At the ripe old age of 31, it seems like I finally have the semblance of a normal life. Which isn't to say that until now I've been living life on the edge, fighting off bears and trekking across uninhabited wildernesses. But (and I'm sure a few other freelancers will relate to this) until now I have always dreaded that inevitable first question as you sit down at the hairdressers for a restyle: 'So, is it your day off today?' Well.... where do I begin...? I usually just say yes and be done with it. But if she (for usually it is a she) presses me with 'So what is it you do then?' I tend to um and ah and mutter something about being a musician. 'Ooh! What do you play! My brother's in a band!' (I'm not meaning to typecast hairdressers with all these exclamation marks. If you're a hairdresser, please don't take offence. This is just my hairdresser. She has a lilting Penicuik accent and always follows up anything remotely negative with 'Ooh! Wha' a sheeyme!')
'Oh, I'm not that sort of musician', I say. 'I don't play for a living'. Crestfallen face.
'Ooh! Do you teach then?'
'No.'
Confused face.
'I'm, er, doing a PhD. On Beethoven. I also manage a contemporary music ensemble. And I run a choir.'
'Ooh! You sing!'
'Not really, I just run the choir.'
Return of the confused face.
'It's a managerial sort of thing.'
'Oh! My brother's band needs a manager!'
Er...
But this time, when I went to the hairdressers, I assumed the role of a Normal Person. Behold.
'So is it your day off today?'
Firmly: 'Yes it is.'
'So what is it you do then?'
'Well I'm just back at work after having my little boy.'
Cue squeal of delight. 'Ooh! What's his name? Have you got a picture?'
I get out a picture, and we discuss his blonde hair (yes, I say, I was indeed blonde as a child too), his enormous eyelashes and whether or not he sleeps through the night (he bloody well does). She asks me about his eating habits, how many words he has, when he started walking, whether he gets up to much mischief, how many days he does at nursery, if I want another one, and so on and so forth. This all goes on for a good half hour, during which time my hair is lopped, coiffed and straightened. As she's just dusting off the stray hairs from around my shoulders she remembers to ask:
'So what are you doing for work now when Alec (she's on first name terms now) is at nursery?'
'I manage a record label.'
Her face lights up.
'Ooh! My brother's band are looking for a record label!'
'It's a classical music label.'
Sad face.
Tuesday 19 August 2014
Tuesday 8 July 2014
Bienvenue en Ecosse
A month on from my last post and now the question I am hearing often has changed to 'so what's it like to be back?' We've been back in the UK and back in our old house in Penicuik for a week and a half now, and to tell you the truth it's a little bit surreal. I'm not completely convinced that we ever went to France. All the evidence suggests that we probably went on a long-ish holiday somewhere, but since everything in the house looks the same, all our old belongings are in the same places they used to be, and our lovely neighbours are still there - I suspect it might have all been a dream. There is just the small but noisy object that is Alec to remind us that a few things have changed in the last 2 years.
I have to say though, it is good to be back. I say that with a slight sense of hesitation, because I am worried that people will think we didn't enjoy our time in France or - worse - that we don't miss the people we left behind. We did and we do. But coming back to Penicuik has been like slipping on a comfortable pair of slippers - a pair that you had almost forgotten you still had, hidden down the back of the wardrobe somewhere, and now you're wondering why you ever thought about throwing them out.
While our tenants didn't exactly leave our house in a wonderful state ('cleaning' doesn't seem to have been a familiar word to them), and there has been a lot of stuff to sort out since we came back (clearing the garden of bags of dog s**t for example...), getting the house back in order has been mercifully quick and coming back to it after a 2 year break has spurred us on to do all those things we never got round to before - repainting the dining room, fixing that bit of broken gutter, chopping down a few trees in the garden. We have a renewed hatred for letting agents and their weasel-word contracts, which promise nothing but charge you 15% for the pleasure. And we have vowed never again to let our house out to someone with 'a dog' - or rather, as it transpired, 'three dogs, three cats and two rabbits'.
Happily, we have also swapped the sound of French motorbikers racing down the road past our house day and night for the gently rippling sound of the river at the bottom of the garden. And we have been reunited with our wood burner! Even in July, the Scottish weather is kind enough to let us use it.
