The day when everyone's a rocker

Today’s my hundredth post. This blog has been running for over a year now and it’s become an indispensable part of my life. I don’t mean to be overdramatic, but it has helped me rediscover my need to jot down my thoughts and observations. It’s reminded me that I enjoy writing. For years I kept paper journals but it fell by the wayside before this blog. Now I can annoy the world with my little head dramas! Baby’s probably thinking that all humans spend a good part of their lives on the computer. This Mother’s Day card mom sent me is right on the money. I just have to remember the baby is more important than the blog! Of course. But even moms need a little release sometimes.

And what better way to celebrate this event than with a little musique! Today’s the “Fête de la musique or the national music festival in France. It’s one thing this country does pretty well, if you ask me. They purposely put it on the summer equinox, so you’ve also got the added daylight, till about 10:30 here in France. In my city there’s a great ambience with little groups playing on street corners and in front of cafés. Last year my eight-month pregnant self went out with two girlfriends from work since Remi was at a wedding. And I enjoyed it so much I was eager to do it this year, with baby now ex-utero.

The two coworkers weren’t available this year, so I dragged Remi and his friend Julien out to it. The cool band of middle-aged guys was there again playing Midnight Oil and Sweet Home Alabama. Don’t ask about the accent. Most of the lyrics were pretty indistinguishable, but they get an “A” for effort. Even if I am an Alabama girl, I somehow get a little shy when this song comes on, no matter where I am. It’s like I’m supposed to do something, but I’m not sure what.

After a few songs we moved on to another café, outside of which another gray-haired part-time rocker was crooning old French classics. And in front of the oriental restaurant a group of 20-somethings were doing a damn good job on British glam rock. I started head-bopping the minute I heard the guitar riff from Blur’s Song 2. Remi and Julien gave me perplexed side glances. They’re not used to this mild-mannered girl grooving to screechy guitars and drums. Hello!? it’s Blur, dontchaknow?, I tell them afterwards, and they sort of kind of remember it. Then a respectable rendition of Muse’s Time is Running Out, to which I gave Juliette her bottle. Was that a little fist waggling I saw on her part? I must start her musical education now.

The boys left us to go play pool, and baby and I stayed with the glam-rockers for Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit. Then we dropped back by the first band, in the middle of their Eric Clapton ode, I Shot the Sherriff and Cocaine. I guess I’m showing my age to be digging this type of music. We went to the Place du Théâtre where a group of 14-year-olds was giving it their all on the hook from Smoke on the Water. These kids rocked. Never mind that none of them can drink or drive and that sometimes the drums go all out of order in the middle of a song. I should have brought my camera and taken pictures, ‘cause they’re gonna be big one day. The drummer had the rocker bangs already and the lead singer had put gel in his hair for the spiky effect. And he sang in very impressive English to The Most Loneliest Day of My Life.

But baby’s bedtime was approaching so at a quarter to eight we headed home in the summer sun. Next year she’ll be out of her stroller and dancing on the sidewalks with me.

Baby’s brain and adult musings

I put baby on the floor with two plastic clothes pins in front of her. One is within grasp of her chubby dimpled fingers and she picks it up and inspects it right away. The other’s a tad farther and I hope she’ll scoot or crawl to it. I’m seeing if she can crawl a bit, even though I’m in no way eager to be chasing her around and telling her not to put the cat litter in her mouth every ten seconds. Each time she tries to put the first pin down and move towards the pin that’s farther. But as she does so she looks down and rediscovers the first pin. It happens about five times, and I, with my adult, goal-oriented brain, am thinking, just drop the first one and crawl to the second. But she, with her baby brain which is growing every day, is more in the moment. She says, hmm, look at that pin over there, but wait, what about this one? Have I seen it before?

