Happy Holidays

We all have people in our lives who wind us up, piss us off, and drive us crazy. And it is often around this time of the year that we are confronted with the reality of spending Christmas with the most unsavoury of people. In the past my strategy has been to hold all my tension inside. My British side encourages me to keep a stiff upper lip, while I silently remind myself not to ruffle any feathers and not to make a scene. But recently the American activist in me has been experimenting with the idea of being more assertive, daring to respond to any ridiculous rude comments with a very polite but firm “I do not agree”. I don’t see why I should be subjected to some asinine relative informing me of the dire the consequences of drinking non-organic milk, or of the perilous danger of using a chemically scented deodorant, or of the shame I should apparently feel when I set foot inside a fast food restaurant.

My self esteem as a mother and as a wife is not adversely affected by my inability to make paper thin crepes. I believe I am still a respectable lady. My respect for you as a person is not diminished by my assertion that we are different. How ironic it is that someone who does volunteer work for an equal rights charity can audaciously hint at my inferiority and their superiority. I was raised to have self respect. This Christmas I plan on defending my views and upholding my beliefs, on protecting my values and adhering to them. This Christmas I plan on establishing boundaries and guarding them fiercely. This is my gift to myself.

Holding on to the present

On the bus the other day I gazed at him. I stared at him in the same way I used to when he was a newborn, trying to imprint on my brain this beautiful image before me. I don’t do this often, but when I do I’m reminded how challenging change is for me as a mother. Matty is growing up so fast. Sometimes I feel it’s too fast. And it unsettles me that there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t have a three year old for more than a year. That’s my ration. I love how he looks at me. He trusts me completely. He adores me. He admires me. He crosses his legs like I do. Sometimes I catch him tucking his hair behind his ear in the same way I do. And yet I do know that one day he will want to pull away from me. And I’ll have to let him. Instead of telling him how much I love him while holding him close, I’ll have to quietly whisper this under my breath. He won’t want me to kiss him goodbye as he trots off to school. I won’t be able to smother him in sun cream in the summer. I won’t be able to force him to wear a bicycle helmet when he gets on his bike. I won’t be able to bribe him into eating his vegetables by promising him a treat. I’ll have to trust him to make wise choices in life. All I can do now is trust myself that I can raise him to be a trustworthy boy. He is, like all children, a gift to be cherished. And for now there is nothing more I can do than enjoy every single day I have with him, to live in the present with my present, and to have confidence in my mothering skills, to take comfort from the fact that so far he is utter perfection in my eyes, a source of endless joy and pride, and a treasure in the truest sense.

The power of the post

There is something magical and special about opening your letter box to find a big brown package inside. Even as an adult I get all excited opening a parcel. Today my mother sent Matthew three handsome button down shirts. One is pistachio green and chocolate brown check. One is a beautiful grey shade of lavender. And the third one is a rich aubergine colour. As a mother I have no problem dressing my son in manly shades of purple. Love is an abstract noun. That means that you can’t see it. But it just popped right out of that cardboard box the moment I ripped it open. I could feel the love. It was in the air. From the rainbow of shirts on display my mother selected the precise colours she knows I like. And that touched me deeply.

Last week we received six bags of Percy Pigs sweets from my friend Cybill in London. Matty was so excited. His excitement was contagious and I grabbed my camera and took a grand total of 167 photographs of him opening the envelope, ripping open the sweets, examining these pig shaped treats and then enthusiastically tasting them. I put the camera down only once when he stuffed four Percy Pigs in his mouth and started gagging. I think it’s wonderful how you can take something invisible and intangible and wrap it up and send it abroad. You can buy a thoughtful gift, one that will really mean something to someone, one that will make them think of you every time they wear it or eat it or look at it or hear it, and in doing so you are in fact mailing them some love overseas in a big brown package.

Thanks, Alex!

A very good friend of mine, Annette, lives in Barcelona. She has a nineteen month old little boy called Micah. I see her about every two or three years, but I speak to her on the phone quite often. The other day we chatted for two and a half hours. We didn’t stop for lunch or to discipline our boys or for any other reason. We talked nonstop with microwaves beeps, temper tantrum screams and toilet flushes all contributing to the background noise. My conversation with Annette was perfectly balanced, greatly appreciated and thoroughly enjoyed. We spoke about serious issues, we laughed our heads off, we gossiped, we reminisced about our days at university and we felt close thanks to Alexander Bell’s incredible invention, the telephone.

