Road Full of Promise

For The Man

Every word they sing rings true for you & me, Babe.

Love you.

Deployment

I had just the three big kids today. Decided I wanted to try and make the most of the time I have before I leave and spend a bit of it with just them. We tucked Rosie off to the creche and then headed into town for a little bit of bowling, something I had promised them we'd do during vacation and never got around to doing.

We got the funky shoes on, found our lane, and with thanks to those bumper thingies, we were able to bash the pins quite happily. Of course, Bubba took to throwing the bowling ball rather than rolling it, but his approach was effective because he won. Which, of course, caused a minor hysteria with the other two.

I tried to explain, over and over again, that it wasn't about who was winning but that we were having fun together. Cue horrible theatrics from The Princess. I tried to point out that I missed the pins pretty much every time and I was ok with that. Cue The Princess throwing herself onto the lane and weeping, with long drawn out sighs between shrieks.

We finally finished up and I was able to get the grumpy group back into the car and head off to the grocery store that started it all for me in France. I figured over Nutella crepes at Cora, perhaps I'd get that quality time I was hoping for.

Silly, Dig.

They ate fast, told fart jokes, and didn't listen to me when I tried to spill out all the worries in my heart. I wanted to tell them how much I love them, how proud I am of them, how I hope they'll take it easy on their dad and be nice to the nannies we've got lined up. I wanted to explain for the 700,000 time how I needed them to really help with Rosie when the gang flies over the pond in October. I just wanted to have that moment of deep sharing, a connection, like a scene from one of those movies where the whole smiling family gets together and says through hugs and high-fives, "yes, you betcha!"

I didn't get that.

I stared at their chocolate smeared empty plates as they ran off to the play area and felt like crying.

These are my babies. My babies who I've pushed around that store in all kinds of car seats and shopping carts. My babies who make me insane and crazy mama-bear proud. They leave half eaten cookies next to the toilet, fight over DVDs, and leave The Man's tools out in the rain. They don't listen, they eat with their mouths open, and hit each other when I'm not looking. There are times they make me want to run away as far as I can and now that I'm actually doing that, I'm scared.

I'm scared of leaving them. I'm scared of missing them. I'm scared of being me and not mommy.

I know these weeks will fly by and I'll be back to going insane with them and their Legos on the other side of the pond before I know it, but until then, I will ache. A deep, silly, unsettled ache until my whole tribe, The Man included, is with me again.

I know. I know. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

leaving

I shouldn't be here right now. I have mounds of laundry to put away, dust bunnies to slaughter, and, oh that little packing thing I've been avoiding....

I still can't believe that in just a few short weeks, I'm outta here.  How do you wrap up 8 years of living in a place in such a short time? I have a new found respect and admiration for my crazy ancestors who decided to get on a boat and sail far, far away from everything and everyone they had ever loved, never knowing if they would hear from or see their loved ones again. I'm a lucky sod. I get email and Facebook.

Someone asked me yesterday if I regretted anything of my life here and the answer was most definitely, no. They then asked if I was really ready to leave and the answer was most definitely, yes.

Get me on that boat, Captain. It's time to sail.

Step One: Make More Coffee

Our coffee machine broke a couple of weeks ago and with the pending possibility of upping sticks, we bought a cheap and cheerful replacement at Carrefour. It's a lovely little white machine that makes ever so cute steaming noises while at work. The only downers are that it's white, and therefore likes to show off it's hard work, and it drips everywhere when you pour out the coffee. The other bummer is that it doesn't turn itself off automatically after 2 hours like the last one we had, so I have added another level of stress to my life: I shout and fight, get the tribe into the car, head off for destinations far & wide only to suddenly wonder, about 45 minutes from home, if I turned the coffee machine off.

On the positive side of things, since we don't own a microwave chez nous, there is a new found joy when I can stumble into the kitchen, frazzled and freaking, and find that the coffee I made after The Man left for work is still there and hot. Sure, it's thickened up slightly, but hey! Coffee soup! That's what's for dinner!

