Life can be very confusing

The French-in-laws recently had some friends pop around who had just come back from a holiday in England. While extolling the virtues of London they were saying how wonderful Harrods is.
I missed this part of the conversation and a little later Mr. C was explaining it to me, but couldn't remember the name of the store. His description was;

"You know that big shop on that famous street, what's it called? Coronation Street!"

He had another confused moment yesterday when changing the baby's nappy. This photo wasn't even taken at the nappy change, this was after he had walked around with her for ten minutes or so and then brought her to me.

Though I confess I have come pretty close to doing this myself, though I usually do realise that I have not done up the onsie before Baby C looks like a minature superhero.

1950's dad

Just when you think you are making progress with the Feminism for Dads training he goes and says something daft.

During our conversation yesterday about possible relocation we were discussing living in the UK. If we live there then I would be the breadwinner and Mr. C would have to either do childcare or accept that whatever job he did the main of his pay would pay for childcare.
In the course of this discussion Mr. C said something along the lines of;
"But I'm not going to stay home with the baby."

Which is a perfectly reasonable thing to say but the implicit aside here is; "that's woman's work." and I think he did actually say it was more "natural" for a woman to stay home.

If you are a breastfeeding mum then logistically the feeding part of childcare is easier if you are the one to stay home, but it isn't impossible to go to work and have someone else use expressed milk to feed your child.

Just to get things straight Mr. C isn't against me working, he isn't that reactionary, he just worded things a little bit badly. He was also honest enough to own up that he enjoys looking after the baby at the weekend but wouldn't want to do it all the time.
But again there is an implicit assumption that I enjoy the childcare because I am the mum. I do enjoy looking after Baby C. but not every moment of every day. But who enjoys every moment of every day of their job?

It has taken me a while and some careful manouverings to get Mr. C to appreciate that looking after a child can be taxing too. I really tried to avoid the classic "childcare is work too" argument as it shouldn't be a competition as to whose time and effort is more valuable. The way I see it there are different jobs in the family that need doing, someone has to earn the money and someone has to care for the baby. Both need doing and both are important.
I went along the lines of; "thank you for going out to work for us this week" backed up with a "yes but I don't get a day off from looking after the baby" when faced with his; "but its the weekend I want to enjoy my time off"

I have to say that Mr. C can now get up with the baby at the weekend and take her downstairs, bring me a cup of tea in bed without prompting. Of course it helps that we are living with the French-in-laws so he can just hand her over to them for an hour or so. But hey its progress.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

I wish I knew.

We have been in France for three weeks and already Mr. C has got itchy feet.
He was looking thoughtful at lunch today and I made the mistake of asking him what he was thinking about. The answer was Malta. He was thinking about how it would be to go back and work there.
I managed to keep my cool and not spoon my broccoli gratin over him.

When we arrived in France Mr. C’s got a temporary contract working at the local bank where he used to work before he went to Malta some five years ago. The idea being that he would try and get a permanent job with the bank where he could do his banking exams and so be a responsible-grown-up-hunter- gather-father type chappie.
As ever life decided that things shouldn’t be that simple for us. Since he last worked at the bank their recruitment policy has changed so you can only work there permanently if you completed two years post-18 study and as Mr. C did not stay on in education he can’t work permanently for the bank. It doesn’t matter that he has worked for them before, it doesn’t matter that he is good at the work, he cannot be employed on a permanent basis there. What he can do is work there on contracts for minimum wage.
So Mr. C figured if he was going to work for a pittance he may as well do so in diving.

I understand his point of view, but to be thinking about leaving having only just arrived three weeks ago is a bit stressful.

