Do as I say (not as I do!)

Life with my 2 year old is often fraught with harrowing moments of self recognition, when something he does shows me just how much of our own behaviour he is absorbing, seemingly without results, until it resurfaces unannounced and not always the most opportune moment. The Boy does an uncanny impression of me shrieking for OhPapa down the corridor, something between Sybil Fawlty and Fred Flinstone. He is fascinated by what we call each other, rather than what we tell him to call us. He used to call me Mama, which I loved, but he has picked up Maman from other children and seems to be sticking with that although he uses my first name when he's cross with me (!), and the next time we go back to England I'm sure he'll switch to Mum again to be cool.

It's basically terrifying to see how much he is more affected by what we do as opposed to what we say to him. It's the part I find hardest about the parenting deal, having to become a better person, to model the desired behaviour and stick to it every minute of the day. And there's just no getting around it! For example, I don't want him to think it's "ok" to sit and stare at a computer screen every spare second (my default position), so I have to try and limit my own screen time to his naptime and after he's gone to bed. I have tried to hide any (all the) junk food I eat (and the one time he found a packet of crisps in the kitchen, he came running to me and said  "Here are your treats Maman", slightly terrified - clearly he knows not to come between a Mama bear and her snacks.)  I want him to be a better version of us, I guess every parent does - but I suppose it's only a matter of time before the truth is revealed. I don't think I could fake being a musical genius or an intellectual, could I?! Imagine saying "Ok I'm off to practice the piano", tucking a musical score under your arm and shutting yourself in a room with some Chopin blaring on a secret iPod, every day. It's not tenable! The best I can do is that he sees me reading my Kindle a lot, although he's not to know my reading material is more Gina than Ford Madox, Ford.

Then there are the really shameful moments of imitating bad language or behaviour. There have been a couple of F-bombs that slipped out when were in stressful driving situations in the car, and I just know one of these is going to come back at us when we're least expecting it. There has been a nasty "shut up" incident too which I'm not looking forward to revisiting. Today he said "oh no Maman you have messy sh*t on your jumper?" I hope and pray and am going to go ahead and assume he meant shirt?? He learns from the dvds he watches too - frighteningly so. There was an unfortunate phase he went through of saying "It's not funny!" to everyone (mostly old ladies in the supermarket who were less than amused to have that barked back at their friendly "Bonjour, jeune homme". That came from Peppa Pig of all innocuous places, but then there are some I'm not even sure where they've emanated from, like a very southern American drawling "Hush your mouth"and "You're a real cute girl, Maman". Some are more welcome than others obviously!

There are times that the learned behaviour is something that you can be proud of. Whenever I thank him he always replies "you're very very welcome, Maman." And my heart melts when he calls his sister "my little darling" and is kind to her like we are. Better than a poke in the eye, as they say (and that literally is the other option in this case).

Finally though, there are the ones that you don't really know what to do with...

As he sits in the bath and puts a cup to his chest and says matter of factly,
"I'm just pumping my milk!"

Le Musée en Herbe

OhBoy and friend contemplate Chagall's oeuvre before consuming art supplies

As part of our spring action plan to get into town more and enjoy some culture without having to leave the children behind,  OhBoy and I went to a Wednesday afternoon atelier at the Musée en Herbe. I had been looking for reasons to say "atelier" a lot, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity.  As he was be-smocked and the teacher whisked out some reproductions of Chagall paintings, I felt so so very smug. There I was, taking pictures of my two year old in a smock while he modeled clay and painted Chagall's blue house in a musée near the Palais Royal. How do you like me now, Mummy and Me yoga in Queen's Park?!

OhBoy looked so adorable with his classmates and seemed to understand the gist of what was going on, although I think we do have some work to do on some basic French vocabulary before he starts school or he will be lost in the classroom in full immersion mode.