It made me wonder which of us was really “right.” In fact, we’re just both prisoners of our ages and sometimes can’t see past our present circumstances. Like me and my perpetual worries about what to do with my life. Would a 55 year-old have a totally different perspective? My parents both unknowingly give me similar advice when I complain about my current state. They’ve been on this planet 20 and 26 years longer than me and know better. They tell me that I can’t always see what’s just around the corner and that one day I’ll see that the choices I’m making weren’t so bad after all. And that it’s no use being so serious about life when laughing would be much healthier. But like baby I’m obsessed with the “clothes pin” in my hand and can’t imagine there’s anything beyond it. My 35-year-old brain simply wants answers now!!

I guess what they say is true, youth is wasted on the young. And when you start to realize that, you must be old!

In the meantime, here’s a look at a typical baby dilemma, cat, camera or TV? Yes, she’s saying “mama” but we’re not quite sure if it’s directed at me or just a sound she likes.

English People!*

The setting: a big French supermarket that’s the equivalent of a Wal-Mart. A man is selling compilation discs and playing old 70s and 80s tunes at nearly deafening volumes to entice buyers. Mrs. Jones, that old soul classic, blares away. I hear a customer crooning perfectly with the end of the chorus: “we’ve got a th-iiiieeennggg, goin’ on….”. I whirl my head around, amazed that a French person would know the end of the line and pronounce it so well. And then I hear the crooner chatting with this son in a perfectly chipper British accent. I guess I felt brave that day, ‘cause I said “English people!” the way a child would shout out “ice cream” and I smile shyly at the two guys (or should I say chaps). But they mutter something like, yeah, just visiting, and go along there way. Leaving me feeling like a (major) goober and wondering if they thought I was (just) a little French gal trying out my English. I want to catch up with them and say, wait, I’m American! But what would they really care. It’s only me who’s entranced to hear my own language again and feel some sort of instant connection with these tourists.

Throughout the rest of the shopping experience I’m like a teenager who’s spotted her crush and both dreads and anticipates seeing him at every aisle. I rehearse other things to say but think better of it. Don’t want them to think I’m stalking them.

Why is it that the mere sound of a native speaker would make me all star-struck? Maybe I see these brief encounters as ways to feel like me again. And to remember who I am. To not feel like the odd one out, the girl with the accent when she speaks French. Instead I take charge of the situation again and am the girl conversing with other natives as French folks go by.

This was the case the other weekend when one of Remi’s British clients dropped by. There are a few of them who have summer or permanent places in the villages near his. He’s proud to use his English with them and tell them he has an American wife. So a recent Sunday when I was at his greenhouse, I got to meet this famous British client and her son and daughter-in-law who were visiting. Instantly we started chatting away, not worrying about non-English speakers being able to understand us or not. They had that easy-going way of talking and cheeky sense of humor that I associate with British folks, and which I find so refreshing. The son and his wife talked about how there was just nothing in the mom’s French village, not even a shop or two (my main complaint of small French villages, too). They even “talked” with Juliette, in English, of course. As we talked the French customers passed us by with their carts full of plants. And for a moment they must have felt like they were the outsiders in a world where there language wasn’t being spoken. It made me smile, because just for a moment, I felt more like home.

*Disclaimer: before I get hate mail from any Scottish/Welsh/Irish readers, I do know that English only refers to those who live in England. The more correct term is British if I’m not sure of the origin of that lilting accent.

Why is it more fun to do other people's dishes?

I wash the gold-rimmed China in my mother-in-law’s kitchen. I’m careful not to break the delicate blue-flowered plates that she uses for our Sunday meals. I even dry them with the cotton dishtowel and stack them neatly on the dining room table. I know later she’ll put them up in the warm wood buffet. And I wonder why I never take so much care (or pride) in cleaning my own things.

I also have nothing better to do on this Sunday afternoon at the in-laws’. As I mentioned before, Remi’s been working seven days a week, and as a compromise, I follow him to work at least one day of the weekend. Which means all my own chores are either crammed into Saturday or not done at all. Never mind that we’ve had a good deal of long weekends and in theory I should have been able to catch up. My own dining room table generally has bread crumbs from breakfast, piles of supermarket mailings and paperwork I need to file. My own sink is probably full, unless I courageously did the dishes at 9 the night before (after dinner at 8).

