How long are your sleeves?

Husband and I bickered this morning. Over, believe it or not, the weather. Well, actually, over weather-appropriate clothing. Which is silly because we'll never agree on the subject and we know that already. I guess it was just a booster shot kind of thing to confirm that perceptions had not changed.

Basically, Husband and I live in different weather systems. Strange, I know, given the fact that we live in the same place. And yet. On a day like today, where the temperature is about 66-68° F (so 20°c or something like that), I'm wearing short sleeves and Husband is wearing long sleeves. To a certain extent this could be attributed to physical activity - my days are filled with moving around quite a bit (dropping off the kids, going to get the kids, cleaning, walking to the coffee shop up the street, working not at a desk) and his are spent at a desk or sitting in a courtroom or perhaps driving somewhere to do one of the above. It is also probably attributed to the women who raised us. Husband's mother, who is a wonderful mother-in-law by the way, is nearly always cold. She's forever adjusting collars and suggesting scarves and zipping things all the way to choke level, particularly on her grandchildren. I have come to expect this and pay little attention. She has a sharp phobia of drafts and cool breezes and car air conditioners, believing fervently that they all lead to colds, sore throats, and coughs. My mother, on the other hand, likes a good draft, enjoys cool breezes and frequently uses her air conditioner. Then there's also the cultural thing - the French are very anti-draft in general and are often telling me to put on a scarf or a heavier coat. Americans tend to put on shorts as soon as possible and nearly everyone, except in moderate weathered places like Seattle, has an air conditioner and yet, Americans are no more subject to upper respiritory afflictions than the French.

Anyway, none of this should really cause any problems, and didn't, until we had kids. Now, during interseasonal weather like today's, we rarely agree on what the boys should be wearing. So, as a result of this morning's scene, they went to school with a short-sleeved shirt, topped with a cotton sweater, and a raincoat. Needless to say, when I picked them up for lunch, the raincoats were stuffed in my bag and the sweaters were around their waists. No harm done, but I do like to have the last word.

Coin this

Bilingual kids say funny stuff sometimes. They try to import /export expressions or vocabulary or even syntax from one language to the other. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. And sometimes they come up with some really great words.

When Husband came home yesterday evening, Boy1 greeted him at the door with a hug and, "Papa, j'ai déjà fait mes devoirs. Je n'ai pas procrastiné ce soir." Papa, I've already done my homework. I didn't procrastinate tonight.

Great, except that procrastinate doesn't exist in French. You have to say something like put something off until later. There's no one word solution for it and I understand Boy1's frustration, I've often wanted to coin the verb in French myself. But I have never dared. Call me a linguistic chicken if you like.

The following is an excerpt from this afternoon's homework session.

Boy1, who is learning to read, was stuck on a syllable. I offered what I thought was subtle and unintrusive help. Boy1 didn't see things that way and he said, "Hush Mama, you're deconcentrating me."

Don't you hate it when people deconcentrate you?

Why I haven't been posting much...

I'm in a terrible funk and, as everyone knows, unfunking one's self is not easily done.

It might be because I can never be the chef de famille. But I doubt it. Or it might be because the house deal fell through. But I really don't think so. It could be because my house is a disaster area and I can't seem to get motivated to change that. Or it could be because I'm imagining Christmas without my mom here with us in France - for the first time in 7 years. She's doing fine and the operation went well, but I'm sure transatlantic travel would not be wise this year. And the idea of Christmas without my American family is hard to look at.

Having said that, I realize I have many things to be grateful for. Mom is recovering. Work is going to be fine. The kids are doing well in school. Boy1 has made a new friend at his new school - the first - Inès, who has taken him under her wing and I love her already for that. Since the house deal fell through, Husband's freaky stress level has dropped dramatically. I spoke to my father last night and I felt good afterwards. Husband and I are planning a trip home for next summer, July most likely. (So please come to Illinois to see us if you can.)

One more thing. There is no word in French for funk. How strange.

Chef de famille

I could've also called this post You've got to be kidding me, Tome Whatever.