The novelty of the new setting and the unknown authority figure lasted about 20 minutes which was certainly more than I expected. It did however leave another 25 minutes of increasing restlessness, a lot of shouting "WAT?" (rhymes with "bat") after each instruction and finally, ingestion of the beads that were supposed to be decorating Chagalls's chicken man. (I think that's what that was). I was also thinking "WAT" for much of the time.

The session ended with OhBoy running full tilt through a beaded curtain into the gallery, trailing gluey feathers and chicken feet. The teacher was very patient. I was inspired to try and be a bit more relaxed about messy projects at home, the most I've allowed so far is colouring with washable crayons and some occasional "bean play" which is probably why he went to town when the glue came out. I so want to be the mother who dons overalls and a kerchief and is blasé about paint on the carpet and felt-tip up the walls, but really my comfort zone seems to be a nicely organised atelier in the 1er arrondissement and a laundry room to hose down in before home time.

All in all, it was good value at 10 euros for an afternoon's education, and surprisingly stress-free apart from the million and one stairs to hike up and down on the metro to get there.
I feel atelier fever coming on,  especially with school looming and all those free Wednesdays to fill with productive activities, somewhere other than chez nous.

Bravo Docteur!

Où est Bernard?

OhBoy had to have an injection today, so we made our way to the doctor's office armed with the vaccine (it's bring your own) and his carnet de santé, and one million plastic dinosaurs. Thankfully the waiting room was empty when we arrived so he felt free to leap and rampage and destroy the magazines unimpeded. Until we were joined by Bernard. A grey-haired gentleman, with copious mustache and hirsute ears and nose pores who had evidently left his child-rearing days a long way behind him, made a bee line for the corner and buried his muzzle in Le Point.

After an obligatory silent observation period, "MAN!" OhBoy shouted in English, I will spare you the capitals for his entire dialogue, but suffice to say the boy is always using his outdoor voice. "Hello, Man! Whasyourname Man?... Maman! See the man there!"
Bernard (for it was he) remained stoically silent, despite the fact he was less than 3 feet away from a small stick of dynamite clothed in Petit Bateau. "Wazyourname?? I'm Boy!... I'm Boy! (the second time he pronounced his name in French for good measure)" "Maman, who's that?" A tiny finger, held very close to his cheek, gestured in Bernard's direction.
Maman remained stoically silent, despite the fact I was less than 3 feet away both from OhBoy and from the overpowering reek of leek and potato soup coming off Bernard. As happens so often,  I felt rooted to the spot, zapped by the pure exuberance of OhBoy in these situations. I hope I'm coming off more zen than irresponsible.

OhBoy arab-springed over to Bernard's side of the room and peered around Le Point. Maman was, once again, strangely slow to react, but had time to pray he wouldn't comment on the soup-stench. "What's your name, man?" - Silence. And then...
"Bernard." said Bernard.  "....et toi?" Bernard looked pretty zapped himself at this point.
"I'm Boy!" shrieked OhBoy, delighted. The doctor came in and called Bernard into his office ahead of us, leaving us to read "Où est Charlie?" while Bernard's legume smell dissipated.

When our turn came the Boy was very brave and too intent on grilling the doctor on his name and that of every object in the room to pay much attention to the enormous needle going into his thigh. "Well done darling, you're a brave boy" I whispered as a plaster was applied to the injection site. "Bravo docteur!" he said, "you're a brave boy too!"

"Au revoir Madame", the brave medic said as he saw us out, and then, conspiratorially, "That one needs to smoke some "marijuana"!"

"Thank you Doctor. I'll take a prescription..."

The Devil wears Prada, or is that Pampers?

What a difference a weekend makes. Last week I was working as an assistant at a fashion magazine during Paris Couture Fashion Week. It was all uncomfortable shoes and mad dashes for Starbucks soya lattes. Slightly stressful, but fascinating nonetheless. Fast forward to this week, and my latest temp-job, minding a one-year-old boy in Belleville. It's all uncomfortable soggy jeans and mad dashes for easy-wipes in the park. As it turns out, I'm as much a fish out of water in both worlds.

