There are plenty of things fascinating and adorable about the girl tirelessly taking care of her three baby dolls. Like the way she immediately agreed the third should be named Gladys, and consequently explained to her repeatedly, "Yername, Gladys."
But most fascinating and most adorable is the way she whispers to herself small words of reassuring self coaching like every French parent does as she tends to their every need : allez, hop, tac, and voilà.
Showing posts with label expatriation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label expatriation. Show all posts
Friday, September 11, 2015
Friday, September 04, 2015
On Consolation
It was early Monday morning when I definitively learned I would help a friend bury his dad the next day. They didn't know exactly what they wanted, but they wanted an homme d'église saying something, anything as they lowered him down. Ils avaient raison. Because saying goodbye to a dad with no one speaking truth by our sides is desperately hopeless indeed.
It was another one of those out of body twilight zone moments, as if I'm watching a film of an unlikely story. How did this kid from Pennsylvania end up in a bourgeois home outside of Paris to help lay to rest a man he doesn't know? Ce cheminement avec Dieu est drôlement étonnant, I wrote to a friend. Don't ask questions, count it as the extreme honor that it is.
At midnight the evening prior, I was led to write about the privilege it was to share these moments with this family I did not know. That I was not there to make their grief disappear, but I was there to share it with them, live it with them. And that reminded me of our God who promises the same. I read words declaring who our God is, that he is close to the broken-hearted, that he is merciful, compassionate, full of goodness, an ever-present help. Then I read words of our Jesus, sent to do the same. A man who had a habit of suffering, as it's put in French, a man who sympathizes with our weakness, a man who understands and is ready to share it all by our sides. A man who promises rest for our weary and heavy-laiden souls. A man who wept before the grave of his good friend, because he loved him, because he was overwhelmed with sadness, because he was revolted by death.
We don't have a God distant and indifferent, but a God who understands and shares and enters into pain with us. This is shocking. This is unlike anything we know in this earthly experience. This should surpass our understanding. What king is like this?
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort...
He is the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort. He is the source of mercy and comfort. And what do we human beings need more in this life than mercy and comfort? We who recoil at hardened dictators, demanding bosses, exigent teachers, we look to this King ready to sit at our side as we sob uncontrollably and know he must be good, he must be true, he must be what we've been seeking all this time.
...who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.
And if he consoles us -- and he does -- he does it not just for our own well-being, but so that we can extend this consolation to others when our turn arises. He wants us and expects us and nudges us to pass it on. And here we see the overflowing fountain of generosity that comes from the heart of God: spilling over and onward and outward, using awkward and weak vessels to get the job done.
But don't miss what's implied. If we're passing on consolation that came from God, that means we very likely received God's consolation from someone. The first person you called who dropped everything and came to sit with you, it was not just a friend, it was God himself. The friends that pulled themselves together to order flowers and make you meals, that was more than friends, that was God himself. The person who didn't try to cheer you up, but sat and cried in silence with you, that was the Father of mercies and God of all comfort. And it also implies that if we are not opening ourselves up in vulnerability to allow others to comfort us, if we are hiding our grief or doing it alone, we are resisting the consolation that God offers.
And now I realize what exactly was going on in my presence at the graveside. It resembles only moreso an unlikely story, and all the more an honor.
Bref, consolation comes.
Don’t back down, concentrate on seeing
The breakers in the bar, the neighbor’s greeting
My brother had a daughter
The beauty that she brings, illumination
It was another one of those out of body twilight zone moments, as if I'm watching a film of an unlikely story. How did this kid from Pennsylvania end up in a bourgeois home outside of Paris to help lay to rest a man he doesn't know? Ce cheminement avec Dieu est drôlement étonnant, I wrote to a friend. Don't ask questions, count it as the extreme honor that it is.
At midnight the evening prior, I was led to write about the privilege it was to share these moments with this family I did not know. That I was not there to make their grief disappear, but I was there to share it with them, live it with them. And that reminded me of our God who promises the same. I read words declaring who our God is, that he is close to the broken-hearted, that he is merciful, compassionate, full of goodness, an ever-present help. Then I read words of our Jesus, sent to do the same. A man who had a habit of suffering, as it's put in French, a man who sympathizes with our weakness, a man who understands and is ready to share it all by our sides. A man who promises rest for our weary and heavy-laiden souls. A man who wept before the grave of his good friend, because he loved him, because he was overwhelmed with sadness, because he was revolted by death.
We don't have a God distant and indifferent, but a God who understands and shares and enters into pain with us. This is shocking. This is unlike anything we know in this earthly experience. This should surpass our understanding. What king is like this?
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort...
He is the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort. He is the source of mercy and comfort. And what do we human beings need more in this life than mercy and comfort? We who recoil at hardened dictators, demanding bosses, exigent teachers, we look to this King ready to sit at our side as we sob uncontrollably and know he must be good, he must be true, he must be what we've been seeking all this time.
...who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.
And if he consoles us -- and he does -- he does it not just for our own well-being, but so that we can extend this consolation to others when our turn arises. He wants us and expects us and nudges us to pass it on. And here we see the overflowing fountain of generosity that comes from the heart of God: spilling over and onward and outward, using awkward and weak vessels to get the job done.
But don't miss what's implied. If we're passing on consolation that came from God, that means we very likely received God's consolation from someone. The first person you called who dropped everything and came to sit with you, it was not just a friend, it was God himself. The friends that pulled themselves together to order flowers and make you meals, that was more than friends, that was God himself. The person who didn't try to cheer you up, but sat and cried in silence with you, that was the Father of mercies and God of all comfort. And it also implies that if we are not opening ourselves up in vulnerability to allow others to comfort us, if we are hiding our grief or doing it alone, we are resisting the consolation that God offers.
And now I realize what exactly was going on in my presence at the graveside. It resembles only moreso an unlikely story, and all the more an honor.
Bref, consolation comes.