I had to go to city hall to buy some tickets. The tickets are used for municipally sponsored activities and services, like the cafeteria at school, which, while a private school, serves meals prepared by the municipal cafeteria service. Anyway.

I have made a horrifying discovery. Thanks to city hall.

My value is variable. It depends, it would appear, on whether or not A MAN is around. And I'm not even kidding. Now, there are those of you who might say this is another case of Nicole willfully misunderstanding. And, who knows, you might be right.

So, I went to city hall. I asked for some tickets. I was asked to fill out a small piece of paper with some questions on it. Name, address, family equation (another post will explain this morsel of blah), and then the killer question. Who is the chef de famille. The head of the household. I asked the city hall worker person what on earth that was supposed to mean. Why, head of household, of course. You mean like who wears the pants? I asked in a slightly sarcastic tone. (Shocking, I know.) No, the real head of the household. I replied that we tended to run the family life as a team so I didn't really feel comfortable naming a chief. Ha! Not possible. A chief must be named on the ohsoimportant slip of paper. Fine, then, put me. Husband won't care. Oh, you're married? Yes, I replied. Well then, of course, it's your husband, she stated with finality. Let me type that again for you.

Well then, of course, it's your husband.

And if I were a single mother?

Then it would be you, madame.

So, let me summarize, I said to CHWP, if there's no man around, I can be the chief, but if there's a man around, he's automatically the chief.

Oui, madame.

I could take some comfort in the fact that being classified as family chief at city hall has absolutely no effect on anything anywhere. It's a meaningless classification of no legal value, as Husband was quick to assure me when I ranted told the story.

You've got to be kidding me.

Une superstition juridique

This morning husband and I went to sign some something or other for the house we successfully bid on this week. Mr. Real Estate Agent Man read us the whole thing, explaining as he went various real estatey kind of information, including that we agree to buy the house in it's current state knowing that it may indeed have some hidden vices. Des vices cachées. Do you think it smokes or drinks or has too much sex?

Anyway, after having listening ohsoattentively to MREAM do his job, he asked us to sign the long document. And he asked us to write, to the left of our signature, lu et approuvé - bon pour accord. Which literally means, 'read and approuved - good for agreement'.

I am a lawyer's wife. I've learned a few things about the law over the years. One of the things I've learned is that the above formula has absolutely no legal value. The document is valid because of the signature and that's it. I mentioned this fact to MREAM and Husband confirmed what Miss Smarty Pants (that's me, in case you're not following) had said. And then Husband gave it's name. It's called superstition juridique. A judicial superstition. No legal value but apparently a lot of effect on the psychological state of involved parties.

Let me illustrate.

At the CCI (one of the places I'll be working - by the way, I managed to keep a few hours and good graces despite it all), I have to sign a work contract for each client's account. This week I had two new 20 hour contracts to sign. Which I did. On each is the request to precede signatures with the aforementioned formula. Which I did not do, because, why waste the ink. And it's a lot of words for nothing. No one on site noticed and the contracts were sent to HQ. And were sent back. Because I didn't put the good for agreement bs on there. The HQ administrators are evidently a psychologically fragile bunch. So I scribbled 'bite me, losers' to the left of my signature and gave them back. Superstitions graciously respected, they were accepted, of course.

No matter how you slice it

Some things are still heartbreaking.

Yesterday, as I mentioned, the boys ate at the cafeteria. I picked Boy2 up at 1:00 and he came home for a nap. It was too late to bring Boy1 home, class starts at 1:30. While we were waiting for the bell to ring after school at 4:30, I talked to another mom. She told me that Boy1 was a little sad when she saw him on his way to the cafeteria. The bell rang and he walked out of his classroom. And when he spotted me, he had tears in his eyes that just stayed there and didn't fall. I hugged him and told him how happy I was to see him. I asked about the cafeteria. He said it was ok. He said he cried a little, because he had never been before and didn't know what to expect and was sad that he wouldn't see us all day long. I asked about the unshed tears in his eyes when he saw us. He said, "I was just so happy to see you. I couldn't believe how much I missed you."

