Fresh Franglais

Eva:  "Tomorrow is the VRAI FÊTE of Romy.  And she INVENTED me at it."

Mama translation number one:  

"Tomorrow is Romy's birthday.  And she invited me to it."

Mama translation number two:

"Holy crap, next month's trip home for a week with my family - and some full-time English - COULD NOT COME AT A BETTER FREAKING TIME."

Add it all up in therapy

Today, Eva informed me that the kids at school are making fun of her.

I felt an immediate spasm of fear that AFTER ONLY TWO WEEKS IN SCHOOL, MY CHILD HAS ALREADY BEEN TOSSED TO THE LOSER PILE.

I envisioned twelve long years of school stretched out before my little girl...punctuated by unrelenting cruelty and mind-numbing solitude.  She'd grow up completely ignored by her cheery little classmates, with only Coco (her cat) for a best friend.  She'd go on to become a crazy lady, hoarding dozens of cats in her giant litterbox of a home and only going outside to shuffle off to the grocery store for Pop Tarts and TV dinners.  She'd spend her Saturday nights with cigarette after cigarette dangling from her thin dry lips, with multiple sheets of bingo numbers before her, dabbing in a frenzy.  Dabbing...dabbing...dabbing.

With an almost physical effort, I shoved all that aside and tentatively asked, "why are they making fun of you?"

And the horror of it was unimaginable.  

The awfulness.  

The pure brutality and cruelty of it all.

"They make fun of me because...."

PAUSE FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT

"My thermos is NOT PRETTY".

Wha?

Are you kidding me???

I have an ulcer because YOUR THERMOS IS NOT PRETTY??????

Now, a month ago when I bought Eva's thermos, I chose it because it was a smart little multi-layered stainless steel number...with stainless steel interior (no BPA) and an easy-to-open lid.  It's just the perfect size for a five-year old.  Sucker was the most expensive of its kind at twenty-five bucks, but it's built to last and it's super quality.  

BUT APPARENTLY IT'S NOT PRETTY.

So my question is this.

Do I leave my child to the cats and bingo...

...or do I spring for another Thermos, ONLY PRETTY?

One of those

I remember when I was young and knew everything about parenting.

Of course I mean before I had kids.

I would see THOSE MOMS in stores...dragging whining kids with messy hair, wearing mismatched clothes with food plastered all over, invariably sucking on something, with boogers crusted all over their noses.

I remember thinking, WHEN I AM A MOTHER, I WILL HAVE MORE PRIDE.

What a freaking IDIOT I was.

Yesterday we woke up with colds.  All four of us.  So Etienne and I are spending the last real weekend of the summer wiping noses and dealing with grumpiness.

So today when I bundled the girls into the car to go to dance class, I didn't get that excited about the fact that Adele's face wasn't spotlessly clean.  Or that her tiny little jeans are slightly short (she's between sizes).  Or that Eva's dance leotard (pink) and leggings (burgundy) didn't match her flouncy light blue skirt (she chose her own outfit this morning).  Or that both girls had runny noses that were already irritated and sore from wiping.  

I left Eva at dance class and walked with Adele to the nearby drugstore, to pick up some Puffs tissues with lotion.  They are the creme de la creme of tissues for cold sufferers, and I refuse to go through a cold with anything less.   Addie's nose is bright red and has a small open sore on the nostril, from 12 hours of wiping with cheaper stuff.

On the way, Addie tumbled on the sidewalk and bonked her head, leaving a big red scrape on her forehead.  She cried pretty hard, poor little troll.  I scooped her up, gave her some loving, and we continued on our way.  It was almost her snack time, so I gave her a piece of dried fruit bar to suck on while I jammed her in the cart to search for tissues in the cavernous drugstore.

I reached the cash register and the checkout girl - in her early twenties and beautiful - looked at my child and then at me.  Her distaste was tangible.

I looked at my child.

Addie had sticky, messy hair...a big scrape on her forehead...a big red sore on her bright red nose, which was lightly crusted with dried snot.  Fresh snot oozed down toward her lip, fighting for space with sticky red bits of dried fruit.  There was more red drooly gooeyness all over the front of her jacket and all over her hands.  Her eyes were red-rimmed and watery from her cold, and she was breathing through her mouth and whining slightly, desperate to be freed from the cart.

It suddenly struck me...I had turned into THAT MOTHER.  

With one of THOSE CHILDREN.

It's not the first time that I've realized my children aren't models of perfection.  I suppose no one's children are...although some certainly seem to be.

But this was the first time that I've ever looked at my child so critically...with the eye of the well-turned-out beautiful twenty-something who was staring at both of us. 

And let me tell you...without a second's hesitation...

I AM DAMNED PROUD.

Brave

I took Eva to get a tooth filled yesterday.

I'm not nuts about her dentist, I must admit.

She has a rather harsh, abrasive style and was once quite rude with Eva...which I felt was inappropriate even though Eva was behaving as though the dentist was going to remove her teeth one by one with a chainsaw and then seal her lips shut with a blowtorch, rather than just LOOK INSIDE HER MOUTH.  