Don’t back down, concentrate on seeing
The breakers in the bar, the neighbor’s greeting
My brother had a daughter
The beauty that she brings, illumination
Tuesday, August 04, 2015
An analysis of pebble beaches in a list of pros and cons
1) no sand castles
2) kills your feet after a while
3) get pelted when waves crash in
4) kids are constantly throwing rocks into the water...in the direction of swimmers' heads
Pros:
1) does not enter your car or travel home with you in all of your belongings
2) kids are not tempted to eat it
3) the sea water makes them magnificently smooth and round and they glisten like gems when they're wet
4) when the water moves out and drops them they make a mesmerizing sound like shaking a sack of marbles
5) makes for a surprisingly comfortable bed
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Dad Troubles
The train home was set to depart in one minute when the other kid announced he needed to pee. The trip home was set to take well over an hour. The alert sounded, the doors closed, and we started the journey.
He said he could hold it.
The train has small signs pointing to a bathroom. I see people coming and going from what looks like one. I take the kid, we go down the steps, through the train car, to a door marked as a toilet. I try the door and it's locked. I ask the girl on the phone if it's occupied. "No, I don't think so." Does it work? "No, I don't think so." I try again to be sure with no luck.
I begin looking for rare corners where a bladder could be relieved with even less luck. I ask him if he wants a diaper. He reassures me he can hold it, but the small dance and look of discomfort on his face aren't terribly reassuring. He goes back to sit with mama while I sweat it out.
We could jump off the train at the next stop and find some place, but we don't have enough time to get back on and the next train wouldn't pass for a long time. As I'm trying to figure it all out, I watch a woman walk to the bathroom, pull out a tool for unlocking the door, and enter. The girl on the phone looks back at me with large puzzled eyes and shrugs; I see her recounting the story in disbelief to the person on the other end once the woman leaves.
I go back to the diaper plan. Erica and I have done some strange things on trains involving the needs of our children, but how do I discreetly remove the underwear of a three year old and replace it with a diaper among the other passengers? I set up a modesty booth using the reserved spot for a wheel chair, my coat, and our stroller, and I'm ready to do the job with confidence, but when I announce it to him he starts wailing. He's exhausted from our day, irritated from a bladder that's about to burst, and on the verge of falling asleep, peeing his pants, and throwing a temper tantrum all at once. He's yelling "I WANT TO GO TO THE TOOOIILLEEET" so loudly that I abandon the idea rather quickly and return him once again to his seat where it's even more visible that this thing is gonna blow sooner than later.
The woman across from us puts down her book to interject, saying there's a toilet on the train further back. I'm skeptical but we go immediately. We pass through at least two cars with no luck when we finally see an agent. The train comes to a stop and he says goodbye pleasantly to the descending passengers when I pull him aside to ask him if there are any working toilets on the train. No, sorry. So I ask: if I hop off to let my kid pee on the train platform can you hold the train? Yes, of course, but it'd be better at a platform that's less crowded. (The stations further out in the country are perfect places to pee, he's implying, and he's not wrong.) I understood and agreed. Can the little guy wait 10 or 15 minutes? With that I expressed my hesitation. Doubtful. Go ahead, and he waved me off.
We run to the nearest discreet corner and unload as quickly as possible. In my haste to get back to the train, I yank his underwear and pants up so hard that I lift him right off his feet into the air and he pitches forward, almost doing a face plant but catching himself on the wall next to him. The Agent's watching the whole thing and laughing at my misfortune. The kid cries, "I DON'T LIKE YOU WHEN YOU DO THAT!" I pick him up and we run back to the train, he's over it with a timid giggle of glee, the agent blows the whistle, the doors close behind us.
We hustle back toward our car and when he spots Mama on the other end he yells, announcing proudly and enthusiastically in front of all the other passengers, in English no less, "HEY! WE PEED OUT THERE!!!"
This is parenthood, and its absurdity never ceases to amaze me.
He said he could hold it.
The train has small signs pointing to a bathroom. I see people coming and going from what looks like one. I take the kid, we go down the steps, through the train car, to a door marked as a toilet. I try the door and it's locked. I ask the girl on the phone if it's occupied. "No, I don't think so." Does it work? "No, I don't think so." I try again to be sure with no luck.
I begin looking for rare corners where a bladder could be relieved with even less luck. I ask him if he wants a diaper. He reassures me he can hold it, but the small dance and look of discomfort on his face aren't terribly reassuring. He goes back to sit with mama while I sweat it out.
We could jump off the train at the next stop and find some place, but we don't have enough time to get back on and the next train wouldn't pass for a long time. As I'm trying to figure it all out, I watch a woman walk to the bathroom, pull out a tool for unlocking the door, and enter. The girl on the phone looks back at me with large puzzled eyes and shrugs; I see her recounting the story in disbelief to the person on the other end once the woman leaves.
I go back to the diaper plan. Erica and I have done some strange things on trains involving the needs of our children, but how do I discreetly remove the underwear of a three year old and replace it with a diaper among the other passengers? I set up a modesty booth using the reserved spot for a wheel chair, my coat, and our stroller, and I'm ready to do the job with confidence, but when I announce it to him he starts wailing. He's exhausted from our day, irritated from a bladder that's about to burst, and on the verge of falling asleep, peeing his pants, and throwing a temper tantrum all at once. He's yelling "I WANT TO GO TO THE TOOOIILLEEET" so loudly that I abandon the idea rather quickly and return him once again to his seat where it's even more visible that this thing is gonna blow sooner than later.
The woman across from us puts down her book to interject, saying there's a toilet on the train further back. I'm skeptical but we go immediately. We pass through at least two cars with no luck when we finally see an agent. The train comes to a stop and he says goodbye pleasantly to the descending passengers when I pull him aside to ask him if there are any working toilets on the train. No, sorry. So I ask: if I hop off to let my kid pee on the train platform can you hold the train? Yes, of course, but it'd be better at a platform that's less crowded. (The stations further out in the country are perfect places to pee, he's implying, and he's not wrong.) I understood and agreed. Can the little guy wait 10 or 15 minutes? With that I expressed my hesitation. Doubtful. Go ahead, and he waved me off.
We run to the nearest discreet corner and unload as quickly as possible. In my haste to get back to the train, I yank his underwear and pants up so hard that I lift him right off his feet into the air and he pitches forward, almost doing a face plant but catching himself on the wall next to him. The Agent's watching the whole thing and laughing at my misfortune. The kid cries, "I DON'T LIKE YOU WHEN YOU DO THAT!" I pick him up and we run back to the train, he's over it with a timid giggle of glee, the agent blows the whistle, the doors close behind us.