I've needed this overdosing of caffeine this week. Trying to sort out flights, nannies, clothes, toys, stuff, crap, friends, dogs, life is intense. But I'm sure you already knew that. In about two weeks, everything changes and we have two months of nuts. Even though the knot in my stomach is for something positive this time, I'm ever so glad I can still drown the sucker in a nice strong cup of Guatemalan.

My first cup coffee in the morning is the most perfect because The Man brings it to me and we sit in bed, stare out at the hills behind the house, and enjoy the peace. These days are flying. We sip as slowly as the minutes can allow.

An hour later and my second cup is done, just as the sun peaks out from behind the church. I hear the boys yelling for Nutella and the background noise of Rosie's favourite Wallace & Gromit film.

My cup is empty. But overflowing.

Fasten Your Seat Belts

Wow. Whoa. OH MY GOD! I got that wonderful job. And now, everything changes.

After 9 years in France, 11 years in Europe, I'm taking my people back to chez moi. I arrived with a fuzzy malamute and a backpack crammed with t-shirts and coffee mugs and now, I'm leaving with 4 little people, a fuzzy Brit, and suitcases filled with Lego.

I have no idea where to begin with anything. I have no idea how to say goodbye to all that we've lived at the Birth Control Bed & Breakfast. I'm beyond excited and miserably sad.

I know in my heart this is the right thing to do. It's time for all of us to move on and do new things, become the people we want to be in a place where The Man & I think everyone will bloom.

I sit here, staring out the window at the village church, and I'm in awe how the weather reflects my mood. It's stormy out there, windy with the clouds swirling around the steeple. But just when I think it's going to finally rain, there's a flash of lightening and glimpse of brilliant blue sky.

I hear the kids fighting with each other in French as Rosie tries to squeeze next to them on the couch.

I hear Typhon howling as the church bells chime.

I see my neighbours heading up to the boulangerie for bread.

I watch the clouds.

Almost As Bad As Waiting for Your Due Date

I'm having one of those problems of thought block yet again this week. My mind is a jumble of past, present, & future and I really wish I could clear it all out.

Adding to my wonderful mental mess is that fact that I'm waiting on news about a possible job. I've interviewed roughly three times with the company and I really, really, really want to land this. Trouble is, if I do get it, this job will radically throw us all up into the air. Such fun trying to live day to day and plan for the immediate when there's a chance that the immediate we know won't be the immediate we live.

So until I know what's up, I'm back to impersonating a pinball machine as I wander around the house, cleaning up random Oreos that Rosie has licked and left laying about, listening to Bubba make deep philosophical statements like, "funny how all fish sticks are made from all kinds of fish, but I only like fish sticks and not all kinds of fish."

The Princess is obsessed with earrings and make-up, MH with Airbus 380s, and the dogs with finding a cold spot in lock-down to beat this amazing summer heat that has finally arrived.

The Man laughs at me as I try to stay calm, pointing out that staying sane has never been an option since 2002. He's working on part 3 of the 'Great Wall of the Village on the Hill' and believe it or not, the end is actually in sight. The psychological release of this is massive. I see a happier, zenner Man in the not too distant future.

So, my imaginary friends, patience. Take a deep breath with me and look around us. Perhaps this is the calm before the storm. Or not.

Today's Theme Song

Can I Get Them All Electric Collars?

This morning started off nuts. Here's me, running around like a mad woman, trying to sort out some stuff on-line, doing laundry, dishes, and entertaining the tribe when my cancer-kicking running buddy stops by for coffee.

We have a good chat about all the wackos in the village, figure out how to solve all the worlds' problems, and decide just which running show is the bomb, when another friend and her three peeps show up for lunch.

And unfortunately, as her peeps came in, they let the dogs out.

But fortunately, la neighboure had her car parked out front of our houses so we zoomed off to rescue the furry friends before the three of them could be stampeded by a very big, very large group of angry Limousin. Nothing like the smell of cow-poop in a small French car.

We get the dogs back into lock-down, I start setting the table to eat, and then it dawns on me that MH is missing. Turns out, he had taken off on his bike to find the dogs as well and still hadn't returned.

I waited. I waited. I panicked. I called everyone in the village. Then everyone in the village went looking for him.