Which, of course, brought tears to my eyes. Which, of course, were shed.

On the homefront, literally, we appear to have made an acceptable offer on the house without a guesthouse. Interesting.

On the workfront, I've been offered more hours at one place and am going to have to, consequently, burn some bridges at another place. Troubling.

La Cantine

Today was the first day the boys had to eat at the cafeteria. Boy2 cried a bit, but I don't think it was because of the food.

Today's menu was as follows:

First course - grated carrots with lemon vinaigrette
Second course - shepard's pie
Cheese course - a wedge of tome de savoie with baguette
Dessert - a plum and a pot de crème à la vanille

Not bad for a cafeteria meal.

Interestingly, it's la semaine du goût this week. Which I never really notice other than to hear it spoken of on the radio. I guess it's supposed to be a week where we are to be reminded to not fall into a food rut, to try new things, to strive for excellence in the foods we prepare, and appreciate quality. All of which are noble things to do.

Even more interesting, flavor week is ended (this weekend - because here the week starts on monday, not on sunday), by les journées du patrimoine. Two days a year, castles and manors and private parks (that are not open to the public) open for all to see and admire.

A week of delicate feasting for the palate and stomach followed by two days of historical eye candy. What a perfect dessert.

La Vie Active

When I tell people here I'm going back to work, the most common response I get is about how nice it will be for me to get back into la vie active. Which makes me smirk because how is taking care of two kids not an active life? You might think I willfully misunderstand the remark. Which is possible.

I read a study once that quanitified total work hours (including childcare, food prep, errands, cleaning, chauffering, in addition to 'real' work) of women who fell into one of three categories. Worked outside the home part-time, worked outside the home full-time, had no job other than child and house care. The results showed that the worst possible situation for a woman to be in is part-time work.

As of this week, I am able to confirm this information.

When you work full-time, everyone says, oh you work full-time, let's help you out around the house, let's get a cleaning service, let's order dinner out tonight. When you are a stay-at-home-mom, you have a lot of work, it's true, and it's never-ending (at least that's what it seemed like to me), but your focus is in one spot. But when you work part-time, you really get the shaft. Everyone says, oh yeah, but you have time, you only work part-time. So you do everything you did when you weren't working outside the home and you do it in addition to the work you're now doing outside the home. And you can't even complain because you have the priviledge of not having to work full-time.

Active, schmative.

L'école maternelle

Chose promise, chose dûe.

I don't really know if it's just glorified preschool or what. They all seem to think it's wonderful and so important to the development of kids. But I have my suspicions.

Homogeneity is so incredibly important here and I think the whole real school/preschool is really about getting them young. That sounds terrible and it's actually much more benign than that. Put simply, kids who do well in school here are kids who fit into the mold. Artistic, creative, and original thinkers CAN thrive, but the outlets for those qualities are not found at school. So if they get used to it starting at 3, the hope (I think) is that the fitting part will be easier.

I think it's also about l'égalité des chances. Like many, they haven't figured out that same doesn't mean equeal, but that's a whole other debate. Anyway, an institutionalized preschool, they say, helps to wipe out the differences between kids that may exist due to socioeconomic circumstances.

And mostly, I think it's about childcare solutions for families where both parents work. Although even in those families where there is a parent at home, all are anxious that their children start maternelle on schedule so they won't 'miss' anything.

Boy2's day goes something like this. At 8:30 Husband takes the boys to school. Boy2's class is large, 30 children, who are divided into 3 groups of 10, with one or two adults managing each group. The greeting activities are done together, then one group goes to the motricity room for physical play (balls, mats, etc.), another group goes to the art area (painting, drawing, etc) and another group stays in the classroom for music or storytelling or schoolish stuff. Then they all break at 10 for 20 minutes in the schoolyard for outside play with balls, bikes, and trees. Then they return inside and switch activities until Mama time at 11:30.

Days I work, he will eat at the cafeteria and I will pick him up at 1:15.

