacket has life-altering importance, but because this modest mission has just made me realise something major: a mother will do absolutely anything in her power to make her child happy.

And sure, some of it is about me, about perfectionism. But a bigger part of it is about him. Because I can’t stand the thought of him being the only kid without a waterproof jacket. Or – er – him seeing the jacket we bought together with a stinking great hole in the back.

So BB: this story is for you.

In fifteen years’ time, who knows how you and I will be getting along? You’ll be 18, and chances are I’ll be annoying you like crazy. I know: I annoy myself a lot of the time.

But, if one day you want to read through some of these blog entries and find out a bit more about the little things that made up your childhood, then I hope you’ll read this tale and smile.

And know that your Mum – despite her many faults – once cycled through the darkness for half a hour like a maniac to make sure your first school trip would be perfect.

Or near enough.

The Tortoise and The... Hare

It's 9.08 a.m., and I'm crammed into a tiny toilet cubicle at work, frantically changing clothes and smoothing down my wet, unruly hair (I cycle to work), when I have one of those sudden flashes.
You know: one of those moments of truth - a timely insight into your life, your state of mind, your daily plight.
A five-second stock take.



And that's when my inner voice whines: would you just look at you?? You spend four fifths of your life in a constant hurry. You rush from place to place, commitment to commitment... with only the odd hour's respite here and there. Your head is spinning most of the time - if you stand up too quickly, you feel light-headed. Your bag always contains a change of clothes, deodorant and a spare nappy (not for me, I stress). Here you are, scrambling around trying to tame your hair into some kind of style, at 9.08 a.m., just so you can slip behind your desk by 9.12 a.m. and look poised enough to fool anyone (your boss) into thinking you've been there diligently since 8.30.

This is my life. Is it normal?

I wonder whether it has to be this way. Perhaps I am partly to blame. I mean - wouldn't it all be just a little simpler if I didn't insist on cycling everywhere? If I could just resign myself to the concept of sitting patiently in traffic, rather than racing between crèche, school and work on a pushbike, sometimes with a 13-kilo kid strapped on the back?
Maybe. But that old cliché about sport being a drug has some truth to it.
There are days when I look at the car, and the grey sky, and the drizzle, and I consider my options. But even on the days when the car wins out, I end up cracking somewhere along the way (usually as soon as I spy the tailend of a traffic jam...), dumping the car back home and switching to two wheels.

It's the freedom, the addictive part. This much, I'm sure of.
But the downside, of course, is the haste, the sweat, the change of clothes, the messy hair.

So now - insightful flash over - it's 9.10 a.m.
I dab at my sweaty face, clip my hair up, sigh, unclip it.

And as I stare at my reflection in the mirror, I realise that actually - all things considered - there's just one thing that would make my life easier.
Just one, small, barely significant thing, that would make the hectic timetable of my life a little gentler to implement, help me win back precious minutes.

Why oh why oh why can I not have hair that falls into place naturally???

LB: CV in Brief

Age: 13.5 months
No. of teeth: almost one!!
Skills: lopsided crawling (two arms, one leg)
Vocabulary: MAMAMAMAMAAAAAAAAN!
Character: STRONG, tempered by affection & cuddliness
Potential: huge

Sweet September

Saturday: an Autumnal breeze, light grey clouds, a pair of socks, retrieved, an hour's escapism for me (a ride into town, a hot black coffee, a good book).

Sunday: a bright blue sky, warm sunshine, perfect stillness, summer returns, a bike ride with friends (one boy on the back of each bike), picnic in the shade, a bunch of flowers, just for me.
September may be dethroning June as my favourite month of the year.

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...

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 :-))

Bike-ku

You know when something just tickles you?
Makes you giggle so much you can't stop, and suddenly you're shaking uncontrollably at your desk, and looking a bit wild-eyed and ridiculous?

This morning I received an email from a particularly eccentric but touching American colleague.
He's a lovely guy in his late fifties, a truly "young at heart" type who somehow still manages to see the world as a gentle, fluffy, wondrous place, despite having notched up over five decades of life experience.

Updating me on his day to day life, he wrote: I'm cycling to work more and more, and starting to really love it. Actually, sometimes as I'm riding along, I get inspired to compose little poems - haikus - in my head (he then inserted his haiku, which I won't reproduce here for, er, copyright reasons). Well, I call them haikus, but actually, I like to think of them as "bike-kus"

Bike-kus.

One little word that had me shaking with laughter... and gave Monday morning an unexpectedly sweet taste.