Sunday

For the first weekend in I don't know how long, Hubster isn't motivated to get outside and mix cement, build walls, or even stock wood. He's tired. Down right tired.

And who can blame him? He works full time and then on his weekends, he's doing his best to become Bob The Builder. And unfortunately for him, I'm a lousy Wendy and the kids can only sing about as good as Roley.

It must drive him crazy, these busy weekends, to know that he's out there chucking cement around all because his wife has this thing for dogs that escape and eat chickens. I'm not even sure that Hubster likes the dogs, to tell you the truth.

He dreams of the day when we'll have a dog that will actually go for a walk with us, rather than having to hang on to dear life to a dog who is in the process of ripping your arms out of your sockets. He loves the idea of a simple Labrador or German Shepherd who will be regal and loving, a dog who will not have recreated the trenches of WWI in our front yard, a dog who will actually come back to you when you call it rather then giving you that husky look that basically translates in every language as, "F-you!"

The people in the village think I'm nuts because I love my huskies. But sometimes I wonder if they think Hubster is even more insane than I am because he actually finds ways to let me have these dogs. Perhaps he knows that this addiction is bigger than I am and somewhere in his heart, he's got a thing for all that fur as well.

I hear him outside now, sanding down a desk he's been wanting to redo for a while now. Working with his hands to take something that needs a little love and attention, putting it right, getting it clean and beautiful. He's good at focusing the minute details, my Hubster. And the end result is always proof that taking your time and doing something as it should be done beats my "can-we-just-duct-tape-it" approach every single time.

A Sunday with a project done. A simple pleasure in making something new.

The cement can wait.

Flowing

I have no rhythym. Absolutely none. Which makes it very hard to dance, and whirl, and feel like a free spirit when the music hits me. I was always one of those people who liked holding up a wall during a school dance. Or the one who was always happy to go and get the drinks when clubbing.

Once, I thought I could dance but that was because I was at a hippy-love music festival in Angel Fire, New Mexico where everyone was under some sort of drug or alcohol induced vibe and hence, rhythmic. You know the scene. All kinds of wacky people, spinning and twirling recklessly into each other, normally covered in mud and sporting some sort of bizarre variation of dreadlocks. Great fun if you could lose yourself completely. Unfortunately, I never managed to do just that and so, combined with the fact that I liked washing my hair, I never really achieved true hippiedom.

I dance in secret these days, when the kids are at school or Rosebud is napping. Nothing fast and furious, just swaying along to my daily rhythym. There are other times when I feel like I'm dancing as I'm meant to be: the days when I telemark down the mountain, or run through the trails, or when I sing and bounce along behind the dogs on the cart. The rhythym flows and I feel so good. Is that even really dancing? Maybe not, but it's got that same magic for me all the same.

There is one woman I've met in my life who can dance, and spin, and work magic with her rhythym. She may not know this, but I was beyond jealous of her a few years back. She's a beautiful soul and people are drawn to her, like hummingbirds to flowers. She's graceful and open. Things I felt I wasn't at the time. I know she's had her fair share of life in her life, but overall, she seems to radiate peace.

Even more so when she dances with her hoop.



Every time I watch her, I'm awed by the simplicity and beauty of movement.

Find your flow, your rhythym, your hoop, and dance.

All Right, I Taste Mouse!

A short documentary about what happened at our house this morning.

Starring: The Princess, Bubba-Love, and Mini-Husband as "the mouse."

Those Stinking Liars!

Today being my national holiday that I love the best, I ran around to all and sundry in the village this morning wishing everyone a HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

And you know what happened? A whole heck of a lot of those people, who for the past 6 years have denied ANY capacity to speak in English, responded to me in English.

What gives?!?!?

After a wee bit of reflection, I'm happy to be thankful for these neighbours and friends, who if they had spoken to me in English way back when, I wouldn't be able to speak French like I do now.

Merci mes amis et avoir une bonne fête!

Shots All Around

So we jumped off the indecision fence Friday and got the whole family vaccinated against this H1N1. Great fun abounds when you are trying to tell three young children that "really, it won't hurt" at the same time you are trying not to twist your intestines into some sort of balloon animal.

I hate shots. Let me rephrase that: I hate vaccines. Shots, if they consist of some sort of fruity alcohol are just fine. It's the kind that put dead or live diseases into my body that I don't like. First off, they hurt. I don't care how much I've lied to my kids, those shots hurt. And then your arm hurts for DAYS after.

Mini-Husband was scared to take off his band-aid last night because he was convinced the pain was being kept at bay by that little strip of plastic and cotton. He was sure that if we took that sucker off, the shot spot would explode and shower us all with H1N1.