Last week I was tottering to work in, for me, high heels, only to be congratulated on my "comfy shoes" by a towering amazon on Louboutin stilts. As well as the mandatory Starbucks runs, I learnt a lot about the dos and don'ts of high fashion, including the following scathing appraisal of a fashion party : "It was a wash 'n wear crowd." Take note: fashionistas don't wash their clothes. And even if they did, they would never think of washing their clothes, only to go and wear them again; the horror!

My wash and wear wardrobe and I moved seamlessly into this week where it has been exactly like Three Men and a Baby without the moustaches.

My only previous babysitting experience was an evening spent hovering over my goddaughter's crib, checking she was still breathing roughly every two minutes. So I was in at the deep end this time with a full 6 hours a day with a real live toddler to entertain and keep clean.

Again, the learning curve has been steep. I was genuinely wondering whether I was "allowed" into the supermarket with the baby in the pushchair- I somehow thought it might be like a dog and you'd have to tie it up outside. 

The park was also a new one on me. It's so hazardous! All that concrete to fall onto, sand to eat and get into your clothes, and nasty "big boys" running full pelt into you all the time. Don't even get me started on the swings. And all the parents and nannies sit there happily watching their fragile charges risk life and limb. I was petrified.  

Just keeping my eyes on both the baby and the pushchair was a Herculean task that was almost beyond me. But even that was better than sitting back at home watching him endlessly pointing his (admittedly adorable) finger at every single object in the room, shouting his one word of French: "là-bas?" 

I only both experiences are going to be good training for my future life as an impossibly chic mother. 

Freewheeling Paris Style

The proper way to go about things

Working in an actual office really does do wonders for your motivation. My energy levels last week were twice as much as the week before, when I was seemingly incapable of completing even the one task I had for any given day. Nowadays, I hop out of bed with alacrity before my alarm has even made a peep, and pass-by the post office to pay bills and send letters before I've even got to the office. I'm a full-on multi-tasker, storming through conference calls in French nd being the general go-to girl for the office.

And then I got a little cocky. Today I decided it was high-time I included some exercise in my regime, and took out a "Vélib" bike on my way back from work. Velibs are the free bikes stationed in every quartier that you can pick up and drop back at your destination. After some jolly chats with the business-types at the stop by the Assemblée National, I selected my bike and pressed my thumb to the metal pad to release it. As simple as that! I powered down Boulevard Raspail, feeling the wind in my hair and the evening sun on my legs, a happy worker on her way home, nature's way.

Then came the traffic-lights. And I noticed my skirt had ridden up and was impossible to tug down to a modest level unless I rode side-saddle. And people were looking! On a bike at the lights you are effectively a side-show for anyone waiting to cross, or sitting in a cafe enjoying an apéro and people-watching. Not to mention the fact that the people in cars next to you have a direct pants-level view up your skirt while they hang out their window getting a van-tan and an eyeful of the amateur velibist's legs. Perhaps I was especially conspicuous being the only person in Paris wearing a neon-day-glo vest over my clothes, I'm not sure. Safety first!

A quick getaway was what was needed, but that's a lot harder when you're pedalling on an incline in the sizzling heat, with a slightly flat tyre and weak chicken legs. I think a moped is the only answer. One rev and whoosh! You're gone, leaving onlookers with smut in their eye and only the fading memory of your knickers. Now, a scheme with free Piaggios on every corner is one I could really get on board with. 

Rear Window

Paris is known for its high density population, and our flat, with its inside windows a matter of feet away from the facing building across the cour is no exception. Now that "summer" is here, the open windows provide an even greater degree of intimacy between the two builings, something which has not escaped my Gemini curiosity.

I have to admit to absent mindedly taking a passing interest in our neighbours, especially at night, when the glare of lights turns the flats opposite into veritable theatre-sets. This is what happens when you don't have a TV. The guy in the studio diagonally below always seems to be having a great time, with a constant stream of friends sitting round his table, eating take-away suppers or in full-on party mode. We like him, he has actually engaged in casual banter whilst leaning out the window for a cigarette. The hotel on the other side has a constant stream of unsavvy residents, little realising we've all got ringside views into their bedroom. The poor sods. It's like, "Get a room! Oh, right. Sorry, carry on!"