So we had a bit of a talk and we discovered that we still don’t know what we want to be when we grow up.
In the meantime our options are;
Mr. C gets a diving job in Malta and I do a TEFL and try to get a teaching job. On the plus side, great diving, great weather in the summer, we know the islands and I don’t need to learn another language.
We stay in France and Mr. C continues at the bank or looks for another job, I continue to learn French, maybe also do a TEFL course and try to get a job doing something or other. The benefits being if we stay in Gap then JB’s folks can help with childcare and we get quite a bit of assistance from the state.
I get a job in England and we live there. On the plus, no problem with the language, I should be able to get a well paid job, but Mr. C isn’t keen on being a house husband and we would have less family assistance as we probably wouldn’t live close by.

Overall it seems that staying in France and making-ends meet is the best option. Another influencing factor being that Mr. C has just signed us up to a two year mobile phone contract so we could have whizzy phones. I am sure mine could make the tea in the morning or contact outer space if only I could work out how.

Joyeux Noel

Well I survived Christmas with the French-in-laws, the biggest survival technique you need is being able to eat, lots.

Mr. C's family has only been in France since the 1950's. His mother's family hail from Sicily and his father's family from Spain. Both families moved to North Africa, Tunisia and Algeria respectively, and when the countries became independent the families moved to France where his parents met and married. Most of the brothers and sisters have remained living in Provence with only Mr. C's family moving to the Alps. With such a varied family history "traditional" can mean almost anything.

The family celebrate on both Christmas Eve and Christmas day, so we had two Christmas dinners. Last night was asparagus souffle followed by crevettes with truffle rissotto. Not at all traditional but delicious. After salad and cheese the puddings were presented. In Provence it is traditional to have 13 deserts on the side, this can include fruits so isn't as unhealthy as you might think.
Along with dates and walnuts stuffed with marzipan there were oriellettes, which are my favourite. These are deep fried sweet pastry sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. (That's them in the picture) The same pastry is used for canelles, which are tubes of pastry filled with an orange cream. The English were also represented with a Christmas pudding, thanks mum, though my brandy butter became whisky butter, well it was that or cinzano butter.

After the children were in bed we put out the presents. When I was growing up presents from family and friends went under the tree and Santa just filled your stocking. Here though Papa Noel brings all the presents so they have to be hidden from view until Christmas morning.

Mr. C nearly disillusioned several small children this week as he kept talking about putting out the presents or how he realised that Papa Noel wasn't real infront of small people. Fortunately crisis was averted and all the small children here still believe.

We did the very grown up "presents just for the children" this year. But even then we still managed to forget to buy a present for our 9 month old niece. I thought Mr. C might have a plan so didn't mention anything but when he arrived home from work yesterday he realised and panicked. So no plan there then. Fortunately we had brought Baby C a very cute teddy bear so that went to our neice instead. So our baby had no gift from us, but seeing as she is only four months I am assured that this does not make us bad parents and she won't be adopted away form us.

Today was presents and more food with a survival nap in the afternoon. One of the benefits of having a small child is that you can take them off for a nap and catch one yourself with no-one thinking any the worse.

Sadly the French-in-laws don't have satelite so I missed out on the Queen "my husband and I-ing" Ah well there is always next year.

Merry Christmas

Post for Kathleen C

Kathleen C had a bad week recently, but she commented on my post about her partiality for Jacques D'Amboise. So here is a little something to cheer her up.

For those of you not in the know, and I wasn't until I googled him, Jaques was Ephraim Pontipee in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.
He was also a member of the New York City Ballet.
You can read more about his ballet career here and his film career here.

And now for Kathleen here's the barn raising dance off scene. I think Jaques is the one in the red shirt, I was always a fan of Russ Tamblyn, in the yellow shirt, who also played in West Side Story.





Here are some other links for a 'lil bit more Jaques;

Jaques dancing L'apres Midi de Faune
Jaques dancing Nutcracker duet

Musicals - take 1

As I will be missing out on the festive programming in the UK I have started to gather together some festive films to watch. I started with The Wizard of Oz and Its a Wonderful Life and then just got sidetracked into musicals.

Now for anyone that is unaware, I love musicals. I think it started from when I was little and the BBC would screen Fred Astaire films on a Saturday morning. I like all kinds of musicals and I have a well thought out classification process.