And low-and-behold, not 5 minutes after everyone had gotten into their cars and driven hours towards Paris, MH returned, very sweaty and almost as angry as that herd of Limousin. Of course, at this point, I couldn't call anyone to tell them he had returned because they were all still out there looking for him.

We jitteringly sit down to eat, jumping up from time to time to tell kindly villagers driving by that MH was now home, safe and sound, all the time thinking to myself, "what a hell of a morning."

Cue coffee and a deep sigh of relief.

Silly, Dig.

'Cause now, where, oh where, was Rosie?

We checked the attic. We checked the bedrooms. We checked the basement. We checked the closets. We checked the pool. We checked the lane. At this beyond panic overload, I ran to the back garden and up the back alley that leads into the village. Still no sign of her anywhere.

I reached the boulangerie, hung a left, and ran hard back towards my house.

And who do I see then? My cancer-kicking friend, eyes wide, giggling.

"MON DIEU! I just pulled into the village after looking for MH and who do I see banging on the front door of the boulangerie looking for bon-bons? ROSIE!"

Cue heart attack and tears of relief.

Mon dieu, indeed.

So Not Fair

A Glimpse

I don't think you have any idea, you 8 dedicated readers out there, how much I've been thinking about you, wondering if I decided to just quit this whole blogging thing, what difference would it really make... And then I remembered that as much as I blog for the responses I get from you, (all two of them!) I blog because if not, I will launch myself off that proverbial cliff that I cling to every day.

It's been a hectic couple of weeks with the tribe at home, shitty weather that would make France ashamed of itself, and craziest of all, my homeless in-laws being with us. Imagine: you've just turned 85, sold your house, and now are stuck squatting at your kids' places until you can find a house you like in a depressed property market. Yup, it's a complete 180° to the normal "parents-have-house/poor-adult-child-moves-back-in" thing. But here, I think we win because these two so want their own place again that everyone sees a light at the end of the tunnel, unlike some of my other friends who's kids are BACK and seem to really like sharing the same toothpaste with Dad once again. 

And yet even though they are lovely, the kids are lovely, The Man is lovely, I'm mentally a mess. I'm having this little problem of keeping my thoughts too much in the past. I'm dwelling on this time last year and I know it's because our plans for the future are stalled and until something gives, moves, or changes for The Man & I, I can not get out of this rut. Until our new plans can really kick in, I'm remembering all the crap that tried to swallow me in the years behind us. You have no idea how much I want one of those red blinking light things they have in The Men in Black films.

Bless my Man for trying to keep me sane... but there are times when all he can do is hug me and wonder why on earth we have to live through so much 'after the fact' bullshit from time to time...

Someone asked me how I was the other day and the honest answer is, I don't know. I think I'm ok but there are moments when I can't sleep that I wonder what the hell this is all for. There are moments when the kids are driving me bat-shit crazy that I wonder why, why, why.... There are moments when I try to explain myself to someone in French that I just want to lay down, curl up in a ball, and wish I was miles away in English. 

One of my longest connections here left the other day and it's hit me hard. I didn't hang with her like I did with Miss Tennessee 1975 but BVJC was always, always there for me. She got me to know the other lost Anglo-souls, she explained where to find whatever it was I needed, she knew how to get around the French system, and it was her who I called when the shit hit the fan last September, giving me excellent advice in one of those tiny cafes in town while we sipped lukewarm coffee...  

I couldn't say good-bye to her the last time I saw her and now, she's on other side of the pond. This woman who lived the crazy bilingual world I know has left the building and I'm still standing here with my Bic lighter raised above my head, damp from slam dancing in the mosh pit. 

It's a turbulent time. 

I need some sun, some good news, and something to give.

I'm ready. We're ready. And any time about right now would be just fine.

Next Time, I'll Just Wait

We took the tribe to the pool yesterday and had a whale of a time splashing around and causing much needed mayhem.

Turns out, Rosie is as much of a fish as her sister and inherited that lovely way of yelling at all and sundry to leave her alone while she floats all by herself in the middle of the pool with her armbands on. We should have named her Bob.