We hustle back toward our car and when he spots Mama on the other end he yells, announcing proudly and enthusiastically in front of all the other passengers, in English no less, "HEY! WE PEED OUT THERE!!!"
This is parenthood, and its absurdity never ceases to amaze me.
Thursday, December 18, 2014
Babble
The girl's franco-american babble comes out sounding like something that resembles more so norwegian than anything else. The things she does with her tongue are strange and impressive.
But when it comes to her favorite word, she has decided on the language to use. It is not "no" but quite clearly and emphatically "non non."
But when it comes to her favorite word, she has decided on the language to use. It is not "no" but quite clearly and emphatically "non non."
Sunday, September 07, 2014
Backyard Soccer à la française
Yesterday was our first superFrench day-long party-gathering.
The dads organized a parent vs. kid soccer game.
The game began and the men were typically nonchalant in their approach, as if they didn't care and weren't excited, just humoring their children. They kept this attitude but went on and deftly dodged little ones, barely running yet weaving through, scoring goals, all while effortlessly ensuring they didn't spill a drop from their plastic cups of wine. An impressive display of understated finesse.
As the American, I was in it to win it. I was the only one not clutching a beverage, the only one to clumsily bulldoze the five-year-old birthday-boy within the first 5 seconds of the game, sending him off hysterically crying, the only one sprinting, the only one yelling, the only one tripping over the improperly inflated ball, the only one missing the goal with each wild kick. An impressive display of...an overstated lack of finesse.
I've still got a lot to learn.
The dads organized a parent vs. kid soccer game.
The game began and the men were typically nonchalant in their approach, as if they didn't care and weren't excited, just humoring their children. They kept this attitude but went on and deftly dodged little ones, barely running yet weaving through, scoring goals, all while effortlessly ensuring they didn't spill a drop from their plastic cups of wine. An impressive display of understated finesse.
As the American, I was in it to win it. I was the only one not clutching a beverage, the only one to clumsily bulldoze the five-year-old birthday-boy within the first 5 seconds of the game, sending him off hysterically crying, the only one sprinting, the only one yelling, the only one tripping over the improperly inflated ball, the only one missing the goal with each wild kick. An impressive display of...an overstated lack of finesse.
I've still got a lot to learn.
Saturday, May 10, 2014
welcome "home"
The boys and I went for a walk. I exchanged a hi-how-are-you-fine-thanks-and-you-good conversation with a neighbor. The kid asked, "Is he a friend? Why were you talking to him that way?"
My mom told my sister-in-law she liked her purse. It was mine.
My two-year-old took a bite of a string-cheese stick, put it back down on the counter, and asked me if he was allowed to spit it out in the trash. He did, then asked me for goat cheese instead.
My mom told my sister-in-law she liked her purse. It was mine.
My two-year-old took a bite of a string-cheese stick, put it back down on the counter, and asked me if he was allowed to spit it out in the trash. He did, then asked me for goat cheese instead.
Friday, August 09, 2013
the kid and i in paris
When he says he likes taking the train, 10% of it is the excitement of a train, the other 90% is taking advantage of the one occasion where I freely let him play Angry Birds. Because when it came to our arrival at Saint Lazare one hour and seven minutes later, he decided he wanted to walk to the first destination rather than take the Metro, because he was tired of trains.
Walk we did. And it's a dangerous thing walking hand in hand with a strong and distractable child, because just when think you're keeping a good pace, he stops cold without warning and yanks your arm out of its socket. First was to see a construction truck lifting a pallet to a top floor window. Second was walking past the toy store. He ducked in far enough to grab the latest Play Mobil catalog then followed along as I coaxed him back out. Third was walking past a pet store on a random side street in the 8eme.
It was a classy acquarium store: fish on the first floor, birds and rodents downstairs. The owner greeted us warmly as we were surely the first customers of the day. I explained we were just looking and he said "And it's good so far, no?" It was. I told him we were spending the day in Paris. "Just one day?!" Putting that puzzle piece together with the accent, he asked if it was a stop between flights, and I explained that no, we live in Normandy and the kid has been wanting to come in. "Well I'm honored that you'd consecrate part of your one day in Paris to my shop and me." At one acquarium all the giant goldfish came to greet us. When we put our fingers on the glass, they followed. "Your fish are very social," I told the man. "Yes, it's true, they are very kind like the shop owner."
When we arrived at Parc Monceau, chosen primarily because it's beautiful and not far from Saint Lazare, the kid informed me he didn't want to go to the playground right away. He preferred to sit on a park bench and browse his Play Mobil catalog. He did just this, like a 70-year-old man reading the newspaper. He also took advantage of the moment and finished his pain au chocolat from home. This is the life, people.
The day was a long string of negotiations, trying to teach a 5-year-old about the nature of time, train schedules, distances in a city, prioritizing and choosing between one thing or the other. Some decisions were easy: when he said "eat in a restaurant," he informed me in the train, he actually meant McDonalds. Happy Meal. Toy. I was a little disappointed to not find a croque-monsieur at a bistrot for him, but he said it firmly enough that I knew there was no negotiating, though he did accept settling for the inferior French version of McDo called Quick, with which a 30 minute wait in line was anything but, and though I was the one to suggest it for convenience's sake, going to Quick instead of McDo was almost as disappointing as going to McDo instead of a bistrot.
The second park we visited turned out to be a big disappointment. It was a park we visited a few years ago and everything was closed after we got stuck in a 3 hour traffic jam. I was really looking forward to a second chance at visiting what seem like wonderful places to play, but upon our arrival we saw they were once again practically all closed for maintenance. The kid handled it much better than I did, and sensing my disappointment he reassured me: "I'm sorry Papa. But we're fine, Papa! We'll find other things to do! It's OK!" That sort of role reversal kind of put me to shame, so I pulled myself together and we moved on to other things.
Like the submarine exhibit. I thought for sure it'd be free, and was a little frustrated to find the 3Euro admission fee. At least there were audio guides. When the man at the counter asked if we spoke French, the kid responded with no hesitation, "Oui!" But I asked the kid (in French) if he preferred English. "Oui!" That made the man ask, "You're bilingual? How lucky!" We went with our English audio guides and enjoyed the inside of the submarine, and the kid kept talking about it for the rest of the day, that old old submarine he called it, and even asked to go back one more time. Turned out it was the worth the six euros.