Amongst his classmates (gosh it's weird to call 3 year olds classmates), there are 16 who stay all day every day (although not wednesdays, as there is no school in pre or elementary), from 8:30 until 4:30. Amongst those 16, there are a few who arrive at 8 and don't leave until 6. That's a long-ass day.

By the way, I have a pounding headache and it's way too hot here again.

Etre Bilingue

I didn't respond to comments left on friday's post. But only because the topics deserve more time than a comment response. So today is about bilingualism and tomorrow about Maternelle.

Sarah, who has a very interesting blog about bilingualism and children (babybilingual.blogspot.com), asked about the boys'.

While in graduate school, I worked in a department where a woman from Quebec was a tenured professor. I saw an interview of her on tape, made to be used in basic level French classes during the francophonie unit. And I was very surprised by her attitude. Which was openly hostile (although in a very polite way) towards the 'omnipresence' of American culture. Up until then I had always thought of Quebec as sort of a happy francophone island. They wish. On an island it would be easier, perhaps, to manage the constant flow of all things anglophone. She actually used the word battle. How hard it was for francophone Canada to remain so.

I understand her attitude better now. Because I feel the same way. As I've mentioned before, when you're raising children in two cultures, you want them to feel at home where they live obviously. So Boy2 going to school earlier than I would like, in my ideal world, is fine, but spending too much time there, and therefore, in French, is not.

Yesterday, we went for a walk. Husband and a friend were walking futher ahead with the boys and I was trailing behind and talking with friend's wife. Boy1 ran back to see us and said, "Mama, Papa found some mûres!" "You mean blackberries? " I asked. "Yeah, Papa found some blackberries." Other than situations like that, where he's forgotten a word or never learned it, he never speaks French to me. He switches back and forth from one second to the next, depending on who he's talking to. When all four of us are together, the conversation is always in both, between the boys and me in English, between the boys and Husband in French and between Husband and me in French. Interestingly, the boys speak English to each other, which I am hoping will last. Boy2 is, for the time being, far more advanced in English than in French. He never uses French with me but he does use quite a bit of English with Husband. Which won't last - school will take care of that. They have three playmates who are native English speakers now, they don't live in Laval so we don't see them every week, but I try to arrange something a least once a month so they learn childhood English too, not just Mama English and Disney English. The goal being for them to be almost as comfortable in English as they are in French. Which is hard because French is omnipresent, obviously, on my little American island in Laval.

La Rentrée

Today was the Boys' first day of school. Boy1, who will be 6 in October, entered CP, the big deal grade where they learn to read. Boy2, who will be 3 this month, entered Petite Section, where they learn to be proper French citizens.

Just kidding.

No really though, they both did start school today. And Boy2, who is too little to be doing that kind of thing (according to moi), will be going as well. Because that's how it works here. When kids are three (and many of the kids in Boy2's class are barely 2 1/2) they go to school. Real school. Boy2's classroom is in the same establishment as Boy1's. Regular daycare is for children up to 3, at which point they all go to school.

I tried to do it my way with Boy1. I kept him at home until he was barely 3 1/2. I gave in for a couple of reasons. First, all the activites I had taken him to before were closed to kids over 3. Of course, because they're all in school. All the children his age he used to play with while I drank coffee and chatted and breastfed the new baby were, you guessed it, in school. He was the only child in Laval over three who was not in school. And people would go on and on about how he was missing out on all kinds of socialization and whatever. Which I really think is nonsense. But whatever. Let's just call it what it is, very cheap daycare (we will pay about $250 total this year - and it's a private school) in a scholastic setting. Although they do have a prettier name for it - La Maternelle.

Several Things

1. I have been without television, internet, and telephone service since tuesday evening. The television and internet privation was vaguely bearable. The phone thing, on the other hand, was more than I could stand. I use the phone a lot. I like the phone a lot. Foreigners like to use the phone a lot.