MH and The Princess have gotten to be stronger swimmers and it's a blast to watch them dive off the side of the pool and then surface with the most amazing goggle grins on their faces. Bubba isn't quite yet there but he doesn't care. Splashing around in the baby pool works just fine for him, thank-you-very-much.

After we were done, we all scurried into a big cubicle together to get changed. Suits off, shirts on, towels on the floor, socks into puddles, pants damp,  just a big jumbled wet happy mess. Finally, when everyone else was about dressed, I started to get my own suit off and throw on my clothes.

"WOW. Look at all of mommy's muscles on her tummy!" MH shouted.

And so they did.

The Man started smirking and with that big shit eating grin I love so much on his face, just started laughing.

I shot him the death stare, which obviously isn't as good as I'd like it to be, and calmly replied to MH,

"No, sweetie, those aren't muscle marks. Those are stretch marks from having babies."

Cue curious silence.

Cue three angelic voices, echoing loudly in a family cubicle at the public pool:

"EWWWWWWWWW." 

It's The Man Holding My Hand Now

Last night, The Man & I had our last appointment with our therapist.  It was really strange finishing our appointment, shaking hands and saying, "goodbye." 

How does one say goodbye to someone who now knows more about The Man & I than most people on the planet? Goodbye to someone who let me cry in her office over things that happened over 20 years ago? Goodbye to someone who never judged us and never let us forget that when there is love, there is hope? There were moments these last 9 months when I wanted to adopt her.

I had been very afraid to go to counselling. No because I'm afraid of therapists, but because I was afraid I wouldn't be able to really express myself in French. I know that on a daily basis I often miss the subtleties of what happens in this language I'm living in and I was so scared that I wouldn't be able to really get to the heart of what was happening in mine. 

I shouldn't have worried. Pain & suffering translate. And when people are in a crisis, the message gets across a hell of a lot easier than we expect. 

She guided us well through our own path of discovery. She let us vent, let us ponder, let us forgive without ever judging either one of us for our humanness. And not once did she laugh at my accent. I don't know how to thank her for that, thank her for letting us remember who we are & who we want to be. She held our hands lightly, guiding us to ourselves and that's wonderful in any language.

Au revoir, Madame. Je vous remercie, du fond de mon coeur.

Most Days

Rosie wakes at 6:30 and immediately demands a bottle of chocolate milk. She plomps herself down on the Nutella smeared couch (the reason why I haven't washed it) and with her finger points at the TV until The Man or I find her the daily music video show. Yes, she's a big fan of Shakira's Rabiosa and M Pokora. I fall into a lump next to her and drink a gallon of coffee.

By 9:15, Rosie has discovered a pen or permanent marker and painted herself in the most amazing rainbow colours. This is, of course, only after she has used hair gel as skin cream, emptied the desk drawers, and thrown all of the doudous off of The Princess' bed and into the bath tub. I make a fresh pot of coffee.

Around about 11:40, I am finally able to persuade the large tribe members to get dressed. Sort of. I find them a half hour later, hiding amongst the very recently sterilized Legos in a mish-mash of pyjama & bathing suits.

At 12:30, I dream of a Domino's being built THAT VERY INSTANT in the village but in reality, I fight with everyone to eat something that resembles a vegetable. Well, all except The Princess who has made her own salad with exactly one carrot, two pieces of lettuce, and four cherry tomatoes. I make another pot of coffee.

The afternoon is a haze marked only by the beautiful stillness around us as Rosie sleeps. When she's up again, all bets are off. It's laundry time, dog poop time, refereeing the boys, hoping no one drowns in the lovely new Intex pool we bought again this summer, and yet another pot of coffee.

By 5pm, I'm finding excuses to open the fridge and just gaze at the rosé bottle.

By 6:45, I'm wishing and hoping that The Man finished really, really early at work and is on his way home with a pizza from the imaginary Domino's down the street. I hesitate between more coffee or "accidentally" opening the rosé.

7:30pm rolls around and the entire village is treated to the sounds of Rosie screaming, "DADDY" at the top of her lungs as he parks his car. He looks tired and hot and is ever so grateful for that glass of rosé I've thrust into his hand.