Armed with an energetic toddler who demands entertainment every waking hour of the day, I've also started to see the area through new eyes. The woodland walks and rambles around our local woodland and the Pentland Hills that I used to enjoy so much on my own have been transformed into exciting nature discovery adventures that will keep Alec happy for hours. I've also found a new community centre 5 minutes up the road that has cheap coffee (tick), free wifi (tick) an indoor play area (tick) and a playground (tick) for slightly less adventurous days. Another 10 minutes in the car takes us to The Kabin in Loanhead, a great soft play centre (also with cafe and free wifi) that Alec thought was amazing, and 10 minutes more takes us to the Toots play cafe - an ingenious idea started by a fellow mum looking for a way to drink her cappuccino in peace (yes, there's wifi there too). I've discovered the children's area at the National Museum of Scotland, which Andy and I previously bypassed on our regular trips to the museum, and I haven't even got started on the Museum of Rural Life (animals - tick), Dynamic Earth (science and buttons to press - tick) or Andy's favourite, the Falkirk Wheel (big machinery - tick).
Of course, I'm back to work 3 days a week now, so all this activity has to be sandwiched into my 2 days with Alec during the week, but that is also a good thing. Instead of getting up each morning and thinking, 'Right, how can I entertain Alec today?' I'm now happy to be getting time to myself on work days, thinking about more than snacks and naps and nappy changes, while on my days off I get up thinking 'Lovely, a day off and some time with Alec!' There is still time, of course, to be worn down by the monotony and rigour of daily life, but for now it's Bienvenue en Ecosse and Och aye the noo. Scotland, thanks for having us back.
I have to say though, it is good to be back. I say that with a slight sense of hesitation, because I am worried that people will think we didn't enjoy our time in France or - worse - that we don't miss the people we left behind. We did and we do. But coming back to Penicuik has been like slipping on a comfortable pair of slippers - a pair that you had almost forgotten you still had, hidden down the back of the wardrobe somewhere, and now you're wondering why you ever thought about throwing them out.
While our tenants didn't exactly leave our house in a wonderful state ('cleaning' doesn't seem to have been a familiar word to them), and there has been a lot of stuff to sort out since we came back (clearing the garden of bags of dog s**t for example...), getting the house back in order has been mercifully quick and coming back to it after a 2 year break has spurred us on to do all those things we never got round to before - repainting the dining room, fixing that bit of broken gutter, chopping down a few trees in the garden. We have a renewed hatred for letting agents and their weasel-word contracts, which promise nothing but charge you 15% for the pleasure. And we have vowed never again to let our house out to someone with 'a dog' - or rather, as it transpired, 'three dogs, three cats and two rabbits'.
Happily, we have also swapped the sound of French motorbikers racing down the road past our house day and night for the gently rippling sound of the river at the bottom of the garden. And we have been reunited with our wood burner! Even in July, the Scottish weather is kind enough to let us use it.
Armed with an energetic toddler who demands entertainment every waking hour of the day, I've also started to see the area through new eyes. The woodland walks and rambles around our local woodland and the Pentland Hills that I used to enjoy so much on my own have been transformed into exciting nature discovery adventures that will keep Alec happy for hours. I've also found a new community centre 5 minutes up the road that has cheap coffee (tick), free wifi (tick) an indoor play area (tick) and a playground (tick) for slightly less adventurous days. Another 10 minutes in the car takes us to The Kabin in Loanhead, a great soft play centre (also with cafe and free wifi) that Alec thought was amazing, and 10 minutes more takes us to the Toots play cafe - an ingenious idea started by a fellow mum looking for a way to drink her cappuccino in peace (yes, there's wifi there too). I've discovered the children's area at the National Museum of Scotland, which Andy and I previously bypassed on our regular trips to the museum, and I haven't even got started on the Museum of Rural Life (animals - tick), Dynamic Earth (science and buttons to press - tick) or Andy's favourite, the Falkirk Wheel (big machinery - tick).