I asked him if he wanted to rent a paddle boat at the Paris Plage. No hesitation: "No." This completely surprised me. I asked again. "No, I want to do fun things like slides. Besides, we have a boat at home." Puzzled, I asked, "What boat?!" "You know, the toy boat in the bathtub." Ah, of course, no need to rent a paddle boat then. Scratch that off the list. Easy enough.
I suggested we go to the playground in the park next to the Louvre Pyramids. We've visited only once, but his trap-door memory searched the files of mental notes and catalog of elaborate maps and he asked, "You mean the one where you go up the ladder and crawl across the net and go over the bridge and under the roof and then down the slide?" "Yes, that's the one," astonished. "Yeah, let's do it!" We did. He loved it.
And he knew when he was ready to move on to the next priority. I was surprised, but on his own initiative he came to me and said, "Papa, I'm ready to go see the dinosaur."
Off we went. As he's learned most of his numbers at school last year, I tried to seize the opportunity to let him practice in the metro, telling him what we were looking for and letting him navigate. As I informed him of the next step on the train, he looked at me with big round eyes saying with much enthusiasm, "Don't worry, Papa," (yes, he really does interject "Papa" in every single sentence he says to me) "I have EAGLE EYES!" As we got off the metro and started our way, he was having trouble spotting the number. It's because we were standing almost directly under the sign and he's not as tall as your typical metro user. I gave him a hint to look up. He did and spotted it, knowing I had spotted it first, and said just as enthusiastically, "YOU have eagle eyes TOO, Papa!"
Once again I showed him a map and gave him the option: metro (save those poor feet!) or walk along the seine (get out and enjoy this beautiful day!). He chose to walk, for which I was glad despite my concern for his sore feet and our limited time. Getting down along the Seine and beginning the walk, he finally sighed in a daydream, "Papa, I really want to live in Paris someday."
Later, in another daydream, he said, "Papa, I wonder what happened to the old submarine captain. I think he either went to South America or died. But I think he went to South America."
We saw the dinosaur, a chrome T-Rex sculpture recently featured on Colossal.
With that we started our trek home, and he now started to ask to be carried. Not in the whiney insistence that tells you he actually could walk and is just being lazy, but more so in a begging no-really-I-can't-take-another-step-this-is-serious kind of way. Sure enough, as we waited for the next metro, standing on the platform before the automatic door, he decided to sit down on the ground, four feet away from the provided benches. As we made our way through stations, we got on several escalators, and each time he'd turn around and sit down on the metal stairs. For the last distance I carried him from the escalator to our final train. A surreally difficult experience, as in our first year navigating through public transportation was always done with him in my arms. It's no so easy anymore, which also thankfully means he can walk farther and faster. I put him down and instead of protesting he sighed a pathetic "Thank you" as though he were actually saying, "You've saved my life."
We got on our train back home with 7 minutes to spare, meaning negotiations and choices all worked out alright, we played Angry Birds until the battery died, and we slept well last night, and I think both of us were pretty pleased to have a day with one another.
Walk we did. And it's a dangerous thing walking hand in hand with a strong and distractable child, because just when think you're keeping a good pace, he stops cold without warning and yanks your arm out of its socket. First was to see a construction truck lifting a pallet to a top floor window. Second was walking past the toy store. He ducked in far enough to grab the latest Play Mobil catalog then followed along as I coaxed him back out. Third was walking past a pet store on a random side street in the 8eme.
It was a classy acquarium store: fish on the first floor, birds and rodents downstairs. The owner greeted us warmly as we were surely the first customers of the day. I explained we were just looking and he said "And it's good so far, no?" It was. I told him we were spending the day in Paris. "Just one day?!" Putting that puzzle piece together with the accent, he asked if it was a stop between flights, and I explained that no, we live in Normandy and the kid has been wanting to come in. "Well I'm honored that you'd consecrate part of your one day in Paris to my shop and me." At one acquarium all the giant goldfish came to greet us. When we put our fingers on the glass, they followed. "Your fish are very social," I told the man. "Yes, it's true, they are very kind like the shop owner."
When we arrived at Parc Monceau, chosen primarily because it's beautiful and not far from Saint Lazare, the kid informed me he didn't want to go to the playground right away. He preferred to sit on a park bench and browse his Play Mobil catalog. He did just this, like a 70-year-old man reading the newspaper. He also took advantage of the moment and finished his pain au chocolat from home. This is the life, people.
The day was a long string of negotiations, trying to teach a 5-year-old about the nature of time, train schedules, distances in a city, prioritizing and choosing between one thing or the other. Some decisions were easy: when he said "eat in a restaurant," he informed me in the train, he actually meant McDonalds. Happy Meal. Toy. I was a little disappointed to not find a croque-monsieur at a bistrot for him, but he said it firmly enough that I knew there was no negotiating, though he did accept settling for the inferior French version of McDo called Quick, with which a 30 minute wait in line was anything but, and though I was the one to suggest it for convenience's sake, going to Quick instead of McDo was almost as disappointing as going to McDo instead of a bistrot.
The second park we visited turned out to be a big disappointment. It was a park we visited a few years ago and everything was closed after we got stuck in a 3 hour traffic jam. I was really looking forward to a second chance at visiting what seem like wonderful places to play, but upon our arrival we saw they were once again practically all closed for maintenance. The kid handled it much better than I did, and sensing my disappointment he reassured me: "I'm sorry Papa. But we're fine, Papa! We'll find other things to do! It's OK!" That sort of role reversal kind of put me to shame, so I pulled myself together and we moved on to other things.
Like the submarine exhibit. I thought for sure it'd be free, and was a little frustrated to find the 3Euro admission fee. At least there were audio guides. When the man at the counter asked if we spoke French, the kid responded with no hesitation, "Oui!" But I asked the kid (in French) if he preferred English. "Oui!" That made the man ask, "You're bilingual? How lucky!" We went with our English audio guides and enjoyed the inside of the submarine, and the kid kept talking about it for the rest of the day, that old old submarine he called it, and even asked to go back one more time. Turned out it was the worth the six euros.
