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.