Of course, I'm back to work 3 days a week now, so all this activity has to be sandwiched into my 2 days with Alec during the week, but that is also a good thing. Instead of getting up each morning and thinking, 'Right, how can I entertain Alec today?' I'm now happy to be getting time to myself on work days, thinking about more than snacks and naps and nappy changes, while on my days off I get up thinking 'Lovely, a day off and some time with Alec!' There is still time, of course, to be worn down by the monotony and rigour of daily life, but for now it's Bienvenue en Ecosse and Och aye the noo. Scotland, thanks for having us back.
Thursday 5 June 2014
This is not goodbye, it's just au revoir...
In less than three weeks time, we'll be back in the UK, our petit sojourn in France having come to an end. The title of this blog is a little misleading as our 'year in France' became nearly two, thanks to a bit of crafty contract extension, but all good things must come to an end, and Scotland is calling us back.
As we start packing up and saying our goodbyes, I am being asked a lot: 'Are you looking forward to going home?' In truth, it's a time of mixed emotions. Yes, I am very much looking forward to going back, but there are many things I will miss about living here. Life in France has very much lived up to the idyllic image I had hoped for, much of the time. Take today, for example, when I cycled along to the park in beautiful sunshine with Alec sitting in the seat on the back pointing out the cows along the road, as I looked across the valley to Mont Blanc in the distance. Earlier, we sat on the terrace looking up at the mountains, both of us without a care in the world.
Part of the reason our stay here has been so wonderful is down to the fact that I haven't been working (at least for the most part). I had a relaxed pregnancy, during which I went to French classes, joined a needlework group, went swimming regularly, and met lots of other lovely women in the same position. And since then I've been fortunate enough to spend 16 blissful months with my son, in what is certainly an extremely generous amount of maternity leave. But the friends you make when you have a baby are really important: you share with these people perhaps the most important experience of your life, you talk with them about things you would never discuss with other people, and you build up a closeness with both them and their children that it will be hard to replace. (Just have another one then, my friend said to me the other day...) The people we've met here are, without a doubt, the thing I will miss most when we return to the UK.
And as for the weather... yes, this is number two on my list of things that I will miss. Closely followed by the pastries and the bread. And the wonderful seasonal fruit. And the markets. And the mountains. And in a funny way I will miss speaking French every day too. When I arrived with my rusty GCSE French, I could do little more than order a coffee and a croissant, whereas now I can get by in most situations - give or take a few too many d'accords and a rather liberal use of the verb faire. It would have been interesting to see how Alec responded to speaking two languages too. I had assumed that his two half days a week at the local French creche wouldn't have made much of an impact, but today he surprised me by saying his first word (or words, in fact) and it was French: 'a-va' (au revoir) to the French children in the playground.
But as rewarding as it has been, speaking French has also been one of the most challenging parts of living here too. Not being able to express yourself precisely the way you would like to, not having any 'chat' and not being able to pick up the phone and know with confidence that you'll be able to ask the questions you want and get the answers you need - that has been frustrating. It sounds lazy to say I'll be pleased to go back to an English speaking country, but it will certainly be easier.
Neither will I miss the expense of living here, which far exceeded what we expected. And while I admire the gesture towards quality family time, I'll be happy to live again in a country that considers Sunday a viable 'doing things' day too (nothing - by which I mean nothing except bakeries - is open here on a Sunday). I'll be pleased to have a reliable source of bacon again, not to mention the soft white bread to put it in, and it will be nice to be able to buy a crumpet or a tea cake without any fuss, instead of having to venture out to the British shop and pay five times the price for a little taste of home. And don't get me started on a decent cup of tea... (A note to the French: a cup of hot water and a tea bag does not a cup of tea make.) I'm also looking forward to going back to work properly, and for Alec to start at his new nursery. And best of all, I'm looking forward to returning to our friends and family in the UK, who we've missed a lot while living away.