2. Boy1 said to me yesterday, 'I love you more than my heart can stand.'

3. I was tucking Boy2 into bed last night. I said, 'Goodnight my monkey.' We had just finished reading Hand Hand Fingers Thumb, which features many monkeys drumming on drums. And he said, 'I not monkey.' And then gave me his real name. I asked him what my name was. He said, 'Mama.' My other name, I suggested. 'Oh, Nicole.' I asked him what Husband's name was. 'Papa.' And his other name? 'Cheri.' Which tells you how often I call Husband sweety.

4. The phone line repair guy was here this afternoon trying to reestablish order and I stepped outside onto the sidewalk to answer a couple of questions and have a look at the mess. (Some tree and ivy trimming fellows got a little carried away and snipped through an important wire.) When I returned 5 mintues later, Boy1 was in tears, convinced I had abandonned him for life. It took 5 more minutes to calm him down. And 5 minutes after that, I had my life my phone line back.

Dans La Cuisine

Husband and I have recently begun our first house-hunting adventure. We, or maybe I should say I, know what we want. City center, 19th century or before, yard. That's about it, in terms of absolutely essential things. All of which make husband cringe because something in the suburbs built about 50 years ago would be a lot cheaper. But jeez, it's so nice that they have liveable city centers, and old houses are cool, and kids need a yard.

So we've visited a few houses. One was very nice but the first floor was really narrow. And entertaining is already really limited in the house we have now due to small spaces so I'd like to move on to something a little more accomodating in that sense. Another, my favorite so far, is charming, very nice first floor with lots of space, smallish bedrooms on the second and third floors, small but cute yard, 4 blocks from Boys' school. The downside, the bathroom needs some major work. A third, neither one of us really liked the house, but we both loved everything else about the place. A great yard, a guest house (!!), and a green house.

All the places we have seen have one very terrible thing in common. And it is something that seems to contradict one of the cornerstones of French culture. They love food and all things about food. And yet, the kitchens are ridiculously small. What is up with that? Why are all the kitchens here so small? Why? Why?

In all the years I have been here, I've seen two kitchens worth notice. One was in a château and one was in a hôtel particulier (a mansion). Nothing similar will fit into our budget so I'm left facing the reality that I'll probably never get my dream kitchen. All the other kitchens I've seen are like little food laboratories. You have everything you need to get the job done and no more. No corner benches, no desks, no window seats, no reason to stay once the job is done.

Maybe that's why. There was a time when guests were limited to certain rooms in France. They didn't go into the kitchen, they stayed in the living room or dining room or sitting room and that's it. Closest friends and family might have access to the guts of the house, but that's it. Socializing didn't happen in the kitchen. Which still baffles me because at home, correct me if I'm wrong, but, at a party, where does everyone end up hanging out? In the kitchen.

M et Mme Massot

There is a heavenly place 4 blocks from my house. It is the bakery of the Massots. They make the best bread. EVER. Flutes (like a baguette but much thinner and smaller and softer crust) with chorizo. Flutes with bacon. Flutes with sharp emmenthal cheese. Hearty loaves with apples, hazelnuts, and raisins. Loaves with goat cheese and herbs. Loaves with pears and roquefort. Leavened baguettes, country baguettes, regular (although nothing about them is regular) baguettes. And my personal favorite, spelt loaf (épautre), more flavorful than wheat flour but not too whole grainy that makes you feel like you're eating rope.

At lunch they set out fougasse, which is kind of like a French foccacia. Topped with feta and grilled tomatoes or bacon and goat cheese. They never sell sandwiches.

And then there's the sweet stuff. Baguette viennoise (which is only like a baguette in its shape - which makes sense because baguette really means wand, as in magic, which this bread is, by the way) with chocolate. Baguette viennoise with nouagtine. (Viennoise bread is kind of like brioche but less butter and more milk.) And of course the standards, pain au chocolat (chocolate croissant), brioche, brioche with chocolate, croissant, and pain au raisin. During the winter they make their own ginger bread loaves. And in the spring, lemon pound cake. On wednesdays, which children have off every week, they make chouquettes. I've talked about these before. Cream puffs without the cream and topped with little bits of rock sugar.

For the past month, M et Mme Massot have been on vacation.

But now they're back.

