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.

First day of school, last day of babyhood

What can I say? Matty's first day of school was a very difficult day for me. His father took the morning off work knowing fine well that I was in no fit state to "throw my son to the sharks" as our nanny so eloquently put it. Our nanny, this beautiful matronly Tunisian lady who absolutely adores Matt, called me at home to ask how the day had gone for me, and completely forgot to inquire how it had been for the little two year old in question! She's a lovely nanny and I will miss her dearly when the time comes for us to part ways. Anyway, back to little Matthew Nathan who went to school for the first time this week and did so well, didn't even cry and spent a whole three hour morning in a classroom with twenty-five boys and girls he'd never met before and a teacher who's name translates from French into Mrs Strong. And somehow we all survived. Even his distraught mother.

Time flies... Concorde.

I feel like I’m turning the pages of our calendar like a druggie on speed flicking the pages of a magazine. I feel like I’m living my life on fast forward. You give birth, a few days later you have a six month old, before you know it you’re planning your baby’s first birthday party, and then, lo and behold, he’s eighteen months!

At first I had a really hard time accepting that you only get to spend such a short amount of time with your adorable newborn, your pudgy six month old, and so on. Your baby gets the cutest hair, complete with rubbed off hair hole on the back of his head, or fluffy white blond hair that stands up on end, or just enough hair to make a mohawk in the bath before his hair gets too long, and then you’re on to the next to the next hair style. And the thing is, each stage seems to be the best one! It took a while for me to realize that it was actually Matt himself who I’d fallen in love with; the twinkle in his eye, his heavenly smell after the bath, the way only you can comfort him after a crash landing in to the flower bed, the way he resembles your husband and how lucky you feel to have the love of your life cloned in to your son. So I guess as long as you don’t change his shampoo or divorce your husband, you can fall asleep at night safe in the knowledge that although your baby is heading straight for the terrible twos, he’ll always, without fail, be able to melt your heart just by being the little angel or the little terror that he is.