So why did we vaccinate everyone in the end? I don't know. It just seems like the right decision to have made. Compounded by the fact that now my mother has had the H1N1 and it's lovely companion, pneumonia, I'm thinking we did the right thing.

People are starting to get sick over here. There are more and more people getting ill and even though a lot of them are trying to claim it's just the seasonal flu they have, watching a healthy 13 year old girl in the village nearly keel over from coughing isn't convincing me.

It was interesting to interact with the other people at the vaccination centre on Friday night ,other families, small children, older folks, and the few adults between 25-40. We all shared that same look about us: apprehension and concern, glad to see others making the same decision we had but still nervous about the outcome.

At this point, we are the only people in the village, to my knowledge, to have had the vaccine. Perhaps we are being too cautious and all this hype will have been for nothing. Only time will tell. Overall, I believe we've done the right thing but the stress of making this choice has been "worrying" at best.

Aren't the choices of modern medicine just so wonderful?

Perhaps the next time an epidemic shows up, I'll just ask for a shot of that tried and tested WWI medicine that is now served on draft at the Trap Bar, Grand Targhee: Jagermeister. I'm sure the taste is better than H1N1 and a sore head is something I'm a little more familiar with...

Thoughts on Paris

*Fours hours there in the car with The Princess and Rosebud. I never knew The Princess could sing so sweetly.

*Passing the giant wind turbines next to the A-75 between Orleans and Paris reminded me of that fact that sometimes in my life I need to stop being like Don Quixote. Sometimes things are just windmills.

*Seeing the joy on The Princess' face when we arrived at her best friend's new house near Paris. I only hope she and Cordelia have each other in their lives just as I've had my friend, The A. These people who mean so much to us at 5 years old can still mean so much to us 30 plus years on.

*Who would have imagined that I would be confidently moving through the Paris Metro, fourth child strapped into her stroller, not worried about getting lost?

*I forgot how much I love the Rue de Rivoli. All the fancy shops right next to the touristy ones. The humanity you see and pass through is mind boggling.

*Why do English speaking tourists in Paris feel the need to look at the books in the English bookstore? And how smug am I to admit the pleasure I get when I use my French credit card to buy things there. "Yes. I live in France..."

*Nothing like leaving my hotel in one of the western suburbs early in the morning only to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, hazy through the sunrise. Seeing it from a distance and from unexpected angles makes it even more amazing and beautiful.

*A market in the banlieue. Old men and women. People of all colours and races. Each pulling behind them their bag on wheels, filled with fresh fish, leeks, potatoes, and bread. Diversity as it should be.

*The sense of panic I had when I realized that I was driving straight towards the Arc de Triomphe, not knowing if my turning was before or after that dreaded etoile. The relief I had when I found my turning seconds later. Not a moment too soon.

*Four hours home with my girls through wind and rain with the occasional tear from The Princess who was sad to have left her best friend behind.

*Home. To my Hubster. To my beautiful boys. To my poop infested mud patch of a garden that lets me gaze for miles over the hills and mountains.

*Paris and this country amaze me. I count my blessings that all of this is part of my life. God, how lucky am I?

Because It's Wednesday

Last night, we swapped out The Princess for Hippy-Love Française's little guy, Annicet. He's a lovely little kid who doesn't seem to mind Mini-Husband dictating what they will play with so that makes everybody really, really happy.

My only issues with friends sleeping over is that this inherently means they (in which ever form, boy or girl) will be up at the crack of dawn ready to build a life size model of the Eiffel Tower out of teddy bears and Playmobile.

Someone please explain to me why on school days, I have to literally pull those grumpy bumkids out of bed, threaten them to within an inch of their lives to get dressed, and hope that they eat something before I wrangle them out the door, all the time yelling, "We're gonna be late for school!" Then on weekends and Wednesdays, they are up before the sun, smiling joyfully, singing and chatting away while I beg with every fiber of my body for just 5 more minutes.

The other problem with this early waking is that I get Bubba-Love next to me, begging to play NickJr. You see, dear readers, my blog is nothing compared to the latest Dora and Diego games. He could give a monkeys about what we think about vaccines, language issues, and dog poop. He needs to play Lazy Town NOW.

So with that in mind, I'm off to drink the rest of the coffee that Hubster made before he left for work. Bubba-Love can click happily away on the computer while Annicet and Mini-Husband create a beltway for their Matchbox cars around the kids' bedroom. I'll sip my coffee slowly as I sit next to Rosebud, who's taken to waking A LOT during the nights again. (Is there a Facebook group, "Teething Sucks?")

I'll hold my cup of nectar close, yawn, stare out our front windows and think how beautiful it is to watch the morning shadows as the sun rises behind the village church. Dare I admit that there is something to lazy early Wednesday mornings? The day is ahead of us. Let's catch it if we can!