As we drive away on that final day, I expect I will feel a little bit emotional to be leaving things behind. But most of all it seems strange to me that there will be a little corner of France (and also a little corner of Switzerland) that we will know really well, that will continue to go on as normal, but we won't be a part of it. That in years to come, we'll look back at photos of our time here and of Alec's birth and first year, and say 'Do you remember when we lived in France?' 'Do you remember that house we lived in, and our little village?' That we'll forget the names of the roads we knew so well, just as I've forgotten the names of the roads I walked along every day in Cambridge, now more than a decade ago. And that Alec won't have any memory of this funny little period of his life. ('What do you mean, you're Scottish, but you were born in Switzerland and lived in France?'). When I started this blog, the idea was to give my view of life in France from the perspective of an expat. I wanted to write about all the things - big and small - that I found strange and surprising and novel about living here, having come from the UK. And in the early days, there was a whole rush of things to write about: What do you mean you have to eat lunch between 12-2pm? Why can't I get milk on a Sunday? And what is this priorité a droite rule all about (OK, I discovered that one a little late, and got beeped at for the best part of a year before I realised my mistake...). But the reason the blog posts have slowed down in recent months is not just because I have a small child taking up most of my time these days, it's also because life in France doesn't seem so strange anymore. In fact, I really can't remember the feeling of alienation that we had when we first arrived, nor put my finger on why life here is any different from anywhere else.
And so now we reach a quandary: what to do with this little blog? A Year in France: Life as a CERN Wife is a rather specific title to write under, so I either pass on the baton to another willing CERN wife, or this CERN wife starts blogging about going back to life in the UK (I've heard it's strange there, you know. The shops are even open on Sundays!) and the prospect of a Yes vote in Scotland. Ok, Ok, that's another topic for another blog. Until then, this is not goodbye....
As we start packing up and saying our goodbyes, I am being asked a lot: 'Are you looking forward to going home?' In truth, it's a time of mixed emotions. Yes, I am very much looking forward to going back, but there are many things I will miss about living here. Life in France has very much lived up to the idyllic image I had hoped for, much of the time. Take today, for example, when I cycled along to the park in beautiful sunshine with Alec sitting in the seat on the back pointing out the cows along the road, as I looked across the valley to Mont Blanc in the distance. Earlier, we sat on the terrace looking up at the mountains, both of us without a care in the world.
Part of the reason our stay here has been so wonderful is down to the fact that I haven't been working (at least for the most part). I had a relaxed pregnancy, during which I went to French classes, joined a needlework group, went swimming regularly, and met lots of other lovely women in the same position. And since then I've been fortunate enough to spend 16 blissful months with my son, in what is certainly an extremely generous amount of maternity leave. But the friends you make when you have a baby are really important: you share with these people perhaps the most important experience of your life, you talk with them about things you would never discuss with other people, and you build up a closeness with both them and their children that it will be hard to replace. (Just have another one then, my friend said to me the other day...) The people we've met here are, without a doubt, the thing I will miss most when we return to the UK.
And as for the weather... yes, this is number two on my list of things that I will miss. Closely followed by the pastries and the bread. And the wonderful seasonal fruit. And the markets. And the mountains. And in a funny way I will miss speaking French every day too. When I arrived with my rusty GCSE French, I could do little more than order a coffee and a croissant, whereas now I can get by in most situations - give or take a few too many d'accords and a rather liberal use of the verb faire. It would have been interesting to see how Alec responded to speaking two languages too. I had assumed that his two half days a week at the local French creche wouldn't have made much of an impact, but today he surprised me by saying his first word (or words, in fact) and it was French: 'a-va' (au revoir) to the French children in the playground.
But as rewarding as it has been, speaking French has also been one of the most challenging parts of living here too. Not being able to express yourself precisely the way you would like to, not having any 'chat' and not being able to pick up the phone and know with confidence that you'll be able to ask the questions you want and get the answers you need - that has been frustrating. It sounds lazy to say I'll be pleased to go back to an English speaking country, but it will certainly be easier.
Neither will I miss the expense of living here, which far exceeded what we expected. And while I admire the gesture towards quality family time, I'll be happy to live again in a country that considers Sunday a viable 'doing things' day too (nothing - by which I mean nothing except bakeries - is open here on a Sunday). I'll be pleased to have a reliable source of bacon again, not to mention the soft white bread to put it in, and it will be nice to be able to buy a crumpet or a tea cake without any fuss, instead of having to venture out to the British shop and pay five times the price for a little taste of home. And don't get me started on a decent cup of tea... (A note to the French: a cup of hot water and a tea bag does not a cup of tea make.) I'm also looking forward to going back to work properly, and for Alec to start at his new nursery. And best of all, I'm looking forward to returning to our friends and family in the UK, who we've missed a lot while living away.
