Lion and Tigers and Us

Seven years ago today, Hubster and I were married in a taxidermy museum.

Well, actually, it is a lovely old English manor house that just so happens to have a really impressive collection of dead animals from various parts of Africa, as you do in Southeast England.

It was a pretty unforgettable day. Hot and sunny, with most of our closest relatives and friends there to cheer us on.

I can still see them all looking at me and smiling as I walked down the huge wooden staircase in Quex House. I think many of them were in shock because I was actually wearing make-up but there were also a few who were impressed that I had found a dress big enough to hide the rather large bump that is now Mini-Husband.

Seven years Hubster and I have been married. That's seven years, 2 countries, 3 houses, 5 dogs, a few stressful events, roughly 10 cars, and 3 amazing kids who are "us" in all aspects.

Not a bad innings, eh?

Hubster and I have learned a lot in these seven years. The first being that marriage is not easy and if we didn't really love each other, this whole thing would've ended a long time ago. We also have learned that being married means really having to think about what the other needs, not just what we want.

We've also learned it's really fun to have all of our major fights in front of our family and friends. It just keeps with the tradition. We asked them to be there in the beginning to witness our marriage with an open bar and a DJ. Now we just offer lots of French wine, a few CDs, and our deepest gratitude for not taking sides. (Well, at least for not admitting to taking sides!)

Taking two very independent people and asking them to really share their lives was a challenge for both of us. We were both so stuck in our ways, so sure about what we thought were the right things to do, when in the end, we only knew one right thing to do and that was to be together. Even if this means our decorating styles will never match...we'll get there someday, I'm sure!

I don't think I could ever really imagined how happy I would be after these years with Hubster. I had no idea that this marriage thing, even though it's constantly changing so much over the years, could bring me such life. There is no doubt that I needed this man and his commitment to make me who I am becoming.

It's been a wonderful seven years.

Here's hoping we last at least as long as those animals at Quex House have.

Love you, Hubster.

Almost Blowing His Cover

Mini-Husband lost his fifth tooth yesterday and if some you remember, this mean a nocturnal visit from the tooth mouse.

You would think by now, on the fifth tooth, we'd have the gig on this all worked out. A simple sneak into Mini-Husband's room, steal the tooth, deposit the 2 euro coin, and sneak back outta there without waking anyone.

Easy, right?

Sure, as long as you don't forget.

I've been busy this morning trying to explain to Mini-Husband that there is only one tooth mouse for the whole of France and there must have been a serious rush of kids losing their teeth last night.

Mini-Husband thinks that the mouse needs to get an assistant, like a squirrel, to help so that all the teeth all over the country can get picked up as they should.

I agreed with him wholeheartedly then snuck back upstairs and did what we should have done last night.

I make a bad mouse, that's for sure. But, boy can I do squirrel!

If I Haven't Screwed Him Up By Now

Mini-Husband has started that horrible trend that will follow him for years. Gashing evenings, weekends, and playtime from now until he's at least 18.

He's got homework.

Now, granted homework for a kid of 6 in CP (classe preparatoire) is not the same heady he'll have to tackle if he ever does become an architect, but at 6, it's HOMEWORK.

The biggest obstacle also comes from Mini-Husband's mother, who herself, was a right nightmare about getting her homework done. A trend that continued right until her senior year of college when she was writing her thesis the night or two before it was due.

Knowing this genetic stumbling block, I've tried to make sure that we attack Mini-Husband's homework first thing upon getting home after school. This means then, that about 45 minutes after we've gotten into the house and we've played with the dogs, found a snack, turned on the requisite movie for Bubba-Love, and found some sort of "homework" for The Princess, we are ready to begin.

Mini-Husband is currently working on phonics, spelling, and word recognition. Tuesday night it was the [u] sound as it's found in words like rouge, oui, and bonjour. He's got a little box of words that we use for sentences games, changing the subject and the object, learning how to use commas and conjunctions. His favourite sentence this week was, "Bonjour Agathe et petit poussin!"

Now, here's the funny part. I realized as I was telling my sister about all this yesterday, that we discuss all this homework stuff in English. I read the instructions in French, then talk it over with him in English, ask him to do the exercises (which he does in French,) and then if I need to, I correct him in English, all the time respecting the proper pronunciation and phonics of the French.

Thank goodness his brain is able to cope with all this. I'm not so sure I would have been as clever at his age. It is astonishing to watch his brain flip turn between the two languages without a ripple.

The upside is that I'm also getting a seriously good lesson in French phonics and spelling. I wonder if I could ask the maitresse for my own little box of words. I swear, this time, I'll promise to do my homework.

Chicken Nugget Relativity of Time

Scene: Dinner Last Night

Characters: Mini-Husband, The Princess, and a roaming Bubba-Love who wouldn't stay at the table.

Discussion: The Titanic and it's huge iceberg.

The characters then wanted to know if Grandma and Grand-dad existed when the Titanic sank.

"No, this was almost a hundred years ago that this happened."

The characters then ask if Bapa had been alive when the boat sank.

"Kids, no. This happened a long, long time ago. Before Bapa was born. Even Kitty's dad was only 3 years old. It was a long, long time ago."

"Why didn't they see the iceberg?"

"Because it was nighttime and the ship's crew didn't see it," I told them.

