The Wedding

People came from far and wide to witness the marriage of Eleanor and Armando. They were married outside, where the warm southern breeze teasingly threatened the ladies’ elaborate hair dos and where the summer heat mercilessly tested the men’s antiperspirant. The temperature rendered all the guests happily impatient for the garden ceremony to commence and when Eleanor finally walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, Armando’s eyes brimmed with tears of tender joy. Eleanor was radiant in a white organza gown, with Elizabethan collar and full billowy skirt. She wore an exquisite pair of delicate silver beaded sandals. She looked the epitome of beauty. The scene was timeless and romantic. It seemed that time stood still. There was no grand fan fare. There was only the simple and sacred ceremony of a man and a woman becoming husband and wife. The decorations and flower arrangements were not extravagant. The music was not pompous or grandiose. The focus was appropriately completely on the bride and groom. The mood was joyous yet calm and reflective. The ceremony was relatively short and while all the guests took in the beauty of the glorious union, the evening sun shone down and blessed all the guests with a light golden tan.

Their ceremony served as a real reminder of what marriage ceremonies are supposed to be like. They are supposed to be simple and solemn. They are supposed to touch you and leave you spell bound, not because of the ornate decorations or the breathtaking view, but because you feel genuinely honoured to have witnessed the joining of two separate individuals into one couple joined in holy matrimony.

The traffic jam

Today we were stuck in the most awful traffic jam. Some say that life is a classroom. Today is a perfect example of how you learn some pretty profound lessons in the most ordinary places and at the most unexpected and often mundane times. We’d emerged from the car park of one of Dijon’s most popular shopping centres only to find ourselves in a bumper to bumper traffic jam. The tension hit our car almost immediately when Matt said that he needed to go pee pee. Neither of us spoke. Both Jerome and I know better than to engage in conversation when neither of us has anything nice to say. The only possible comment to be made would have been in reference to the consequences of a certain someone’s selfish insistence to go shopping on one of the busiest weekends in France. Today was the first Saturday of the January sales in France. In this county you only have sales twice a year, a few weeks in January and then a few weeks in the summer, and on this particular Saturday afternoon it seemed that the entire population of Dijon was crammed inside this shopping mall looking for good deals and bargains. The atmosphere in our car was strained to say the least. But I couldn’t help but giggle when Jerome answered his mobile phone and told his Canadian friend that we were stuck in jam. Jerome speaks English very well. He went to university in Scotland. However there are a few things he says incorrectly that repeatedly make me laugh. Jerome has never referred to a traffic jam as a traffic jam. He simply says “jam” without using any article at all.

As we slowly made our way out on to the main road it became clear that this was a mighty, horrid monstrosity of a traffic jam. The cars were barely moving forward for as far as the eye could see. Jerome soon started with the bad language which unexpectedly provided Matty with an effective distraction from his full bladder. As Matt sat strapped in his car seat repeating “merde” over and over again, the reality of what lay before us started to set in. We were going to be getting home very late.

I soon noticed that a few cars were speeding past ours and making considerably better progress than us. Jerome explained that these were naughty rebellious drivers using the bus lane to get ahead and they risked a hefty fine should a policeman see them. I began to observe these lawless drivers driving past us. I saw a man with a nose ring and a tattoo and quickly categorised him as being an unruly hooligan. I saw a well dressed businessman in a fancy sports car and thought that he probably considered himself far too important to wait in the traffic like the rest of us folk in our mere modest cars. In yet another car I saw a family who I assumed were immigrants with no respect for French law. For nearly half an hour I observed these drivers in the bus lane. I effortlessly judged them. I glared at them and shook my head at them and thought to myself how much better than them I was until Jerome, after depleting his reserves of foul language, decided to pull into the bus lane and join them. I was horrified. This was not the man I married. I asked Jerome what on earth he was thinking and he glanced over at me, winked and confidently replied that he was unleashing his hidden James Bond.

I underwent an emergency self analysis and came to the unavoidable conclusion that I am a nothing but a self righteous woman who has taken it upon herself to unjustly judge those who dare to deviate from the path of unrealistic permanent perfection. It was a shocking realisation. I am no better than the pretentious and arrogant driver in the convertible, who may not actually be pretentious or arrogant at all. I am no better than the eccentric man with the piercings or the natives who aren’t entirely native or any of the other drivers in the bus lane. Ever since I’ve known Jerome he has commented on how judgemental I am. I’ve just always considered myself gifted when it comes to giving people personal assessments.

I hope this year however I will be trading in this talent for a new one. I hope this year I will learn to see through people’s exteriors and into their interiors, and I hope that I’ll never again forget that we are truly all the same. I hope to spend less time judging others and more time working on myself. This is my new year’s resolution.

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.