As we drive away on that final day, I expect I will feel a little bit emotional to be leaving things behind. But most of all it seems strange to me that there will be a little corner of France (and also a little corner of Switzerland) that we will know really well, that will continue to go on as normal, but we won't be a part of it. That in years to come, we'll look back at photos of our time here and of Alec's birth and first year, and say 'Do you remember when we lived in France?' 'Do you remember that house we lived in, and our little village?' That we'll forget the names of the roads we knew so well, just as I've forgotten the names of the roads I walked along every day in Cambridge, now more than a decade ago. And that Alec won't have any memory of this funny little period of his life. ('What do you mean, you're Scottish, but you were born in Switzerland and lived in France?'). When I started this blog, the idea was to give my view of life in France from the perspective of an expat. I wanted to write about all the things - big and small - that I found strange and surprising and novel about living here, having come from the UK. And in the early days, there was a whole rush of things to write about: What do you mean you have to eat lunch between 12-2pm? Why can't I get milk on a Sunday? And what is this priorité a droite rule all about (OK, I discovered that one a little late, and got beeped at for the best part of a year before I realised my mistake...). But the reason the blog posts have slowed down in recent months is not just because I have a small child taking up most of my time these days, it's also because life in France doesn't seem so strange anymore. In fact, I really can't remember the feeling of alienation that we had when we first arrived, nor put my finger on why life here is any different from anywhere else.
And so now we reach a quandary: what to do with this little blog? A Year in France: Life as a CERN Wife is a rather specific title to write under, so I either pass on the baton to another willing CERN wife, or this CERN wife starts blogging about going back to life in the UK (I've heard it's strange there, you know. The shops are even open on Sundays!) and the prospect of a Yes vote in Scotland. Ok, Ok, that's another topic for another blog. Until then, this is not goodbye....
Monday 10 February 2014
A brand new human being: one year on
The time has really flown but believe it or not, on Wednesday, we celebrated surviving 365 days of nappies, milk, teething and baby sick. Alec William Buckley is now a one-year old. And according to our paediatrician, that means he's no longer a baby, but is officially a little boy.
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The idea of reviewing the year seemed like a good one when I started thinking about writing this blog entry. But now that I'm trying to do it, I find that it really is a bit of a blur. Milestones that seemed like such a huge deal at the time now seem like a fuzzy string of events, whose timings I really can't quite recall. When Alec rolled over for the first time, we were so excited that we videoed it and immediately shared it with friends - I was sure I wouldn't forget when this happened. But the memory is a bit hazy now - was it 3 months, 4 months, 5 months? And when exactly did he start saying Mama? I'm not sure. All I know is it was before he started saying Dada, and that's the important bit to remember.
Many parents make note of these kind of things in a baby book - apparently, so that they can look back and reminisce and share these little developmental gems with the child when they get older, but really I think it's so they can pretend they remember how it all panned out. In the absence of a suitable baby book to mark these events, I've been doing it the modern way - on Google calendar. Alec has his own little calendar in which I mark things like 'rolled over in his cot - and got stuck' (17th July, aged 5 months), 'first ride in a shopping trolley' (26th October, aged 8 months) and 'climbed the stairs to the kitchen' (11th December, aged 10 months). I've even marked the occasion of his first blood (4th January, aged 11 months - bashed his lip when he fell over). The first time he slept 12 hours in one go is also documented, in CAPITALS for emphasis (28th June, aged 4 months).
The great thing about a timeline like this is that I can look back and see how far we've come in such a short time. Now that we have a noisy, energetic toddler on our hands, it seems like a lifetime since he was just starting to sit up for himself (30th July, aged 5 months). And it helps to jog my memory of all the momentous things that happened amidst the blurry bits too. I remember how we were all in stitches when Alec laughed properly for the first time, as his daddy tickled him (14th May, aged 3 months) and how sad I was the day Alec took one look at my boob and then turned away, deciding for himself that he'd had enough of breastfeeding (11th December, aged 10 months). I remember the delight on Alec's face when he used his toybox to pull himself up to standing for the first time (23rd November, aged 9 months) and the day afterwards, when he got carried away and toppled head first into it.
