Tuesday, December 11, 2007

The man from Maternelle says "non!"

Back in the summer I was asked by the boys' headmistress if I would go on a course, work really hard and by the end of it come out with a qualification so that I could then teach English at their school.  I gave her proposition very careful thought and after a long drawn-out pause of a full twelve seconds, I said 'yes, I would".

I was really very flattered to be asked.  Perhaps she saw that I had a spark of something that I never knew I had; an aurora of authority, nurture and intelligence; the potential to inspire and instruct?  Mmm.  Or perhaps it was because I was the token English mother, lived 100 metres from the school gates and was perceived to lounge around, eating chocolates and watching quiz shows until the boys came home because I wasn't in paid employment.  

Then two weeks after, she changed schools.  I like to think her reasons were legitimate and not because she'd had second thoughts about asking me.  Besides, if anyone was having second thoughts, it was me.  The only children I like are my own and certain select and random others belonging to friends; for me, patience is a card game rather than a quality that I am proud to possess; and classrooms make me feel a little panicky.  But hey, neither Jean Pierre Jeunet nor Christian Tortu were beating down my door with other offers to tempt me from the sink, so from the beginning of September, eager to prove that I did possess a spark of brilliance and not because I was the only candidate, I helped out with the English classes, voluntarily.

And now, I've just been dealt a bitter blow by the school who said that, despite my willingness to give hours of free English lessons on a weekly basis, they are not prepared to stretch the truth to get me on the course which would give me a qualification for teaching English as a foreign language.  Mmm.  All they had to say to the people running the course is that I am currently salaried by the school for the helping children to take the 'z' out of 'the'.  That's all.  Not a dreadful lie.  Just a tiny, little, white one that makes out that I'm already being paid, when I am clearly not.  But no.  Not keen.  I like to think it is a new requirement for those on the course and not something they knew all along when I was first asked by them.  Surely they are not capable of such skullduggery, are they?  They give my children pictures of Jesus to colour in for Goodness' sakes. 

Today, sensing that I may be frustrated by their reticence to bullshit me into the realms of "employable" , they've tried to jolly me along by asking me to select a 'chanson anglais' that is both 'joli' and 'traditionel', yet for the children to sing at the forthcoming l'arbre de noel celebrations. 

Ah-ha, the perfect opportunity for pay-back.  In fact, so perfect that I am almost inclined to continue typing whilst stroking Super Gary the guinea-pig in a  plan-hatching Bond villain stylee if only he didn't make me too nervous to concentrate on the keys.  He's a bit of a biter and I've told the boys so many times his eyes are red because really they're lasers that I've actually started to believe it myself.  Mmm. 

So minus Super Gary...but still with certain frisson, a plan is starting to hatch...Mwa-ha-ha...

What I need is a song that shows them that they are missing an absolute trick by not having me on the payroll - either pretend or for real.  Without me and my mother tongue, their children will be forever stuck on stating the prevailing weather conditions, what colour their t-shirts are and how many ice-creams they would like.  

Swinging into action as I got home, googled up 'traditional Christmas songs' and there, a little way down under the usual suspects of "Little Drummer Boy" and "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas", there it was..."Santa Baby"... Bingo!  Fantastic!  In my mind, I see fifty children a-swaying and a-singing entirely inappropriately yet still rather charmingly "Santa cutie, fill my stocking with a duplex, and cheques".  In my mind, I see it all every bit as achingly glorious as the part in Little Miss Sunshine when Olive finally gets to do her song at the beauty pageant.  Call it a kind of festive homage.  What could be better?  It's jolly.  Sweet.  Christmas-y.  And previously performed by Marilyn Monroe.  Perfect.

I print off the lyrics and am all ready to dash down to the school to start preparations when B.  breaks off from arranging small vehicles into a huge traffic jam across the kitchen and blocks my exit from the front door.

"What have you got in your hand?", he asks, no doubt rather hoping it something for him, preferably to eat.
"A piece of paper.  Can I get past, please?" I reply in a dull, let-me-just-get-past-quickly sort of voice.
"Show me!" says B., not being palmed off.
"Look!" I say, "It's just a little Christmas song and it sort of goes like this...Santa Baby, slip a sable under the tree, for me.  I've been an awful good girl.  Santa Baby, hurry down the chimney tonight...Sa..." I start in my ghastly why-housewives-shouldn't-audition-for-X-Factor voice.
"Maman?" B. bellows trying to be heard, cutting me dead in my tracks.
"What???  Don't you like it? Isn't it quite funny and jolly?  Wouldn't you like to sing it with all your little friends? No?" I gabble defensively and a little taken aback that he's interrupted my rendition.
"It's not 'baby'.  You can't say 'baby'.  Santa's not a baby. Santa's a big boy.  Like me."
"Oh".  I should perhaps point out that the word 'Baby' in our house does tend to be seen as an arch insult between the boys and used to jeer and torment one another with it in a kind of "you're a baaaaby" type way.   For S. and B., although actual babies themselves are very sweet and funny,they absolutely can't do anything that they, as big boys, can do and so are therefore everso slightly rubbish.  So yes, I  can see why perhaps the man who can and does once a year would never be called a 'baby'.  In the stingingly logical world of la maternelle, how on earth would a baby Santa lift that sack?
"Don't you like it then?"  I venture gingerly.
"No I don't.  But you can sing Santa Big Boy, if you want" said B, brightening at his own suggestion.  So did I, until I had processed the visual of M. le Maire with his rudimentary grasp of English, head cocked quizzically to one side.  And then I felt distinctly unbright.
"No.  We can't.  I guess I'll have to find something else to sing" I mumble, abject and miserable that I have failed to even get la maternelle vote, then turn away from the front door and head back upstairs.

And so here I am.  Again.  Waiting for the printer to finish spewing  out the words to bloody Jingle Bells.  Easy to learn?  Yes.  Traditional?  Yes.  English?  Yes.  Will it urge the headmistress  to send me away on  a course?  Mmm.  Do you know something, my evil plan may just work after all...if I make them sing it for long enough.






Tuesday, December 4, 2007

point proved

Tonight I had to pick S. up on rushing through his homework too quickly.  For writing 'est' all hoiky-quoiky three times,  I was compelled to point out that even though he may find it easy and rather dull, they are not excuses to be all sloppy and careless.  It doesn't matter if words only have three letters in them, they are still as important as longer ones to write well.  All words are important so all words need to be written so that they can be read.  Especially his words.

Mmm.  Perhaps I did lay it on a bit too thick.  He is only six.

After correcting the 'est's, he handed me the following piece of paper...

 soriy maman fore my teriball writing

I loved it.  I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.  And it is, officially my most favourite thing, ever.

Point proved, though: Words are important and need to be able to be read.  

Spelling can wait for another day.