Does it have Fred Astaire in it?
Great songs, crap dancing
Great dancing, crap songs

For example, Calamity Jane is classified as great songs, crap dancing and no Fred.
Whereas Seven Brides for Seven Brothers has great dancing, crap songs and no Fred.
It is worth noting here that "crap songs" doesn't mean all the songs are crap just that the good ones are outnumbered by the not so good ones.
We can then overlay the broad categories with my very specific Favourite Numbers classification, which can make up for a lot.

So by this very scientific and objective method here are some of my favourite musicals.

• Calamity Jane. Great songs, crap dancing, no Fred, favourite number is Deadwood Stage - you get about three songs in one. A special mention to Howard Keel, one well built cowboy.
• Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Crap songs, great dancing, no Fred, favourite number is the barn raising, or Going Courtin'. Howard Keel again as big hairy backwoodsman.
• Kiss Me Kate. Great songs, how could they not be from Cole Porter? Great dancing, how could it not be with Bob Fosse as choreographer? Still, no Fred, but woohoo here comes Howard Keel in a comedy beard and tights. Favourite numbers - Too Darned Hot - Ann Miller is a tap dancing fiend, Brush Up You Shakespear, pretty much all of the rest of them.
• Meet me in St Louis. Really just for the songs and Judy Garland.

Well there are plenty more but I think my favourite musical has to be Easter Parade.
What doesn't it have?
Fred Astaire, so great dancing.
Judy Garland, so great singing.
Ann Miller, more great dancing.

Really there isn't much more I want in a musical.

As if I'm not busy enough

For some reason I thought it would be a great idea to start another blog.
Maybe I have a blogging addiction.

The new blog is an escape for the unquiet musical star within me, and lists a song a day that I sing to Baby C. The poor child is the captive audience for my barely tuneful renditions of everthing from nursery rhymes to Sondheim.

Pootle over here to Baby Chanson to have a look, but don't worry none of the you tube videos are of me singing, so you are spared the worst.

I haven't made the blog pretty yet, that is next on my list, right after I finish sewing buttonholes on dresses for my nieces.

A new look

So here is my new look. I am not completely happy with it and I am not sure on the title, tell me what you think with the little poll. All reactions welcome, though of course the nice ones will be most welcome.

Hmmm, I'm thinking, I'm thinking, I'm thinking the luggage tag is cute but it isn't very Frenglish. I was going for a travelling / ex-pat kind of theme, but I am not sure that comes across. How about a Union Jack encrusted coissant?

Ah well, it will do for now.

How to measure snow

It snowed here last Tuesday, I was quite impressed, after all, it has been a while since I've seen snow. The snow didn't last, it tried again on the Thursday but again the snow was gone the next day.

Some time early on Wednesday morning I had to venture downstairs to find a clean nappy for Baby C, I looked out of the window and noticed it had been snowing. Alot.
On waking up at a more reasonable time I told Mr. C it had been snowing, he asked;

"How much?"
I told him; "Two pillows worth."

Which describes exactly how deep the snow was. If you want to know how deep that is, just put one pillow ontop of another and you will know.
Yesterday it continued to snow and now we have four pillows worth of snow.

Feminism for dads

I've always described myself as a feminist. As someone who doesn't even like logos on the outside of their clothing this is one label I am happy with. Mr. C is not a feminist. He is a bloke.

Since Baby C's birth I have become a bit more vocal about my views, for what hope does she have if her father doesn't understand some of the issues facing her in her lifetime.

So if you have a daughter and are worried that her dad isn't quite up to date on his feminist issues, this is a strategy I found most effective.
The first step is to pick your subjects and if you don't have handy newspaper articles or statistics to back you up, chose something emotive.
Start with something like prostitution or the sex industry (of course if you approve of these things chose something you disapprove of)
Then state your case, it helps if you are holding your baby girl in your arms, preferrably facing her father. This enables you to point your daughter at her father and ask him; "Is this what you want for her? Is it? IS IT?"

If you are choosing a subject such as equality at work then you will need to use the phrase; "So you don't mind your daughter being penalised because she is a woman? Huh? HUH?"

If all that fails or even if it doesn't and your partner is coming around to your view of things here is a handy article about the issues facing women today.

Mr. C is now, if not a feminist, at least educated about some of the issues facing young women today, and a better more thoughtful person for it.
Now I just have to get him to stop saying "putain" as a swear word.

Gran Canaria to France in one easy step

So how do you travel from Gran Canaria to France with your husband, three month old baby, cat, a guitar and far too much luggage? Well I'm glad you asked, here's how we did it.

Our day started at 3.45 am with Baby C waking us up 15 minutes before the alarm was set. Clever girl.
On arriving at the airport a good hour and a half before our boarding time we were pleased to be the only people checking in. That was the last good thing at the airport.

The lady couldn't find our booking and by the time she did all the other passengers had turned up and the queue behind us reached across the check-in hall. Finally the booking was found but we had baggage issues, we had too much.
Our largest case was too heavy so I rummaged around and took out Mr. C's disembowled computer and screen to be taken as hand luggage.

Once our baggage was under the top weight we checked it in but then had to visit the airline counter to pay the excess and to pay for the cat. From there a visit to the customer service to tell them we were taking the cat in the cabin. Once that was all paid we took the guitar to a second check-in counter and waved that off onto the plane. Back to the original counter and the back of the enormous queue we had created. Well Mr. C qued and I fed the baby.

Once at the front of the queue we were given our tickets, just in time for boarding.

At security we had to unpack the laptop and all Mr. C's computer's guts to go through the x-ray, along with coats, pushchair and car seat, my handbag and the changing bag. I carried the baby through but had forgotten to take my watch off so had to be patted down while holding the baby. The security staff loved us.

Rush to boarding to find that as we have Baby C we get to queue jump - yay. I arrive at the side of the plane and start wondering where Mr. C has got to. The cat had made a break for freedom and he had to catch her.

We finally get on the plane. The crew are very good and allow us to keep the baby in the car seat until it is time to fasten seat-belts and then she is on my lap.

Throughout the flight Baby C behaved very well, very little crying so at least we weren't the people with the crying baby. No, we were the people with the mewling cat who peed in her box. Mr. C took the box back to the loo to change the newspaper and again the cat made a bid for freedom, fortunately the door was locked so we weren't the people with the mad escaped moggy.

On arrival at Barcelona Baby C and I lost Mr. C as he went off down the escalator while I waited for a lift. I trundled off to the baggage claim and Mr. C was waiting at the wrong lift.

Baggage claim went well, one of the good things about being last on the check-in being that your baggage is first off the plane. So four bags and a guitar later and Mr. C and the cat turn up. Off we go to meet the French-in-laws who have the news that our life that we shipped the previous week had not arrived. I wasn't so surprised at this news.

We all bundle into the car and off we go to France - yay.

Through the border and halfway across France and I suddenly realise that I forgot to pick up Mr. C's briefcase from the baggage claim - well I wasn't expecting him to check it in.

Ah well we don't worry too much about it as Mr. C will have to drive back over to collect the rest of our life.

Eventually we arrive in the Alps at 8 pm. A very long day.

Nome de plume 3

Well readers I have to say suggestions for new names have been thin on the ground, in-fact thinner than my baldy baby's hair.
I've had one suggestion;

"Frog sprog blog"

Which made me laugh but in the interest of Anglo/French relations I won't be persuing even though I haven't come up with anything myself.

When I do I will be giving the blog a complete makeover - oooh!

"Tell me something I don't know" or "What Made Me Laugh"

Receiving an email today, 3rd December, from DHL telling me that they had dispatched a package to me on the 24th November. Said package was Baby C's passport which arrived the next day.