Then there is the duplex above the party guy, with a puzzling mixture of inhabitants ranging from a bearded forty-something man to a teenage girl via a mixture of twenty-something female students (from the looks of their folders out on the table etc.) They never do anything interesting; as far as I can make out they seem to have a cosy cooking rosta going and each sticks to their own room. All this information has been gathered over the last 6 months mind you, I rarely turn the lights off in my bedroom and settle down at the windowsill for a proper gawp.

This morning I got more than I bargained for, when bearded-houseshare-guy decided to spend a full four minutes airing his behind, perfectly framed by the green shuttered windows. It was a Photo Opportunity if ever I saw one, but I drew the line at actually photographing my subjects and posting them on the internet. That would be an entirely different blog

Getting Fruity at the Grocers

If there's anything I hate, it's a cliché. I don't like to make assumptions about people, and I don't like other people to pigeonhole me.

It bothers me that my very obvious Englishness has been highlighted now that I'm an ex-pat. I've been bored to tears by foreigners harping on about terrible English food, and how it always rains in London, we are terrible at languages and so on, and I've tried not to make the same mistake and judge Parisians too quickly.

However. The time has come to admit that one cliché about Paris is true: it must be, because I have been hit by it almost each and every single time I set foot in a shop or a restaurant. The times it hasn't been the case have stood out in my memory as glorious exceptions to the ghastly rule.

Perhaps it's only in Paris, I've yet to discover the attitude outside the périférique, but customer service is not what it could be. Shopkeepers don't seem to care for your custom. Waiters don't often go out of their way to make you feel welcome. As an English speaker, your French is often corrected or even ignored and answered in (not great) English.

Oui: I've said it, the French are not into service as we know it. Just one example:

Yesterday in the fruit shop, I asked the fruit-monger if he might be able to make up a basket of assorted fruit for me, for my office. Yes, that's right, I asked a shopkeeper if I might be able to purchase some of the things he keeps in his shop. Honestly, what can I have been thinking?!

Fruiterer: "Oh, I don't think so." He said, indignantly. "I'm alone in the shop today."

Me, incredulous, but still hoping for the best (and speaking comprehensible French throughout this exchange): "Oh, I see. But could you not just... put some fruit into a basket?" I said - indicating the numerous baskets directly behind the belligerent fruiterer. "Hopefully it wouldn't take too long, a small selection?"

Fruit-Man, looking like he was sucking on one of his own lemons: "Well, if I do that, I will have to stop whenever another customer comes in, and serve them first. I'm alone in the shop today."

Me (thinking, yes, yes that's right, you are alone in the shop today. Alone, with no other customers and yet strangely unwilling to put some FRUIT, aka your WARES into a basket, in exchange for some money...) but nevertheless smiling encouragingly: "D'accord, merci beaucoup."

Fruitmonger, petulantly picking out some apples and pears and placing them into the basket: "It's not that easy to make up a basket when you don't know what you're going to put in it you know!"

Me: !*???%!!

Fruit-Cake, pouting and huffing like a character from 'Allo 'Allo: "If another customer comes in, I'll be obliged to take their order first, and then it could take up to an HOUR..."

Me, smiling like a cheshire cat: ?!!?%?*?%

Fruit and Nut Case, reluctantly returning to the till with the completed basket, still furtively on the look-out for any prospective customers he could possibly try and serve before me: "That'll be 24 euros."

Me, handing over the cash sweetly, my glazed smile starting to hurt my cheeks, "Thank you so much, and do you have a bag at all?"

Carmen Miranda, affronted and yet triumphant: "Not at all, Mademoiselle! Pas. Du. TOUT!"

Me, still smiling sweetly as I clasped the cumbersome basket to me: "Merci beaucoup Monsieur, vous avez été très...parisien."


And you know what, I really meant it.