8:30-9pm: CHAOS. Think of a hurricane hitting the dining room, then the bathroom, and then try to get it snuggled under a little blanket in a teeny tiny baby bed only the hurricane isn't finished throwing Stinky and everything else out of the teeny tiny baby bed over and over and over again. In the meantime, the big kids stall. I pray that there is another bottle of rosé in the basement fridge.

By the time 10pm rolls around, The Man and I stare at each other through our rose coloured glasses and dream of new places, vacations on our own, winning the lottery, going to Cape Town. We haul ourselves up to the attic, fall into bed, and hold on for dear life.

And then in the morning, it's rinse and repeat.

And Curtain

Look. It's July once again.

The sun sets late, the wind blows warm. The Man and I stare at our wild garden and wonder, dream, repair.

Our friend's wife died Thursday and even though she had been sick for all the years we knew her, it's still hard to find the right way to grieve. They had a tough love, lots of bumps and bruises along the way, only to have their life culminate with her suffering from that lovely leveler, cancer. 

All those years. All those things, issues, stresses, joys, worries, arguments, happiness. All those things done.

How many times do we have to be hit over the head to get the message? 

Air Conditioning, à la Française

Technically, I should shut the window as well but I've got this thing for constant courants d'air even when it's mind-numblingly hot out there. I'm so not a summer person. Give me snow, cold temps, ice, thick socks, & gloves. Wrap me up warm and hand me a hot-toddy. That's my kind of season.

But as it's said in Ecclesiastes 3:1-8: 

To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under the sun. A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill and a time to heal ... a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance ... a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to lose and a time to seek; a time to rend and a time to sew; a time to keep silent and a time to speak; a time to love and a time to hate; a time for war and a time for peace.

Vivre l'été.

It's My Own Fault

I swear, I hate potty training. 

I, myself, have been potty trained for over 37 years now so sometimes I have to admit to having a wee (no pun intended) lack of enthusiasm/patience/motivation when it comes to the latest member of the tribe tackling this milestone.

See, Rosie has hit that stage where trying to get a nappy on her is like wrestling an octopus and I hate, hate, hate slimy, 8-limbed fish, so she's running around "free." And thus, sometimes she's getting to let things fall where they may....as it were. (Yuck. I know. But this is my fourth, people! Seriously, we have no carpets in the house... I mop after... it's not so bad... and did I forget to mention that I'm slowly going parentally insane?)

Lucky me that summer vacation is nearly upon us and through the next couple of weeks of potty training joy, I'll have 3 other tribe members around to help freak out when Rosie has an accident.

"MOM! OH MY GOD IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD IT'S SO DISGUSTING SHE PEED EVERYWHERE I'M GOING TO THROW UP NOW HURRY!!!!"

Today was a dress rehearsal for the coming months when after lunch I forgot to put a clean little pair of Dora underpants on the raging turbo turbis and she high tailed it upstairs to MH & Bubba's room. MH, who is home today due to a slight fever, went up a few minutes later to see what she was getting up to.

"MOM!"

"MOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!"

"What's wrong?" I yelled back as I ran up the stairs.

"THOSE, " he said arm stretched out straight pointing to his toy pile, "ARE NOT LEGOS."

Move Over Lourdes

So after my little sing-song session with Mary, The Mother of God, yesterday, I'm thinking that I've got a whole new tourist angle for our little village on the hill. Heck, all kinds of people from all over the world make pilgrimages to see Jesus' face outlined on a rind of cheese or formed out of melted candle wax. Can you imagine what they might do to see a singing Mary? And not just a singing Mary, but a Beatles singing Mary?

Just think of the commercial possibilities! The hordes of pilgrims who would come and buy bread from the boulangerie on their way to Pic de La garde. Imagine the rush every morning to buy beautiful replica baquettes of the statue, holding a sesame guitar made from a petit pain. Large, crusty couronnes de Marie, which are just the right size to actually fit on the pilgrim's head, thus making it a heck of a lot easier to carry one's picnic up les éboulées.  Caramel, Chocolat, & Tornado could also be gainfully employed to carry the rest of the picnic, happily transporting to this sacred spot the ham, the wine, and the Jesus round of cheese.