Change

Why are we wary of change? Is it because we are scared of the unknown or it is because we are often so content with what we have that we fear things simply can’t get any better? I embrace change. But do I embrace change for my child? I do question how he will process a move to a foreign country, how confused he might be, and how quickly he’ll adapt to his new surroundings. I remember when I moved from Berlin to Toronto. So much that was familiar and important to me was lost. I had to come to grips with a new currency, I had to get used to taking a lunch box to school instead of having a three course meal in the cafeteria, I had to make new friends and learn to like new cartoons on TV. But one of the most awful experiences for me was when my father allowed me to choose a candy bar in the grocery store and I came to the heart braking realization that my favorite German chocolate bar was no where to be found in our new and foreign Canadian supermarket. This memory reminds me that often parents underestimate how difficult the little adjustments are.

Do these trials and tribulations, when we tearfully select an unfamiliar packet of sweets, when we temporarily forget where we live and reply “danke” to the teacher to the rapturous laughter of our classmates, when we’re regarded as an idiot for inquiring what a taco is, does this render us stronger or more vulnerable and timid?

I suppose in the long term one gains a greater appreciation for the world we live in, for the differences and similarities that exist between us and those that are important and those which are not, and I believe that instilling a sense of adventure in our children, a sense of "this world is really quite small and it is all for you, my son” is a great gift that we can bestow upon our children. I have lived in many countries and I have precious friends scattered all over the globe. I hope when my son is my age it’ll be the same for him. I hope his children have at least three passports and I hope he always goes through life with a horrendous phone bill, and I hope he grows up to speak many languages, and I hope he knows that his world knows no bounds.

Oh, la belle France!

I feel like both my brain and my heart have vomited at the same time. You prepare for a move in so many ways. You get rid of all your old junk, you meet up with friends who you haven’t seen in ages, you prepare psychologically for the stress and anxiety a move inevitably brings, you motivate yourself and remind yourself that this is something you can do, and then something unexpected happens, and this adrenaline rush you have going on in your mind comes to a screeching halt. As it stands now, we’re not moving. I won’t go into the specific details. Those remain private between my husband and this company he was about to join. But I will tell you that I am filled with a sense of huge relief. This optimism I was feeling was forced and unnatural. I wasn’t ready to move. To be honest, I was frightened. My life in Dijon is just too good, my friends too precious, my job challenging and rewarding, and my son is thriving at the local school. I’d miss the pistachio macaroons. He’d miss the pain au chocolates. I’d miss the impeccably manicured city gardens. He’d miss the merry go round. I’d miss our kind neighbors. He’d miss the candy they always have ready for him. I’d miss our postman who loves to practice his limited English with me. He’d miss the postman who always rings his bicycle bell and waves when he sees us in the street. There’s no place like home and for the moment I glad we don’t have to redefine that term. Our home is France. Our home is Dijon, the capitol of Burgundy. And I love it here!

Au revoir

Every time you move to another country you leave a little bit of your heart behind. But when you leave the country which welcomed your first child, and the nurses who so gently cared for your fragile newborn, the parks which offered him beautiful spaces to run and play, the neighbors who repeatedly let him open their letter boxes and lovingly tolerated him testing their door bells, you know that when you bid farewell to this exceptionally beautiful country you’re going to feel a big, big piece of your heart rip out. It’s highly probable that we will be leaving La belle France to move to England. I’m so upset. This country and it’s natives who let their dogs fowl the city sidewalks, who drive like maniacs, has captivated me and offered my family the most wonderful home. I am so grateful. I am so proud that my son will be, forever, a Dijonais. I do not want to leave. I feel not only my own sadness at our impending departure, but also a sadness on Matty’s behalf, and yet I do know that as long as we pack Teddy and all of his beloved stuffed animals, as long as we can find M &Ms in our new country, as long as our new city has fire engines and police cars with loud sirens and flashing lights, as long as Mummy and Papa continue to love each other and provide him with a stable family life with cuddles and kisses, that Matt will feel no pain. My sadness is my own.

Just as Matthew has an unwavering complete and blind faith in me that all will be well, I too must have faith in this journey my life is leading me on. Au revoir, Dijon. Tu va me manquer.

Learning from the past

I remember when we left Edinburgh about five years ago I felt my heart brake as we drove through the city centre for the last time heading out towards the motorway. I had tears streaming down my face. I didn’t think I could ever love another city as much as I loved Scotland’s utterly charming capitol. And yet, as it turns out, I love the city which gave me my husband as much as the city which greeted my first child.

I remember our estate agent taking us on a tour of our first apartment in Edinburgh. I remember wondering if this one would be the one, I remember noting all the apartment’s pros and cons on a pad of paper. I remember remarking how the windows weren’t double glazed and that the noise from the street would be quite bothersome, but how the flat came with a laundry room which was a major bonus. We were pleased that the kitchen had brand new appliances but unimpressed how, in true British style, the bathroom floor was carpeted. Our experience was similar when we visited our flat in Dijon for the first time. I vividly recall standing in front of the entrance waiting for the agent to find the right key, impatient to see what was on the other side of this beautiful wooden door. I didn’t fall in love with the flat immediately, but I could see the potential. It was a very open plan, child friendly property. We’ve been incredibly happy here on rue de la Sapiniere. When the time comes for us to leave I imagine the flood gates will open just like they did when we left Edinburgh.