Yes, I’m still having a lot of trouble keeping up with housework. Despite trying to be more organized (not going empty-handed to the other side of the house, thus minimizing all that walking), the laundry basket, sink and pile of clothes to be ironed are overflowing. Dust bunnies are evolving into wooly mammoths. Mildew is staking claim in the bathroom. Those photo albums for my wedding (from 2006!) and baby’s first months are still not done. And no, to answer your question, I don’t spend all my free time online, though I might be addicted to it in some form.

It's not that I want to be Martha Stewart perfect. But a minimum of cleanliness and organization would be nice. My aunt sent me a card before baby was born that said a clean house wasn’t as important as a happy baby. I sure hope baby’s happy, because the apartment surely ain’t clean.

Choices

I’m hands-down the world’s worst decision maker. This week I had to decide between two career counseling centers where I may do the famous “bilan de compétences”, a series of meetings with a counselor to talk about what my skills are and what I can do in this old life of mine. I asked myself if I was having this much trouble choosing a center, how the HECK was I going to later choose a new career path or training program. One bright spot though, in explaining what I consider a convoluted job situation to one of the administrative people this week, I was pleasantly surprised when she understood it right away.

Now there are smaller choices in life which can still be difficult in their own way. Should I choose the drive-through or go inside McDonald’s on this busy Wednesday before noon? I rarely treat myself to fast food these days, and seeing the parking lot full, I decide to do the “good” thing (in terms of my budget) and just eat at home.

At the supermarket I linger over the choice of a new trash can for the recyclables. With the step mechanism to open or the swing top? The smaller size or should I go ahead and buy bigger knowing that we’ll probably stuff it to the limit before getting off our duffs and emptying it? For the record I chose swing top and medium-size, but I'm going to return it as Remi said to go for the bigger size.

Then there’s the baby food aisle and the teething biscuits. Organic or regular thus risk of more pesticides? But wait, in fact upon reading the label I see that it’s only once your baby has teeth, and JuJu is still all gums. Ok, that decision’s made for me. No biscuits for now.

I’m honestly paralyzed by decision-making most of the time. I would gladly pay someone to make the decisions for me and then I’d just accept the consequences more willingly. But first I’d have to choose the person. Applications welcome!

Dogs and ducks and people-watching (baby’s eye view)

Last Friday mom took me to the park near us because it was sunny. She’s got this new favorite word “keepiton!” that she especially uses when I’ve got my sunglasses or cap on. But I say if my hands go up there, why not use them. We sat down on the grass and just watched folks go by. A girl rode by on her bike. And hey, there she was again and again. I think she was turning around just to see me. I touched the grass a bit and stared at the nice grandma type who stopped to look at me, too. Then mom took me to see the Ducks. I was in my stroller and this Boy came up to me and started talking. I couldn’t understand him though ‘cause he must speak another type of baby-talk. He had nice brown eyes and his mom called him Cyrille. So I started to tell him my name, ZjuZju, but I’m still working on the sound. Then this funny little dog tried to chase the ducks.

Speaking of dogs, every morning mom shows me my stuffed one and I practice that sound, “daw”. It seems to make her happy. She also likes it when I clap my hands. It’s some new thing she’s teaching me. She says “yeah!” and then I’m supposed to clap. I do it too for that little teapot song of hers. But there’s something about a handle and spout I’m supposed to do, too. We’re working on it.

Most of the time things are fine and dandy, but I need to show her the rules of the game sometimes. Like when she tries to put me back in my playpen I need to cry out and kick my legs for a while so she knows who’s boss. Or just whenever I feel like it lately, a little crying and I arch my back a bit. She usually starts saying something like “no, ma’am, I don’t think so” or “little girl, you can catch more flies with honey.” I don’t want to catch any flies though, so that’s silly.

That’s ok, though. I know that raising a parent takes time and patience. I’ll keep you posted.

A full body "yes"

She's sort of practicing the nod here. At the beginning that little clicking sound is the milk sloshing around in her stomach. And the high-pitched squealing in the middle is from me, not her. I think I squeal more than her these days.