The village bar would also have it's turn in watering the sing-song faithful with cups of the holiest pastis or luke-warm rosé. Just the right things to get one in the mood for singing Yellow Submarine at full voice with a marble statue.We could pipe Beatles songs throughout the village on a loudspeaker, with Let It Be replacing the church bells on the hour. Imagine! Imagine! We haven't even begun to Imagine!

In my excitement yesterday, I chatted about this idea with my running buddy, the one fighting cancer. She looked at me, eyes wide with a mixture of fear & mirth and said,

"I don't care if Mary sang Mylène Farmer with you up there! Please don't ruin les ébolées by inviting bunches of pilgrims to scramble up all over them! Now stop this silly pilgrimage idea thing and go do some laundry!"

And so I did. But I still like the baguette idea.

Maybe She Just Really Likes The Beatles

I've been getting all worked up over all kinds of things that are out of my control, like the school nurse telling MH that he was fat, like my friend struggling with the after-effects of her second round of chemo, like not knowing what The Man & I are going to be when we grow up.... he and I spent yesterday, twirling around in circles, not knowing in which direction to turn. Finally, we gave in to the corkscrew feeling that we had and sat on the couch with a cheap bottle of red.

Today I found myself starting that dangerous swirling thing again and since all & sundry are off at work and school, I decided to do what I do best when that feeling of being out of control shows up: run away.

I threw on my shoes and headed out of the village towards the lava rock covered hillside we call les éboulées.  You can't really run it as much as scramble up it, but when you finally reach the top, you are at the Pic de La garde, a viewing point with 360° views and a massive statue of Mary.

I scrambled up, reached the top, looked around, and then hurled myself down the trail the other side. I ran hard at this point, trying to beat all the thoughts banging around in my head to a submissive pulp. I took a random trail leading off to the right, still running hard, pounding out my emotions, and low-and-behold, 40 minutes later I found that I had looped around full circle, back to the start of les éboulées.

I hesitated for a second but then scrambled up again. Much slower this time, much more conscious of the size of each of these lava boulders. Much more aware of the hollow echo they made as I stepped on them. When I finally reached the top, I put my hands on my hips, took a deep breath, looked up, and realized Mary was staring at me.

"Oh, Mary! What on earth should I do about all this crap?" I said.

And like a thunderbolt, she answered me.



I ran home then, this song still playing in my heart.

I not the religious type, but I've been told.

Thank you, Mary. I'll do just that.

He Won't Be Wearing Seer Sucker

The last couple of weeks, I've felt like I'm waiting to get asked out to prom. And it sucks just as much this time around as it did back in high school.

I shouldn't complain too much because, in fact, junior year, I had a hell of a time at 4 different proms. You see, I was the best "rent-a-date" on the market. I could go to any dance, chat up all kinds of friends and strangers, dance just enough to be ok, drink just enough to be silly, and, best of all, not really embarrass anyone. Sure, all this kinda changed by the time senior proms rolled around, but who cares.

Waiting to get asked to prom is frustrating. You send out all the clues you can to the person you are DYING to have ask you. You smile a lot. You take more showers than you have ever done in your entire life. You laugh at silly jokes. You pretend to like import records because that what they like. You even offer to drive him and his insane football friends every night to MacDonald's because you're the only one with a car.

You've done everything you can to be charming and witty, pretty and fun. And now, you wait. And wait. And wait.

And then you find out that he actually asked somebody else.

Oh, the life lessons we learn at 16!

The only consolation in my whole prom saga this year, is that I already know that The Man is taking me. He's bought the corsage, we've rented the limo, and we know where we want to go out to dinner. Thing is, we are still trying to figure out where the stupid prom is being held in the first place. You have no idea how frustrating it is to be all dressed up and totally clueless as to where we are supposed to be.

I guess till we know where we are going to dance the night away, we'll just shimmy around the B&B, scaring the children while we play big hair 80s tunes at top volume. Anyone got a suggestion for a prom theme?

I, myself, am voting for this one: