During this Wednesday's preparations for the upcoming l'arbre de noël, I, along with other mothers of la maternelle, found ourselves sitting for three hours, threading polystyrene chips onto cotton thread to create the illusion of flurrying snow, driven by the compulsion to be good mothers, and to make the most of a fabulous opportunity for a good old bitch.
And the perfect topic to bitch about whilst coddling together snow clouds, in an unheated classroom, balanced precariously on unsuitably small and hard wooden chairs that forced our bottoms to hang over the edges like fleshy cycle paniers? Why the holy grail of Parenthood, of course; our infinite quest of ensuring our children are loved, looked after, respectful, happy and spirited, kept out of mischief and, all this, at minimum financial cost. Tricky, tricky, tricky. Especially as here, being so close to the sea, the year is not divided into Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter. No. It has only two seasons; Open and Shut. Open starting after Easter through to mid-September and Shut which is all the other months clogging together into one, foul-weathered, contumelious clump.
Things to do with two small boys in Open season are a doddle. Everywhere is open; zoos, museums, fun parks, swimming pools are thronging and jolly and the seasonal sport of finding elbow room on a terrasse along with a parking spot in the shade is in full flow. And there's always the beach, she added, stifling a complacent yawn.
However, Shut is shit. The beach is wet and windy and there are no cafes or bars open where you can even warm yourself up afterwards over a chocolat chaud. The zoo is pointless and disappointing; all of the animals are hidden, hunkered down in the far recesses of their houses refusing to grant anyone an audience. The museums and amusement parks have shut down, waiting for the return of the holidays and with it the students to staff them and the holidaymakers with their city wages to fill them. And the only swimming pool open in close proximity to us is the open air one offering arctic swimming conditions, a slide often out of action and a spouty dolphin that spouts either water or ice chips at you as you pass underneath depending on the ambient temperature.
Yep, tricky indeed.
As the voice of bitter experience and steep learning curves, I could write at great length of the horrors of Shut-seasoned-Wednesdays, Brit style; Grasshoppering between craft activities at home; clocking up huge mileage on the quest to find something new to do with two bickering children; scraping at the floor for hours with the back of a butter knife, trying to lift off the rainbow smears of playdoh; queuing for hours at the library to take out books with other short-tempered mothers and pinwheeling children; And finally, getting absolutely no joy or thanks at the end of a day that seems to last a week. Oh and plus the sad old fact that you've used up all available options for the weekend's entertainment. God damn it.
The French, on the other hand, seem to have it all sewn up as they are not at all hung up on doing it all themselves. No. They unashamedly leap at the chance to have their children palmed off onto someone skilled in the art of animation who will patiently keep their petits choux happy, fully occupied, and possibly teach them something new. Usually around the second Saturday in September visitors can wander the empty streets, marvelling at the eerie stillness and enjoying the birdsong, as a huge percentage of the local community cram into their local salle des fêtes. Great shuffling huddles of parents with their children form around the various desks run by local clubs and societies who are eager for new recruits. Everyone knowing that the only way to survive the long gloomy months of nothing-muchness is succeeding to cajole and enrol your child into as many activities as possible. It's the best option. The only other is to try to get them invited round a mate's. I'm telling you now, when you host birthday parties (ages 2 and up) or have your child's best friend round to play, don't think for one moment you, as the host, can seek solace in an adult conversation. No chance. Your child's friend arrives through your door whilst their parent shouts from the safety of the car, hoping you'll hear through the tightly-wound window and over the drone of the running engine, that they'll be back 'vers cinq heures' before disappearing to spend a blissful two hours, sans gosses.
Having seen both sides of the die, the way forward is definitely childcare à la française: Yield to it and cast aside the very British guilt about not doing it all yourself, for once and all. It is liberating. For, after digesting the sagely advice of a number of other mothers who, like me, want their sofas to be left with some spring in their seats come Easter, this September the boys were enrolled in a rolling rock of activities so that they are now channelling their unspent energy joyfully and wisely on a Wednesday and I no longer find myself bellowing like a fishwife about the perils of indoor ball games by 11am and running the bath at 4.30pm. Quelle joie.
"Wednesdays. Pheww. Sorted." I announced one morning over coffee to a new-to-these-parts mother, fresh in from Hong Kong with her two similarly aged children, as we struggled to hear each other through the howls and hollerings of four children at play. "S is off to roller hockey on a Tuesday after school till 6pm. Then he's off to an hour's tennis lesson at 9am on the Wednesday and then both are off to Karate from 4-5. It's great, isn't it?" I bellowed above din.
"Won't they be a bit exhausted?" she asked, a little gingerly.
"Exactly" I beamed, over-excited to be of some help.
"Well, I don't know..." said Ting Tong from Hong Kong, picking at an imaginary loose thread on her skirt so as to avoid eye contact, "...I would do the same but I really love spending time with my children. We always have such fun together. I actually miss them when they are at school."
Mmm. Damned and snubbed by a woman who's like Margot Leadbetter from the Good Life, trapped in Barbara Good's lifestyle, my willingness to share any other potential life-changing nuggets of knowledge were gone, disappeared. It was all I could do to give her the time to gather up her lovely lovely children who were wrecking my house before booting her out the door, leaving her to wipe the moustache of coffee off, in public, on the lonely walk back to her car.
That evening, I relay the morning's conversation to my husband and part-time honorary bird.
"So annoying. Stupid bloody woman. She's never even spent a winter over here. She has absolutely no idea what's it like. How dare she make me feel like I'm a crap mother and can't wait to get shot of my kids. I'm only doing it for them. It's not for me, I can assure you. I've got to ferry them here, there and everywhere. And who's got to hike round the fields in the rain with the dogs killing time till they come out? Me. Course it is. God, it only costs 40 euros to do 32 weeks of roller hockey and have you seen the price of playdoh and those fuzzy pipecleaners? Christ, I could whip through 40 euros a week..." I stop mid-rant and look across at my husband, hoping that he is poised, vitriol at the ready, to add to my venomous torrent. No. He's gazing at some distant spot located somewhere past my right ear, in a glassy trance of disinterest. I should know. It's the exact same expression as the one that fixes on my face when he's talking about the intricacies of Spurs' latest team tactics to me.
Mmm. A wave of fear that we're slightly growing apart washes over me. I change the subject.
"Next Wednesday, can you come down the school with me? They need some trees to be cut out of wood."
What better way to find some unity than some hours spent together, stitching and bitching?
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