Made my day.

It's all in the tilt of the head

It' s the small things about a place that remind you that you're a foreigner.

So many things are the same no matter where you go. We all laugh and cry and eat and sleep and drink and love and learn. But.

Heads don't tilt the same no matter where you go.

I have always liked books. My book budget is ridiculous given my ridiculously low earnings. I reread 3 of Jane Austin's books for the millionth time this summer. And I enjoyed them as much as the first time. But going to book stores isn't as fun here as it is at home.

No cafés inside book stores, no couches, no magazines, no lounging. But most of all, it's the way you have to tilt your head here. Think about how you tilt your head to look at book titles on the spine of a book. You have to tilt it to the right. Titles read from top to bottom. Wouldn't you think that kind of thing would be universal? Well, it's not. In France, titles read from bottom to top, so you have to tilt your head to the left. Go ahead, give it a try. Not just a quick tilt. Stand up, imagine you're looking at a big shelf of books and you have to stand that way for a while. Head tilted to the left. Not very comfortable is it? Or perhaps my discomfort in this position has more to do with my inflexibility when it comes to books and the selling of than my neck.

This is a very literary country. Books are a big deal here. Prices are set and book stores are not allowed to sell them at any other price. Unless they're in the clearance bin and that can only happen after a fixed amount of time after the publishing date. A HUGE deal is made about the literary prizes, Prix Goncourt and the like, and every Monsieur Untel knows who the winners are every year. There are used book stores, but not as widely developed as at home and frankly, they buy books for silly sums. 10 cents a book kind of thing.

Then there's the whole book cover thing. As I mentioned in yesterday's comments in response to Eric, the French are crap when it comes to marketing. And their books are perfect evidence of that. Millions of books are sold here with NOTHING on the front or back cover other than the name of the author, title of the book, and publisher. They make sure you can't judge a book by its cover.

I should be able to see the merit of all these differences. But I can't.

See, I told you I was inflexible.

Dangerous liasons

I recently bought some facial cleanser, actually cleansing milk, if you want the precise term. On the bottle was written

Visage et Yeux (Face and Eyes)

in case I had any doubts as to which body parts I was supposed to use it on.

Eye is a funny word in French. The singular is oeil and I can't even describe how to pronounce it and I don't want to bore anyone with phonetic symbols. Anyway, it's a funky word. Un oeil, l'oeil, le troisième oeil...

The plural is yeux. I know. Ridiculous. Completely illogical. That one is pronounced with an initial y as in yeah sound followed by a vowel we don't have in English. The x, like many final consonants in French, is silent. Because y is a y, if it is preceded by a consonant, that consonant is pronounced, even if it's usually silent. Bear with me.

For example, les yeux. The s in les is only pronounced if the following word begins with a vowel or a y or an unaspirated h. Don't ask. Anyway, yeux is nearly always used with an article in front of it. Des yeux or les yeux, or deux yeux bleus. Which means that it is always preceded by a [z] sound, because final s and x are both pronounced as [z] in cases like this. This process is called liason.

So, when I read the bottle, over and over, I couldn't imagine how in the heck to say it correctly. You can't put the [z] in just gratuitously, there's no article in sight. But you can't leave it out because it just sounds so strange. And you certainly can't liase the [t] because that sounds even stranger.

I asked a few native French speakers. Without leading them. I wrote down the phrase and asked how they would pronounce it. No one could give me a straight answer. None of them wanted to add the [z] because there was no article and no one wanted to pronounce without because it 'hurt their ears'. (Seriously, two people said that.)

Which made me wonder if the [z] hasn't become a part of the word yeux now. A silent partner, if you will. It's always there, even when there is no evidence of it's being there, other than the feeling of offness.

Who's your silent partner?

Heads up

My mom, who means the world to me and many people in her life, has recently been diagnosed with breast cancer. While I am confident that she will recover quickly and completely, we could all use some help. So, those who pray, please say a prayer for her. And those who don't, good thoughts will work just as well. Someone once wrote that God/the Divine/Sage/Universe/Apple Fairy doesn't have the ego to care what name you use and I'm sure the love present in a prayer or a good thought is felt in the same way. Thanks to all.