Now, this dentist's policy is that children over the age of five go in alone.  She's been a pediatric dentist for about 20 years...and she says parents these days interfere the second a child squeaks...and that just complicates everything.  

This was Eva's fourth trip.  We had spent the previous evening getting her geared up...you'll get to leave school early...go to a playground...then get a NEW! PINK! PRINCESS! TOOTHBRUSH! - andohyeahgotothedentist.

Eva was ready. 

The two other children in the waiting room were not.  They were about the same age as Eva, and both were SOBBING.  Eva went to them in turn and informed them that WE ARE SIMILAR AGES AND I AM NOT CRYING BECAUSE GOING TO THE DENTIST IS NOTHING TO CRY ABOUT.   IN FACT, I AM SMALLER THAN YOU.  SO STOP CRYING.     

Anyway, her name was called and she marched into that office like she owned it.

Then the screams started.

Not my child.

These were the cries of a child who was already inside with the dentist.  The screams of a boy whose voice was cracking.  A teenager.

Suddenly the door burst open and a boy about 15 years old appeared, waving his arms and pointing to his mouth saying, "picure, picure"...which in French means needle.  The hygienist sort of pulled him back in and closed the door.  The screaming stopped for a moment.

Everyone in the waiting room sort of looked around at one another.

Then I noticed a man sitting beside me, wringing his hands.  

The boy's father.

I said, "it doesn't get easier, does it?"  He nodded - with tears in his eyes - and agreed.

Then the shouting started again.  The door opened a second time, and the boy came out waving his arms. He ran to the man, howling "picure, picure...non non non...picure" in his cracking boy-man voice.  The dad helped him sit next to me,  spent a moment gently talking with the boy to calm him down, and then went inside to talk with the hygienist who was standing by the open door.  

The waiting room was silent, except for the sounds of the boy rocking on the chair, crying loudly and gulping for air.

After a moment, Eva skipped out with a huge grin on her face and a brand new plastic ring on her finger.  I was so proud of her...so brave, my big girlie.

But the person whose bravery really and truly struck me at that moment...was the father of the boy.

A boy who is no longer cute and little, but who still cries and screams when frightened.  Whose behaviour attracts the shocked stares of everyone in the room.  Who still reacts the way my daughter did when she was three...and who may continue to react that way for his entire life.

It struck me just how damned hard this parenting thing can really be.  How you sign up for the ideal...but what you get is a roll of the dice.  And I'm not suggesting that this boy's parents don't love him dearly for everything he is, including the challenges he faces.  Or that he doesn't give them an incredible amount of love in return. 

I'm just saying it's got to be damned hard, sometimes.

When Eva and I left, the man was still inside talking with the hygienist.  His son was slowly starting to calm down...a big sweet-faced kid with tousled hair.  I just felt so badly for the boy...you just wanted to wrap your arms around him and make him feel better. 

I really wish I'd have stayed for a moment to say goodbye...to say to the man that I thought his son had a beautiful face, with lovely sweet eyes.  To somehow let him know I respect how hard it must be at times, to parent a child with special needs.  That it's okay if his kid screams and makes noise.  Hell, he can make a whole lot more if it helps him feel just a little bit better.

But Eva was already tugging my hand to leave.

I walked out the door into the sunshine with my own child.

Vowing to be braver.

Why my next child will be a geranium, part two.

Lately, Eva's listening skills suck.

Well, I shouldn't really say that...they've always kind of sucked. But recently she's had moments when I swear I'm living with Helen Keller. KID.HEARS.NOTHING. And Etienne and I have been getting a bit tired of repeating everything six-thousand times at volume levels ranging from speaking voice to shouting-at-your-drunk-friend-in-a-bar-while-a-cover-band-plays-Highway-to-Hell.

And don't get me started on the attitude. When she finally does hear, she grumbles...complains....whines about how SHE DOES EVERYTHING AROUND THE HOUSE...and WHAT AM I, YOUR MACHINE??? Trust me, we are cracking down.

Anyway.

Etienne had to work late this evening, so I was on my own. I was about to dish up supper.
Addie had been jammed into her highchair and tied down, and the table was set.
All that remained was for Eva to shuffle to the table and assemble herself in front of the trough.

Eva: "Can I put on this tattoo?"

Me: "Not right now, we are going to eat. After."

Silence while I dish up food.

Five seconds go by.
I turn around and see Eva with a sopping wet washcloth, cheerily applying the tattoo.

Eva: " Look! I put on my tattoo!"

Me: "What did I say about putting on the tattoo?"

Eva: "Um..."

Me: "Did you hear me say NOT RIGHT NOW?"

Eva: "Um..."

Me: "DID YOU HEAR ME SAY NOT RIGHT NOW?"

Eva: "Yes"

Me: "You heard me. You heard me say NOT RIGHT NOW"

Eva: "Yes"

SO. I quietly took the wet washcloth...and I scrubbed that blasted tattoo right off her arm (it was still wet so it came off easily).