At the risk of getting soppy and blubbing over my keyboard, I can honestly say it's been the most wonderful year of my life. And I'm pleased to say it's also been far easier than I ever imagined. It's not the done thing to say you had a dream of a time with a young baby, because it seems too much like bragging, and sleepless nights are supposed to be a rite of passage. But if you found the whole thing enjoyable, why not say it? We've had around half a dozen sleepless nights out of 365, so I think that's pretty good, and the inconsolable crying episodes have been mainly confined to periods of illness or extreme tiredness. We've had just one overnight hospitalisation (Berlin, 15th January, aged 11 months, for an unidentified rash and fever) and only two truly horrendous exploding nappies. But best of all, we've stayed sane, and although I can't really remember the details of everything, I'm fairly sure we enjoyed 90% of it.
So happy birthday, Alec, you wonderful little nutcase. I love your enormous eyelashes and your huge great smile and the fact that everyone who meets you falls in love with you too. Here's to the next 17 years, and may they please go a little more slowly.
.jpg)
The idea of reviewing the year seemed like a good one when I started thinking about writing this blog entry. But now that I'm trying to do it, I find that it really is a bit of a blur. Milestones that seemed like such a huge deal at the time now seem like a fuzzy string of events, whose timings I really can't quite recall. When Alec rolled over for the first time, we were so excited that we videoed it and immediately shared it with friends - I was sure I wouldn't forget when this happened. But the memory is a bit hazy now - was it 3 months, 4 months, 5 months? And when exactly did he start saying Mama? I'm not sure. All I know is it was before he started saying Dada, and that's the important bit to remember.
Many parents make note of these kind of things in a baby book - apparently, so that they can look back and reminisce and share these little developmental gems with the child when they get older, but really I think it's so they can pretend they remember how it all panned out. In the absence of a suitable baby book to mark these events, I've been doing it the modern way - on Google calendar. Alec has his own little calendar in which I mark things like 'rolled over in his cot - and got stuck' (17th July, aged 5 months), 'first ride in a shopping trolley' (26th October, aged 8 months) and 'climbed the stairs to the kitchen' (11th December, aged 10 months). I've even marked the occasion of his first blood (4th January, aged 11 months - bashed his lip when he fell over). The first time he slept 12 hours in one go is also documented, in CAPITALS for emphasis (28th June, aged 4 months).
The great thing about a timeline like this is that I can look back and see how far we've come in such a short time. Now that we have a noisy, energetic toddler on our hands, it seems like a lifetime since he was just starting to sit up for himself (30th July, aged 5 months). And it helps to jog my memory of all the momentous things that happened amidst the blurry bits too. I remember how we were all in stitches when Alec laughed properly for the first time, as his daddy tickled him (14th May, aged 3 months) and how sad I was the day Alec took one look at my boob and then turned away, deciding for himself that he'd had enough of breastfeeding (11th December, aged 10 months). I remember the delight on Alec's face when he used his toybox to pull himself up to standing for the first time (23rd November, aged 9 months) and the day afterwards, when he got carried away and toppled head first into it.
At the risk of getting soppy and blubbing over my keyboard, I can honestly say it's been the most wonderful year of my life. And I'm pleased to say it's also been far easier than I ever imagined. It's not the done thing to say you had a dream of a time with a young baby, because it seems too much like bragging, and sleepless nights are supposed to be a rite of passage. But if you found the whole thing enjoyable, why not say it? We've had around half a dozen sleepless nights out of 365, so I think that's pretty good, and the inconsolable crying episodes have been mainly confined to periods of illness or extreme tiredness. We've had just one overnight hospitalisation (Berlin, 15th January, aged 11 months, for an unidentified rash and fever) and only two truly horrendous exploding nappies. But best of all, we've stayed sane, and although I can't really remember the details of everything, I'm fairly sure we enjoyed 90% of it.
So happy birthday, Alec, you wonderful little nutcase. I love your enormous eyelashes and your huge great smile and the fact that everyone who meets you falls in love with you too. Here's to the next 17 years, and may they please go a little more slowly.
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