The characters reflected on this for a minute.

Mini-Husband wanted to know why the ship's captain didn't use night goggles to see the iceberg.

"They didn't exist then," I said.

The Princess pipes up, "Did McDonald's exist then?"

"No, sweetie. McDonald's didn't exist then."

The look of horror on their faces was priceless. Even Bubba-Love stopped to take notice of this ever so important news.

"NO MCDONALD'S! Oh my goodness! NO MCDONALD'S!"

And thus the scene ended with the shock and horror that previous generations haven't been graced with a happy meal before sinking into the Atlantic.

What a Lovely Time at What's Her Name's

Saturday night, Hubster and I (along with the tribe) got invited to dinner at a friend of Bubba-Love's from the creche. The friend's mom and I have had loads of passing conversations on a few occasions, quick chats about life in the area, kids, the usual, so I was touched that she wanted to invite us over.

Even more fun, was that she also invited Miss Tennessee 1975 and her people as all. (A lot of the courage there, I think, to invite 4 non-native French speakers and their 5 combined children over for dinner! Whoa.)

Hubster asked me what our new friend's name was as we were driving over there.

"You know, I'm not sure," I said. "I think it's something like, ummm...," Silence for a moment. "You know, I really don't know."

That bodes well, doesn't it? Getting invited somewhere and not knowing the name of the hostess.

This could be sticky.

When we arrived at their house, I introduced Hubster to my friend with the hopes that she would introduce herself as well.

"This is Hubster," I said as the bisous started flying.

"Hello, Hubster," our friend said without offering her name in return, "Nice to meet you."

A quick round of smiles and more bisous with her husband (who's name we got) and Miss and Mr Tennessee, and the evening was off to a nice start.

Of course, I was now on a mission to get her name. Someone was bound to use it, right?

Everytime she and her husband had an exchange, I listened carefully for the slightest clue as to what she is called. I found myself referring to Hubster by his proper name most of the evening in hopes that would cause them to do the same. I discreetly asked Miss Tennessee if she knew our hostess' name and was slightly relieved to know that she wasn't too sure either.

Throughout the appetizers and drinks, I hoped for a moment where this difficult and embarrassing situation could be rectified, but alas, that moment didn't come. And by the time dinner was actually served, I felt it was way too late to finally ask what the heck her name was.

Touch rude at that point, right?

It was such a nice evening, learning a lot about her and her husband's lives, how they met, how long they've lived in the area, and how much our friend adores her native Paris. We ate a wonderful meal, enjoyed some excellent wines, laughed over language gaffs, and just had a great time.

And I still don't know what her name is.

You have no idea how this is killing me.

It's Too Dark To See

This morning is being brought to you by a very awake toddler. One who at 6:15 this morning was quite wide awake and yelling, "BOTTLE" at the top of his very healthy lungs.

This would be the same child that at 2:30 am, also woke and yelled, "BOTTLE OF MILK, MOM!"

So here we are. Sitting in a dimly lit room, watching his favourite DVDs while I try and keep my eyes open.

I guess the good thing is that we will actually get a chance to say goodbye to Hubster before he heads off to work. And I won't have to come flying down the stairs to yell at Typhon when he starts yodeling at 7am.

It's really dark outside. I mean really dark. I don't see a single star and not a neighbour seems to be up and about.

I think I'll sit with some coffee and wait for the light. It should come peeping over the church sometime soon, giving me a chance to see Typhon before hearing him, I hope.

Ah, no. There he goes. Sending his love to all you, one "whooooo-wooooo" at a time.

I'll Have a Royal with Cheese, If You Please

I just want to debunk a rumour right now.

The French eat fast food. Regardless of what you may have read or learned about gourmet cuisine in France, there is a dark side that thrives on fast food. It's called children and their harassed, exhausted mothers.

Especially on Wednesdays. And especially if that fast food place has a play area.

Have a I whined before about how Wednesdays really are the worst day of the week? How it's the day that mothers or grandparents around this beautiful country are stuck, er I mean, lucky enough to have their children all to themselves for the day?

When the weather starts to change, as it does in the beginning of October, the outdoor options become limited. Hence why the indoor play area at the local fast food joint is beyond packed on a Wednesday.

There you'll find the most perfectly dressed and manicured mothers, carrying trays of Happy Meals and ice cream to the screaming hoards of disheveled children who are flinging and hurling themselves around the play area. The poetry of chaos in motion.

I still remember how when I first went to the local McDonald's, I tried, in my best French, to order a Happy Meal and chicken nuggets.

"un 'Appy Meeel avec nougats, s'il vous plait."

The woman at the counter looked at me like I had seven heads.

Who was I kidding? I was trying to French-ify a very American item. Why didn't they understand me?!? I tried again.

"Haappy Meal avec le chiekan, s'il vous plait."

Again, the blank stare.

Finally, after a few tries a very kind, very well dressed, French mother helped me to order my son his precious box of gold.

That very kind mother knew how important it was for me to get that Happy Meal. How important it was to my sanity and that far reaching goal of peace on earth. One mother, one Happy Meal at a time.

It's a nightmare in there on Wednesdays, there is no doubt, but it's worth every bit of the mayhem.

The universal truth behind being able to let your kids go nuts somewhere other than your house.

Viva Mac Do!