I asked him if he wanted to rent a paddle boat at the Paris Plage. No hesitation: "No." This completely surprised me. I asked again. "No, I want to do fun things like slides. Besides, we have a boat at home." Puzzled, I asked, "What boat?!" "You know, the toy boat in the bathtub." Ah, of course, no need to rent a paddle boat then. Scratch that off the list. Easy enough.
I suggested we go to the playground in the park next to the Louvre Pyramids. We've visited only once, but his trap-door memory searched the files of mental notes and catalog of elaborate maps and he asked, "You mean the one where you go up the ladder and crawl across the net and go over the bridge and under the roof and then down the slide?" "Yes, that's the one," astonished. "Yeah, let's do it!" We did. He loved it.
And he knew when he was ready to move on to the next priority. I was surprised, but on his own initiative he came to me and said, "Papa, I'm ready to go see the dinosaur."
Off we went. As he's learned most of his numbers at school last year, I tried to seize the opportunity to let him practice in the metro, telling him what we were looking for and letting him navigate. As I informed him of the next step on the train, he looked at me with big round eyes saying with much enthusiasm, "Don't worry, Papa," (yes, he really does interject "Papa" in every single sentence he says to me) "I have EAGLE EYES!" As we got off the metro and started our way, he was having trouble spotting the number. It's because we were standing almost directly under the sign and he's not as tall as your typical metro user. I gave him a hint to look up. He did and spotted it, knowing I had spotted it first, and said just as enthusiastically, "YOU have eagle eyes TOO, Papa!"
Once again I showed him a map and gave him the option: metro (save those poor feet!) or walk along the seine (get out and enjoy this beautiful day!). He chose to walk, for which I was glad despite my concern for his sore feet and our limited time. Getting down along the Seine and beginning the walk, he finally sighed in a daydream, "Papa, I really want to live in Paris someday."
Later, in another daydream, he said, "Papa, I wonder what happened to the old submarine captain. I think he either went to South America or died. But I think he went to South America."
We saw the dinosaur, a chrome T-Rex sculpture recently featured on Colossal.
With that we started our trek home, and he now started to ask to be carried. Not in the whiney insistence that tells you he actually could walk and is just being lazy, but more so in a begging no-really-I-can't-take-another-step-this-is-serious kind of way. Sure enough, as we waited for the next metro, standing on the platform before the automatic door, he decided to sit down on the ground, four feet away from the provided benches. As we made our way through stations, we got on several escalators, and each time he'd turn around and sit down on the metal stairs. For the last distance I carried him from the escalator to our final train. A surreally difficult experience, as in our first year navigating through public transportation was always done with him in my arms. It's no so easy anymore, which also thankfully means he can walk farther and faster. I put him down and instead of protesting he sighed a pathetic "Thank you" as though he were actually saying, "You've saved my life."
We got on our train back home with 7 minutes to spare, meaning negotiations and choices all worked out alright, we played Angry Birds until the battery died, and we slept well last night, and I think both of us were pretty pleased to have a day with one another.
Wednesday, August 07, 2013
off to paris
I've been promising the kid a date in paris for far too long now. It's finally happening tomorrow.
Before bed I asked him again what his requests were. Simple:
1. Take the train.
2. Go to lots of parks. With slides and swings.
3. Eat at a restaurant.
4. Sleep in a gîte.
As he settled into bed he added:
5. See the Eiffel Tower "sprinkle."
6. Maybe we could take a ride in a fancy bus?
7. Come home late at night, when it's dark out.
We'll see what we can do.
Before bed I asked him again what his requests were. Simple:
1. Take the train.
2. Go to lots of parks. With slides and swings.
3. Eat at a restaurant.
4. Sleep in a gîte.
As he settled into bed he added:
5. See the Eiffel Tower "sprinkle."
6. Maybe we could take a ride in a fancy bus?
7. Come home late at night, when it's dark out.
We'll see what we can do.
Sunday, August 04, 2013
The Odor of Youth
We took the girl to church today.
Getting ready to leave outside, another girl about 8 or 9 years of age came and crouched down to admire her in her carseat. She was smitten, talking of how much she loved little babies, finishing by saying,
"...et puis ils ont toujours une certaine odeur; l'odeur de jeunesse."
"...ce qui te plaît ?" I asked.
"oui, beaucoup."
"They always have a certain odor...the odor of youth." It sounds much more eloquent in French, especially when such a sophisticated 8 year old is saying it. And though a more dynamic equivalent would be something more straight forward like "baby smell," I knew exactly what she was referring to and couldn't agree more.
Getting ready to leave outside, another girl about 8 or 9 years of age came and crouched down to admire her in her carseat. She was smitten, talking of how much she loved little babies, finishing by saying,
"...et puis ils ont toujours une certaine odeur; l'odeur de jeunesse."
"...ce qui te plaît ?" I asked.
"oui, beaucoup."
"They always have a certain odor...the odor of youth." It sounds much more eloquent in French, especially when such a sophisticated 8 year old is saying it. And though a more dynamic equivalent would be something more straight forward like "baby smell," I knew exactly what she was referring to and couldn't agree more.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Bilangue
It's fascinating when a two year old automatically knows to say "ByeBye" to anglophones and "Au Revoir" to francophones.
But it's heart-melting when he decides to randomly switch it up and say, still respectively, "See yaaa" and "Ciaooo."
You know what's not heart-melting? When your little punk 5-year-old proudly announces that he now knows more French than you do.
But it's heart-melting when he decides to randomly switch it up and say, still respectively, "See yaaa" and "Ciaooo."
You know what's not heart-melting? When your little punk 5-year-old proudly announces that he now knows more French than you do.
Thursday, April 04, 2013
Only the Essentials
We were one after the other in line at the grocery store cash register.
One was wearing a fancy hat, classy corduroys, waiting to buy nothing but a few clementines, a block of comté, and a bottle of Bordeaux.
The other was wearing Levis and a t-shirt, waiting to buy nothing but a pound of ground beef, hamburger rolls, and a pint of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream.
I'll let you guess which was me.
One was wearing a fancy hat, classy corduroys, waiting to buy nothing but a few clementines, a block of comté, and a bottle of Bordeaux.
The other was wearing Levis and a t-shirt, waiting to buy nothing but a pound of ground beef, hamburger rolls, and a pint of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream.
I'll let you guess which was me.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Family
1) "Put your shoulders back," my mom always told me. I've been told more than once I have poor posture. But I was surprised during a pause on a hike with a bunch of retired people when one lady came right over and scolded me, placing one hand on my back and the other on my shoulder and pushing me upright. "Who wants scoliosis?! Stand up straight! Shoulders back! No, I say it because my sister had her back cut open at the age of 40 so that they could glue all over vertebrae back in place. You are tall. Be tall. Stand proud. The ladies like a tall, proud man." And then the jokes began about her being my mother. "It's true, my mother always said the same thing," I added.
2) The other kid thinks that if you have a belly, you must have a baby inside. He comes over to me and to his brother and lifts our shirts to pet our bellies saying, "Baybeeeee." We try correcting him--no baby here, scientifically impossible--but it's no use. I caught him the other day gazing at a magazine with a pregnant lady in her underwear on the cover. He was caressing her overgrown stomach gently and I heard him softly mutter, "Ders a baybee inder."
3) The most amazing thought of parenthood is imagining the perspective of a two foot tall toddler. There's good reason he's got a look of wonder in his eyes when he cranes his neck to look up at me. I'm three times the size of him, which means it'd be like me looking up to a man who is 18 feet tall. And can you imagine an 18 foot tall giant picking you up? Swinging you around by the arms? Putting you on his shoulders? Throwing you up in the air? Wildly inconceivable.
4) I picked up the kid from school and we ran an errand. On the way home, looking out the car window, he said out of nowhere, "Papa, I want a puppy named Bubbles. Is that a good name?"
"Bubbles? Um...yeah."
"You like it?"
"Yes, it's a good name. Bubbles the dog and Banjo the cat. Bubbles and Banjo."
"Yeah," he said in a daydreamy tone, still gazing out the window.
"Bubbles and Banjo. Best of friends."
"Yeah," he said in the same sigh of a tone, as though he were wishing it into existence.
2) The other kid thinks that if you have a belly, you must have a baby inside. He comes over to me and to his brother and lifts our shirts to pet our bellies saying, "Baybeeeee." We try correcting him--no baby here, scientifically impossible--but it's no use. I caught him the other day gazing at a magazine with a pregnant lady in her underwear on the cover. He was caressing her overgrown stomach gently and I heard him softly mutter, "Ders a baybee inder."
3) The most amazing thought of parenthood is imagining the perspective of a two foot tall toddler. There's good reason he's got a look of wonder in his eyes when he cranes his neck to look up at me. I'm three times the size of him, which means it'd be like me looking up to a man who is 18 feet tall. And can you imagine an 18 foot tall giant picking you up? Swinging you around by the arms? Putting you on his shoulders? Throwing you up in the air? Wildly inconceivable.
4) I picked up the kid from school and we ran an errand. On the way home, looking out the car window, he said out of nowhere, "Papa, I want a puppy named Bubbles. Is that a good name?"
"Bubbles? Um...yeah."
"You like it?"
"Yes, it's a good name. Bubbles the dog and Banjo the cat. Bubbles and Banjo."
"Yeah," he said in a daydreamy tone, still gazing out the window.
"Bubbles and Banjo. Best of friends."
"Yeah," he said in the same sigh of a tone, as though he were wishing it into existence.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Conquering Fears in 2013
Nobody visits the Arc de Triomphe by car. At least no one in their right mind does. There's a good reason.
It's called Place de l'Etoile. Place of the Star. Not because it creates a quaint little 5 point star, but rather a 12 point star. And when TomTom the GPS says, "Enter the round about, then take the 17th exit..." things just get a little overwhelming.
For two years straight I've avoided it (and most round points like it) at all costs. But we drove into the city and I began to realize pretty early on just exactly where it was taking me. Not sure how to avoid it this time around, reactions ranged from nervous laughter to determined self-talk.
Heart began pounding. Palms sweating. When my jaw wasn't clenched
tight, I began talking more loudly and excitedly. Screamed a little
bit.
Got closer. Motorcycle rally all of a sudden surrounds my car, passing me on both sides.
Was reminded of one of our supporters who visited last year. When returning her rental car, much to her dismay, the GPS took her on the same route. As I entered, I yelled to myself, "IF SHE CAN DO IT, SO CAN I...."
E helped watch my passenger side blind spot a bit (when not documenting my panic). Bicycles doing n'importe quoi. Taxis. Honks and beeps. Limousine. Late decision to exit. It wasn't pretty, but it was a success, soon just a thing to spy in the rearview mirror. I laughed. No big deal.
It was a great way to start 2013. Now only thing left to ask is: what next?
For two years straight I've avoided it (and most round points like it) at all costs. But we drove into the city and I began to realize pretty early on just exactly where it was taking me. Not sure how to avoid it this time around, reactions ranged from nervous laughter to determined self-talk.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Christmas Vacation of a Lifetime
Monday: Our apparently Protestant kids chose to protest at the Christmas Eve mass, we were forced to bail early.
Tuesday: Whole family stayed in our pajamas until 4:30.
Wednesday: While trying to trim a rose bush I snipped off the tip of my finger with pruning shears on what was supposed to be the last cut. Never saw my body bleed like that. Went to the emergency room for the fourth time in my 2 year existence on French soil, this time with a baggie of ice in hand containing the little sliver of my finger, just in case. The doctor said, "Nothing we can do. But that's not pretty."
Drove more than an hour back to the Ikea where the kid lost his precious stuffed animal more than a week earlier. They had, thankfully, found it. He's been a much happier kid since, sleeping much better.
Thursday: Took the kid to a pediatrician 45 minutes away because our region has a shortage of doctors. Was being seen for a wicked sort of diaper rash. She prescribed violet water. We don't really understand what it is, but instead of his buttocks being red, they are now stained bright purple. Our hands too.
Wanted to go ice skating while in that town, you know, do something Christmas-y. It started pouring. We had no umbrella. When we got home the sun came out.
Friday: I didn't mention that as of Tuesday, we were illegal immigrants, our resident cards expiring on Christmas of all days. The grumpy receptionist at the Prefecture told me the immigrant office no longer accepted phone calls. If I wanted any information I had to come in. We packed up the family and left the house by 8AM. They had our cards, surprised I didn't receive notice already, made sure I was aware how much of an exception they were making because card-pick-up only happens on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Told me grumpy lady was lying, they still accept phone calls. Scraped what felt like the last few pennies out of our bank accounts to pay for the cards. Got home and found in our mailbox the notification saying they were ready.
Tuesday: Whole family stayed in our pajamas until 4:30.
Wednesday: While trying to trim a rose bush I snipped off the tip of my finger with pruning shears on what was supposed to be the last cut. Never saw my body bleed like that. Went to the emergency room for the fourth time in my 2 year existence on French soil, this time with a baggie of ice in hand containing the little sliver of my finger, just in case. The doctor said, "Nothing we can do. But that's not pretty."
Drove more than an hour back to the Ikea where the kid lost his precious stuffed animal more than a week earlier. They had, thankfully, found it. He's been a much happier kid since, sleeping much better.
Thursday: Took the kid to a pediatrician 45 minutes away because our region has a shortage of doctors. Was being seen for a wicked sort of diaper rash. She prescribed violet water. We don't really understand what it is, but instead of his buttocks being red, they are now stained bright purple. Our hands too.
Wanted to go ice skating while in that town, you know, do something Christmas-y. It started pouring. We had no umbrella. When we got home the sun came out.
Friday: I didn't mention that as of Tuesday, we were illegal immigrants, our resident cards expiring on Christmas of all days. The grumpy receptionist at the Prefecture told me the immigrant office no longer accepted phone calls. If I wanted any information I had to come in. We packed up the family and left the house by 8AM. They had our cards, surprised I didn't receive notice already, made sure I was aware how much of an exception they were making because card-pick-up only happens on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Told me grumpy lady was lying, they still accept phone calls. Scraped what felt like the last few pennies out of our bank accounts to pay for the cards. Got home and found in our mailbox the notification saying they were ready.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
francoamerican
As he ate his goûter, I asked the impossible question.
Me: If you had to choose between peanut butter and Nutella, which would it be?
Kid: Peanut butter and Nutella.
Me: OK, but if you had to choose, which one?
Kid: Both.
Me: Yeah, but I'm saying if you could only pick one. Just one.
Kid: Nutella and peanut butter.
Me: But if one ceased to exist, which would you choose to stay?
Kid: *groaning sigh* Peanut butter.
Me: And....?
Kid: Just peanut butter.
But he didn't look happy about it.
And he stayed at the table for another 20 minutes, alone, fixing himself peanut butter cracker sandwiches, one after another, fully content, as though if he had to choose, he would in fact be OK with just peanut butter.
Me: If you had to choose between peanut butter and Nutella, which would it be?
Kid: Peanut butter and Nutella.
Me: OK, but if you had to choose, which one?
Kid: Both.
Me: Yeah, but I'm saying if you could only pick one. Just one.
Kid: Nutella and peanut butter.
Me: But if one ceased to exist, which would you choose to stay?
Kid: *groaning sigh* Peanut butter.
Me: And....?
Kid: Just peanut butter.
But he didn't look happy about it.
And he stayed at the table for another 20 minutes, alone, fixing himself peanut butter cracker sandwiches, one after another, fully content, as though if he had to choose, he would in fact be OK with just peanut butter.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Seasonal Affective Disorders
If France didn't have a place to pick apples my seasonal affective disorder would start a season early.
In describing American culture to a foreigner, one would naturally describe holiday traditions, perhaps in particular our unique holidays like Halloween and Thanksgiving. But one would most likely neglect mentioning the two-month-long celebration that is autumn, where we rejoice and revel in all things pumpkin, all things spice, all things crisp, all things orangey-yellowish-red, all things harvest, all things country, all things quaint. The flavored coffee, the yankee candle, the flannel shirt. We'd neglect to mention it because it has somehow become so natural, so much a part of us and our region, and the fact that it's not a special day but an entire season. But watching celebratory status updates and album uploads starting in mid-September from afar, one realizes just how peculiar it all is. It's a type of seasonal affective disorder in its own right.
France has attempted to import pieces of Halloween (or the States have attempted to export?) with minimal success. The orchards sell pumpkins, warning they are the type not for eating just for decoration, and hold a few jack-o-lantern workshops. But it all remains far from being ubiquitous. The stores do sell pumpkin soup all year round, found in the extensive boxed-soup aisle, from which the Americans could learn a few things, because it all blows Campbells out of the water.
So I don't know when apple-picking became a family tradition, but it has, and its one we've been able to keep up in France, and it seems to make up for all the missing things. Yesterday morning clouds gave way to a clear blue sky, the only good apple-picking weather we've seen in weeks. An emergency room visit delayed our departure time, but we were able to go nonetheless. As we parked we attempted to ignore the dark clouds on the horizon. We hiked to the back of the orchard for the Braeburns (which can be conserved up to 8 months and used in winter or spring salads) and the Granny Smiths (ideal for tartes aux pommes). The boys enjoyed their wheel-barrow rides and helped to pick, each one of us wearing a smile. It was a quick affair as the clouds moved closer, and as our crate was filled the drizzle began, and we shuffled all the way back to the entrance. The kid, hood up, said, "Let's go straight home and have an apple party and invite lots of people." E stopped to pick some flowers (pay by the kilo) as the drizzle gave way to a downpour, and the downpour gave way to an all-out hail storm. Bizarre, but kind of the meteorological norm around here. We huddled under an overhang and waited for it to pass before paying. The hail storm gave way to an intensely bright rainbow--probably the fourth or fifth we've seen in the past month--and the rainbow gave way to completely clear blue sky on the drive home. We listened to The Album Leaf and Mumford and Sons in the car, because they seemed most appropriate.
There were no hay rides, no scarecrows, and it was not quite the perfect picturesque fall day that our home culture insists upon, but regardless, it satisfies a need and manages to stave off the throes of disorder, and for those things, we can't complain at all
In describing American culture to a foreigner, one would naturally describe holiday traditions, perhaps in particular our unique holidays like Halloween and Thanksgiving. But one would most likely neglect mentioning the two-month-long celebration that is autumn, where we rejoice and revel in all things pumpkin, all things spice, all things crisp, all things orangey-yellowish-red, all things harvest, all things country, all things quaint. The flavored coffee, the yankee candle, the flannel shirt. We'd neglect to mention it because it has somehow become so natural, so much a part of us and our region, and the fact that it's not a special day but an entire season. But watching celebratory status updates and album uploads starting in mid-September from afar, one realizes just how peculiar it all is. It's a type of seasonal affective disorder in its own right.
France has attempted to import pieces of Halloween (or the States have attempted to export?) with minimal success. The orchards sell pumpkins, warning they are the type not for eating just for decoration, and hold a few jack-o-lantern workshops. But it all remains far from being ubiquitous. The stores do sell pumpkin soup all year round, found in the extensive boxed-soup aisle, from which the Americans could learn a few things, because it all blows Campbells out of the water.
So I don't know when apple-picking became a family tradition, but it has, and its one we've been able to keep up in France, and it seems to make up for all the missing things. Yesterday morning clouds gave way to a clear blue sky, the only good apple-picking weather we've seen in weeks. An emergency room visit delayed our departure time, but we were able to go nonetheless. As we parked we attempted to ignore the dark clouds on the horizon. We hiked to the back of the orchard for the Braeburns (which can be conserved up to 8 months and used in winter or spring salads) and the Granny Smiths (ideal for tartes aux pommes). The boys enjoyed their wheel-barrow rides and helped to pick, each one of us wearing a smile. It was a quick affair as the clouds moved closer, and as our crate was filled the drizzle began, and we shuffled all the way back to the entrance. The kid, hood up, said, "Let's go straight home and have an apple party and invite lots of people." E stopped to pick some flowers (pay by the kilo) as the drizzle gave way to a downpour, and the downpour gave way to an all-out hail storm. Bizarre, but kind of the meteorological norm around here. We huddled under an overhang and waited for it to pass before paying. The hail storm gave way to an intensely bright rainbow--probably the fourth or fifth we've seen in the past month--and the rainbow gave way to completely clear blue sky on the drive home. We listened to The Album Leaf and Mumford and Sons in the car, because they seemed most appropriate.
Sunday, September 09, 2012
Un Tourne-Disque
How much for that, the thing on top, what's that called anyway?
Hey mom, how much for just the tourne-disque on top?
Ah, tourne-disque, c'est ça.
You want just the tourne-disque? You don't want it all? It's 10 euros for all of it.
10 euros for all of it?
Yes.
Can I give you 10 euros for just the tourne-disque?
No, look, it's a radio, CD, cassette, all of it. 10 euros for all of it.
And it works?
Yes it works.
Guaranteed?
Guaranteed. You go try it, if there's a problem, come back.
But all I want is the tourne-disque.
Sorry, all or nothing.
Well, OK then, I'll take it. Let me take all these toys to the car and I'll be back.
This afternoon I'm listening to Damien Jurado, Richard Swift, and lots of obscure instrumental bands, albums I haven't listened to in more than three years...
That in itself is worth the 10 euros (even despite the super fuzzy speakers), but the option to listen to French radio, and record it on cassette with my double tape deck, and make copies for friends with high-speed dubbing, and bask in the early-ninetyness of it all, all that's just bonus.
Hey mom, how much for just the tourne-disque on top?
Ah, tourne-disque, c'est ça.
You want just the tourne-disque? You don't want it all? It's 10 euros for all of it.
10 euros for all of it?
Yes.
Can I give you 10 euros for just the tourne-disque?
No, look, it's a radio, CD, cassette, all of it. 10 euros for all of it.
And it works?
Yes it works.
Guaranteed?
Guaranteed. You go try it, if there's a problem, come back.
But all I want is the tourne-disque.
Sorry, all or nothing.
Well, OK then, I'll take it. Let me take all these toys to the car and I'll be back.
This afternoon I'm listening to Damien Jurado, Richard Swift, and lots of obscure instrumental bands, albums I haven't listened to in more than three years...
That in itself is worth the 10 euros (even despite the super fuzzy speakers), but the option to listen to French radio, and record it on cassette with my double tape deck, and make copies for friends with high-speed dubbing, and bask in the early-ninetyness of it all, all that's just bonus.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Olympics Day 1
Televised Olympics in France are not quite the same as in the States. It's been a long day of judo, fencing, cycling, and badminton.
But even that doesn't fail to inspire. After cycling, the kid asked to go on a bike ride, and he pedaled that tricycle like a gold medal depended on it. After a few short minutes of gymnastics, we saw successful 180 degree jumps with attempts for 360, and confident, capable somersaults which he insists on calling, "push up rolls."
As for badminton--surprisingly intense--only one logical question remained: "What's bad about it?"
And now the men are about to swim in the same size pool he has his swimming class in, but he has already worn himself out. He's qualified for the finals in the falling-asleep-on-the-couch event, but I'm sure to give him a run for his money before the end of these next two weeks.
But even that doesn't fail to inspire. After cycling, the kid asked to go on a bike ride, and he pedaled that tricycle like a gold medal depended on it. After a few short minutes of gymnastics, we saw successful 180 degree jumps with attempts for 360, and confident, capable somersaults which he insists on calling, "push up rolls."
As for badminton--surprisingly intense--only one logical question remained: "What's bad about it?"
And now the men are about to swim in the same size pool he has his swimming class in, but he has already worn himself out. He's qualified for the finals in the falling-asleep-on-the-couch event, but I'm sure to give him a run for his money before the end of these next two weeks.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
un Petit Oiseau et un Matématicien
Turns out that show I discovered the other week is in fact a weekly event, and it has quickly become part of my routine. I'm loving some of the discoveries it's providing...
Two of my new favorites singing together:
Then there's this fella singing a trick of a song. Still not really sure what he's saying, and if you don't get it either, just try saying "Ta Katie T'a Quitté" as fast as he does and your admiration will quickly grow. He was called a mathematician, and it's true that these lyrics are perfectly, ingeniously calculated:
Two of my new favorites singing together:
Then there's this fella singing a trick of a song. Still not really sure what he's saying, and if you don't get it either, just try saying "Ta Katie T'a Quitté" as fast as he does and your admiration will quickly grow. He was called a mathematician, and it's true that these lyrics are perfectly, ingeniously calculated:
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