Well that's not logical

And I do love logic. It's very reassuring, after unmelted footprints and the like. Anyway.

While we were on vacation I kept an eye out for interesting village names that would, of course, lead to interesting inhabitants of village names. And the day I saw Aigrefeuille-sur-Maine, I thought I had found a whopper. Not even, as Boy1 would say. Which is, I think, his version of As if, which he's probably never heard. He's actually taken to using that phrase with The Tone in my presence quite frequently. I suppose I'm going to have to do something about that one of these days, but I'm currently picking my battles, and that's not one of them.

For now, she said menacingly.

Back to Sourleaf on the Maine River. I looked it up on their website and it's nothing extraordinary. Aigrefeuillais, Aigrefeuillaise. The Maine doesn't figure into the equation like the sauté pans of the City of God sauté pans. Why? No one can tell me. They all just answer with that shruggy thing and say, "C'est comme ça." That's just the way it is. Whatever. I still wouldn't want to be known as sourleafy or sourleafesque or even sourleaved. Or would it be sourleafed?

I shouldn't be surprised. French can be logical and it can also be maddeningly illogical. Cheval, chevaux. Hôpital, hôpitaux. Carnaval, carnavaux? NON, carnavals. 3 girls are elles. 3 boys are ils. 3 girls and 1 boy are...ils. Majority and logic, despite all their claims of loving Descartes more than anything, do not rule here.

Tome 2 of things I've learned

1. It is possible to be too sad.

Yesterday, Boy2 and I took a nap together. He usually takes a nap on his own but he had dozed in the car on the way back and I was worried he wouldn't take one at all. So I offered to take one with him. He sweetly accepted. On the way to bed, he got a big splinter in his big toe. That I couldn't get out. I told him sleep was the only solution (I was REALLY tired). We got into bed and I said, "Do you want to snuggle for a while?" He looked at me with stricken eyes and said, "No, I'm too sad to snuggle."

2. It is possible to be too polite.

In the middle of said nap (which lasted 2 blissful hours), I woke up enough to roll over and sneeze quietly. Boy2 was curled up against me, his head against my shoulder. Without opening his eyes or even waking up, he whispered against my skin, "Bless you, Mama."

3. Road signs are sometimes very profound.

On the way to a historical theme park, I saw a sign on the highway that said:

Conduite souple.
J'économise et je pollue moins.

Which could be translated in two ways. One literal which I won't bother giving because it's not very interesting, although I am curious to know how one might define flexible driving. And the other:

Flexible behavoir.
I save and I pollute less.

Things I learned / ate / discovered on vacation

1. Nagging works. We were going to spend the day with relatives. Our boys can get a little rowdy when they spend the day with certain cousins. So, before arriving, I turned to Boys and said, 'Hey guys, what are the rules?" Boy2 took a deep breath and said in rapid succession, "No fussing, no hitting, no pushing, no fooling around, no whining, no bickering, no nothing! They managed to have fun anyway.

2. Weird conversations are just around any corner. While buying a vacuum cleaner (don't ask me why we had to do this on vacation), I asked a few questions to the small appliance salesperson about vacuum cleaner longevity. He said, 'Try not to suck things up with it." Isn't that the point?

3. The best butter cookies in the WORLD are made in Pont-Aven, which is also a beautiful little painters' city (Gaugin and many others lived there). Better than Lorna Doones (sp?), better than Scottish shortbread (sorry, Charlie), better than anything.

4. There is a walled city in Brittany I had been to before this vacation. Despite the fact that I had never been there. This isn't one of the those past life things, cause I'm not really buying that, and it's not one of those destiny thing, cause I'm not buying that either. All I can say is that walking down the cobblestone street, my feet were walking in my own footprints. Maybe it was the musicians playing dreamy Celtic stuff on one of the squares or maybe I visited this place in a dream, but, one way or another, my tracks had been left on the snow covering that ground and they never melted away.