If I cast my mind back even further I remember when, as a seven year old, my family left Berlin to move to Toronto. I didn’t have a fear of the unknown, simply an ache at being parted with something I did not want to be parted from. I bent down and touched the tarmac on the runway before looking up at the stairs leading up to our plane. I recall whispering “I love you, Germany” and feeling my mother place her arm around my shoulder. Once on board I looked out of my little airplane window and I felt the tears in my eyes start to trickle down my cheeks. I was emotional even as a seven year old. My sister and my father were sitting one row ahead playing Tic Tac Tow, and I was behind her feeling the most profound sadness I’d ever felt in all of my seven years. My sister feels things deeply, and she has a sensitive and delicate heart. But she expresses herself differently than I do. I simply can’t stop myself from crying when I feel something intensely emotional. I wish there were some sort of Kegel exercises I could do for my eyes to help control my embarrassing deluges.

I know when the time comes for us to prepare for our next chapter everything will be alright. It’s just turning the page that’s the hard part.

A low grade fever and a highly emotional mother

It’s in the most sacred moment between Matthew and I, when he calls for me in the middle of the night, when I have him in my arms breathing into my neck and when only I can soothe him, that I’m reminded in the most beautiful way that I am blessed to be this child’s mother. I can feel my heart melt. My shoulders tremble and tears fill my eyes, and I allow myself to weep these silent tears of joy. I am cradling my son and I feel so high. This love is my drug. Willie Nelson, America’s loveable Country and Western singer is with us in the back ground, and his sweet and gentle voice lift me up to a sort of heaven on earth. I am perfectly content. I lack nothing. And I feel an exquisite peace that only my son can bring me.

Smiling through the tears

You know it's coming. You can feel it like the anticipation before a hurricane. You can almost hear it like a train approaching. And then it hits you. Another milestone. You want to embrace it, but the mother in you who yearns to hold onto her baby forever can't seem to embrace it as the celebratory accomplishment that it is. Matty just finished his first year of school. And I'm beside myself with something I can't quite describe; guilt at feeling so upset when I feel I should be feeling so happy, sadness for the end of an incredibly beautiful chapter and panic at feeling like my sweet, angelic cherub is growing up far too fast.

I took Matt to feed the ducks after school today. And as he threw our stale baguette to the birds he yelled what I can only describe as toddler profanity to the greedy geese who are adept at getting more than their fair share. He never used to do this. Soon, I suppose, he'll be giving those geese the middle finger. As we walked home, hand in hand, I thought about just how very important it is to carpe diem every single day.

A day in February...

Today I'm writing about another wonderful day through my journey of motherhood. My little three year old Matthew Nathan was sitting on the bus today, next to me, one hand in mine, the other wrapped around Teddy. Humming the alphabet song, stopping every so often to point out an ambulance or fire truck, he was content just to be with me. Our bus route takes us through various ethnic neighbourhoods and I so enjoy listening to the rainbow of accents that share our company. This afternoon a West Indian lady sat down in the seat directly in front of Matt's and her long braided hair flopped over the back of her seat. Matt was mesmerized and sat fixated on these long black braids that lay only inches away from him. I let my mind wander as we drove through the cobbled stoned streets of our beautiful town. I felt Matt loosen his grip on my hand, and releasing his fingers from mine, I gently settled my hand on his leg in case the bus were to come to a sudden halt. I enjoy a good day dream and on more than one occasion we have missed our stop and I have found myself exploring uncharted territory with Matt and Teddy in tow. At one point the woman turned around and smiled at us, and I returned a smile that thanked her for her unspoken compliment on my child. This happened repeatedly but I paid little attention, each time anxiously awaiting the return to the musings of my meandering mind. I love getting lost in my thoughts. A fifteen minute free holiday to my faraway fairytale land leaves me feeling so refreshed.

Today as we got off the bus we got more looks and glances than we normally do. I am totally accustomed to people looking at us, for I am a foreigner in this charming town we call home, and I speak to Matt in what is to the natives a foreign language. But today there were slighty more eyes fixed on us as we got off the bus, and as we walked back to our apartment it quickly became apparent why this was the case. As Matt skipped along the pavement my eyes fell upon a little synthetic black braid that he had dangling out of his duffle coat pocket. Aghast, I mumbled an unmentionable bad word under my breath and trotted along behind my son, in my heart vowing to savor every mistake and every accomplishment my child makes, every laugh and every swear word that motherhood brings forth.