breaking the spell

my new office chair
random building which looks like it belongs at the beach
Esther is headed towards her last day of school before summer break. I wish she could keep going because her French is just starting to really take. I can feel it, I can hear it, I can smell it. She's exuding escargot and frogs legs.

I don't want to break the spell.

I will miss our mornings walking over this bridge to school. I feel so smug ever time we do it, thinking of all the people in their cars during morning rush hour.

Of course we'll still walk over the bridge, just not with so much purpose, apprehension or smugness.

We had an afternoon thunderstorm here. Loud, crashing thunder, lightning flashes, heavy rain. I loved it. Isla was on the couch with me, watching Babar ala Neige. I'm force feeding my children French, one video at a time.

Listening to the cars swish by, slishy- sloshy sluice, makes me feel like I'm living in a city. I've always secretly wanted to live in a city but never had the gumption. It's never too late, to get your gumption, I guess.

New post over at BabyCenter about our evolving TV viewing habits.

flowers for Pacifique

Esther picked these flowers for her friend Ariah's new baby brother today.


Upon hearing the news of the successful adoption, she said, "Their hearts were broken and now they're getting fixed."

One stitch, or gummy smile, at a time.

More quotes from Esther can be found over here, as well.

One less orphan in Rwanda

I just read the most amazing, news:

A friend, the mother of one of my daughter’s friends, a woman I’ve known for almost 8 years yet am still getting to know-- one long New England winter at a time-- is in Rwanda with her husband and her seven year old daughter.

Four long years and untold suffering since her second child, a son, was conceived and then stillborn, she has finally been given the official okay to adopt a Rwandan orphan.

In this post she describes holding her soon-to-be-adopted son for the first time:

“Eventually a sister walks toward us with a bundle in her arms, She holds him so we can see him, and I greet him for a while with her holding him. Then suddenly he is put in my arms and it takes just a minute for me to feel comfortable accepting him, actually the minute is more like the time it takes for me to let myself love him."

Funny, though her writing is rich and descriptive, and the story, the back story, all of it has been so emotional for all of us who have played a part in this family’s lives, I didn’t cry when I first read it. I simply exhaled, as if I had been holding my breath for a thousand years.

But I’m crying now.

There’s a great French saying I just learned: “Pleure, tu pisseras moins: Cry, you piss less.”

Lazy post

Exploring Toucy.
Friends in the park.
Isla at Plum.

Lunch in the garden.
Chablis
Sharing a bowl of oranges.
Flowers in a stone tub.
Ice cream in Chamonix.
My office in France.
New friends acting like old friends.

I need some chocolate for my nose

So much for French cuisine. This kid's palate just ain't the sophisticated type.

Food just ain't her thing. When I say food, I mean that stuff that we ingest which actually contains nutrients, protein, essential vitamins-- things a body needs to grow and prosper.

What she does need, as far as she is concerned: Is chocolate, sweeties, sugar and honey.

"Isla. Do you want breakfast?" I ask her each morning. "Yeah," she says. "What do you want? Eggs, porridge, cereal and milk,or toast?"

"I want chocowet."

"Isla, It's lunch time. Are you ready for some noodles?"
"No. Noodles make'a me sick. I want some of those," she says, pointing up to the jar of bonbons sitting high on a shelf.

"You can't have bonbons for lunch, Isla. You need food for lunch."

"But I don't want food. I want candy."

"Isla, take some of this medicine for your stuffy nose, it will help you sleep."

"I don't need medicine for my nose. I need chocowet for my nose."

"Isla, I want you to eat your soup. Please eat your soup."

"I'm -NOT HUNGRY!"

Eyes go big, voice grows impossibly soft-- "Can I have some Nutehwa (Nutella) ?

"Isla it's time to brush your teeth."

"Noooooooooooo! I'm not brushin' my teef. I don't wike brushin' my teef. Brushin my teef makes me sick."

If you don't brush your teef, you won't get any more sugar, ever, for the rest of your entire life."

"It's okay, I don't want any more sugar." "Can I have some licowish (licorace)?"

slay me with beauty

Does it wear off? This being constantly blown away by aesthetics, by a sense of place, by history and thoughtful architecture? Will I ever find it ordinary? Do the people who live in Europe, were born here, even see it.
I'm finding the beauty of this place so incredibly distracting, it's almost disturbing. I find myself saying such inane things, like, "I can't get over how beautiful that roofline is," and "I love the way the old stone houses look."
Honestly, my words, my compliments, my appreciation of the beauty of this place sound so dumb coming out of my mouth.



But I do love the markets. I love the parks. I love the houses, the way the shutters are all painted a different color, sage green, forest green, brick red, cornflower blue, gray....

I love the way the farmyards are in the middle of town, the way I'm drawn down every alleyway, ever narrow passage, ever winding street like a woman possessed.

And the endless fields of vibrant yellow oilseed rape, the stuff that is making my nose tickle and my eyes itch. It's killing me.

Esther sees it too. "Look at that dazzling yellow field," she said the other day. Dazzling indeed.


Coming to France in the spring, just in time to see entire hillsides grow gauzy and soft with apple and cherry blossoms, and smell the lilac and wysteria is a trap. I am suffering from delusions of perfection. Wondering why the entire world doesn't just come here and look and find their problems solved.

Of course I'm choosing to ignore the fact that something like 70 percent of France's energy comes from nuclear power. So far I haven't spotted a reactor, but I know they're out there. Somewhere.

Please excuse me if I say nothing of substance here, I'm still reeling, in the early throes of falling in love. I'm blinded by the feeling. Stupid with love. This kind of passion can't last. I'll come around soon. Won't I?

For proof that it's not all lilacs and apple blossoms, click here.

Returning to me

Cool. I just logged onto Blogger and it was all in French.

I'm embarrassed about how long it has taken me to write another post. I have so much to blog about it makes my head spin, and it makes my kids crazy.

"Mom, mom, mooooooommmmm!!!!" "Oh, I'm sorry, did you say something, darling."

I'm constantly composing blog posts in my head. The problem is, I can't get any fricken internet access at the cottage we're living in so I have to go to the Post, or a wifi cafe, or the Tourist Office in the nearest big town and do all the "necessary" online business, that doesn't include blogging, while my family waits for me in the car, or worse yet, explores France without me.

I am loving France. I am feeling a bit like I actually understand that expression, "returning to me."

There's definitely a part of me that's been dormant wayyyy too long I feel stirring. It's so great to find the entire world so incredibly rich and filled with surprised again. Just standing at the meat counter and trying to figure out how I'm going to ask for some sliced ham with my limited French and a lot of sign language is enough excitement to last me a day.

And every time I understand how much I owe at a checkout, without having to ask them to say it again, or simply thrust 20 Euros at them and hope it's enough, is like a little victory.

Very cool.

And.... since the husband, my dear translator, is home with the kids waiting for me to return so he can get back to the construction plans, that's all I can write. Esther and Isla are home watching Tigger Movie in French. They're on their second viewing this morning. All in the name of education.

More about our French escapades, here and here.