Eva was FURIOUS. Beyond furious. She spat fire at me and then tore half my face off and spat it out beneath the highchair.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

YOU TOOK IT OFFFFF!!!

YOU TOOK MY TATTOOOOOOO!!!

"YOU! TOOK! MY! LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFE!!!"

Geez Eva...DRAMA MUCH???

Can't wait for thirteen...and battles over real tattoos.

GOOD TIMES AHEAD.

You'll find me hiding in my nice clean purse.

And a partridge in a pear tree (oink oink)

Cleaned out my purse today.

I love my purse.

It's an exorbitantly expensive leather jobby that Etienne bought me for Christmas one year. The leather is soft as buttah but it's HUGE and sturdy enough to haul an Austen Mini.
Which is pretty much what I had in it, when my disgust finally bubbled over and I attacked that sucker.

(Swallowing my shock and embarrassment)
Here's what I found:

-Two pens (only one of which worked)
-Three Kleenexes (only one of which was clean - I know, I know, GROSS)
-No less than thirty receipts - stashed conveniently in my bulging (with receipts) wallet
-Five stray Cheerios in various stages of crumble
-One metal water bottle, half-full (half empty? Nah, I'm a half-full kinda gal)
-A baggie with a portable container of applesauce...and a wee plastic red spoon (which had fled the baggie and was floating wildly free in my purse)
-A small tube of Dove hand cream (cheap and I like their advertising)
-A small tube of Purell (I'm a little OCD about the bacteria)
-A small bag of disinfectant wipes (Those restaurant highchair trays are DISGUSTING!!!)
-A small digital camera in a carrying case (you never know when the kids'll do something absurdly cute, like blink or breathe)
-A Clarins Colour Quench Lip balm in #15 (the shite drugstore didn't have Biotherm)
-A Burt's Bees Lip balm in papaya (supposedly fewer chemicals but the colour sucks and it tastes like crap)
-Coupons for taxis
-my work ID card on a handy dandy lanyard. Ugliest photo I have ever taken.
-three stray papers with unidentifiable phone numbers on them - oh so handy if I ever want to call...um...someone?
-two small empty plastic Tupperware containers, which held Trail Mix and chocolate chip cookies when I left for work this morning.
-my cel phone (which I can never find because it's always hiding under everything else I've listed thus far)
HEY! I FOUND MY CEL PHONE!!!

I swear it felt like I'd pulled a freaking PIANO out of that bag and left it by the side of the road.

SO much lighter.
SO much cleaner.
SO much less embarrassing when I have to search for something.

It's a good day.

Friends forever...well, for now

I remember the first time a friend let me down.

Her name was Lori, and our parents were friends.
I went to her fifth birthday party - an event I still remember clearly to this day because it was my FIRST! PARTY! EVER! We played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and ate hot dogs. I remember ordering mine WITH EVERYTHING EXCEPT ONIONS. I remember liking my shoes.

Anyway, Lori and I were friends for ages (well, a year or so) and this girl named Vanessa moved onto the block.
Vanessa was bigger, somehow...she was in the same grade as us but seemed much more mature.
Lori met Vanessa while my family was away for a few weeks...so by the time I got back, they were best friends.
And I was...out.

There were THREE WEEKS OF LIFE...THREE WEEKS OF SHARED HISTORY that I had completely missed.
An eternity of experiences, when you're six.

Suddenly Lori was no longer really interested in me. I'd call (I still remember her childhood phone number) and she'd say that she was going to Vanessa's house. And then she wouldn't invite me.

It broke my heart.
(Although I did a helluva lot better a year later when Vanessa's dad got transferred and they moved to Alberta)

ANYWAY...all this is to say that I know how Eva's best friend Romy felt today.

Eva went out this morning with Romy and her mum...they were gone a few hours and when they came back to our house, I opened the door to find a grinning Eva, a crying Romy, and a rolling-her-eyes-in-empathy-and-amusement Romy's mom.

Apparently, conversation in the car had swung to "best friends" and Eva had chosen that exact moment to drop the bomb that Romy was NO LONGER HER BEST FRIEND. Eva had suddenly replaced Romy with some kid from school.

Romy and Eva have been best friends for half their lives, so you can imagine how poor little Romy took the news.

Personally, I think it was just a little power-trip on Eva's part...she's known Romy forever and they absolutely adore one another.

But for a parent, it was really a bittersweet little moment.

I remember so well how Romy feels. Even though 30-odd years have gone by, I still remember the pain of that betrayal I felt when I was six.
That sort of pain stays with you - it's one of the few things that does, as we grow - and it shapes the way you approach all your friendships after that.

Things seem to be smoothed over now...they're downstairs playing and laughing as though an hour ago, Romy wasn't weeping bitterly for her little broken heart.

But this little incident really struck me.

There's no pain like the betrayal of a friend.
And no one feels pain as keenly as a small child.

I also know that eventually, it'll be my child's turn.