A Tale of Two Cities
The story of Parisians cutting in line is as old as that of Paris’ dogshit slaloms from your doorstep to destination x.
I’m standing in line at my local supermarket, and the young man in front of me leaves his spot, presumably because the cashier is counting change in the equivalent of pennies. They maintain a sit down policy for cashiers in France, which enables them to joyfully play with their toes as they watch you bag your own groceries in a frenzy.
I step forward to close the gap between an older woman and myself, while at the same time, another older woman slides into the small space. There’s breathing room only between people in line, so it’s a real squeeze.
“Excuse me. The end of the line is back there.”
“No. I was behind this woman.”
“No. There was a young man in front of me who just walked away.”
“No. I was behind this woman,” she insists.
As we’re arguing this, the man comes back to re-take his place, stating, “This was my place in line.” He’d just walked away to get something, taking advantage of the slow cashier’s snail pace.
I look at the Cutter knowingly, and she kindly tells the young man to go right ahead.
She continues to mutter about how intolerable I am, as she takes the spot in line behind me, thus, cutting in front of 5 or 6 people behind me. Caught in a bold faced lie, but still talking….I stare her down (she’s short), and turn my back to her.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In line at another local store, a woman stands next to me with a glance at me, then a step forward, into my spot, without looking at me. I tell her, “Excuse me. You’re standing in my space.”
She looks at me, moves to a new line…..where she exits faster, anyway. C’est la vie.
Meanwhile, back in San Francisco……
There’s about a shopping cart’s distance of empty space between us and the person ahead of us in line, because you know….we Americans like our space and don’t really believe that anyone beyond the 4th grade level will try to sneak in.
A woman asks, “Are you in line?”
I reply,”Yes we are.” And I give my husband smug look, “This is how WE roll…”
No commentsHow he is..
“….he walked in by himself, then turned and began to cry a little. ”
And I imagined those big, big teardrops, and perfect little lips turned down into the biggest crying frown.
“…and the woman took him, and I walked out.”
“When I turned to look, he had stopped already.”
That’s my big baby. Leo is independent but cuddly, a little stuntsman since he could pull himself up, but loves equally to be held tight. Cries hard, laughs harder - a real a guy’s laugh from the belly. Tenderly loves his animal and loves to be buried under all of them, and will go to the mat with you - fierce - to protect them if you try to take them away (ask Max). He’s a raging fire in the woods, but also the warm, stone fireplace that gives the cabin that glow.
He and Max are different as night and day, and I worried that I couldn’t love my second baby as much Max. But what they say about Mother’s love, and the uniqueness of children is true.
No commentsThe Jungle Book
“Where do monkeys live?”
“In the trees.”
“Where are the trees?”
“In the…..jungle.” I hesitated to use the word because I knew that Max had zero context but remembered that it builds vocabulary.“I want to see the monkeys in the jungle.”
And as I’m always looking for opportunities to show him pieces of my world - my own slice of life - I pulled out some photos that he’s never seen. Suddenly, I was superhero - better than Samsam, as Max excitedly pointed out, “HEY! That’s monkey is on your lap!!”
Of course followed by questions…“WHY is that monkey on your lap?! WHY is his head on you!?”
“He was on my lap because he wanted me to scratch him. And when you and Leo are bigger, Papa and I are taking you to the jungle to see monkeys, too.”
Blah, blah, blah on being a mother.
With the boys in daycare full time, I now regularly have time for myself, after over 2.5 years. TWO!AND!A HALF!YEARS! Just in time, because as Léo waddles and toddles unsteadily, and as Max’s regular speed is ‘overdrive’, they’re like a race car on an oil slick. There are many accidents, bruises on the head, subsequent crying, calming down and cuddles. Max is not a bad kid, so I don’t like to have to calm him down, rather squash his energy. He needs to release it. Whereas Léo now seems to accept daycare - this is his first experience with the ‘collective’ - daycare is the place for Max. He must agree, because daily, at 5:30pm, he tells me that he’s not “ready to leave yet. Can you come in and play?” I get Léo early so that we can have our few hours of “Mama + Léo” time - personal time that he hasn’t had with me, previously. Max and I had lots of time together, fortunately, for his first 18 months. It seems that I’m constantly making up for last time with these two, and will begin to do so with the husband, this weekend!
Max is a blooming field of curiousity in the wind, with a thousand questions on how things work, why people feel the way they do, what am I doing? what are you doing? and why, why, why? A handful of times, I’ve had to shut down a barrage of ‘whys’ with an authorative, “Because I’m your mother.” That absolutely did not feel like a ‘win’ for me, even though it stopped the interrogation.
As he grows, gets wittier, sassier and more rebellious, I find that I need to improve my game also, as a mother. I read something that resonated with me; a reminder to think of the “end result” with each of my actions. For example, if you hold them too much, what is the possible end result? Against the advice of my family, I held Max constantly, as he was my only ‘job’ for a very long time, and he’s growing into a wonderfully adaptable, confident, easy going little boy. The end result, if these are correlated, is fantastic. With this example, I learned that unless safety is concerned, there’s advice to be considered, but novody is really ‘right’ but me, in raising my boys.
I do strive to be close to them. To be a source of their comfort. Their ’safe’ zone. I want all of this to be the end result. Whereas I normally lose my temper when Max..ohhhh…pushes Leo down or takes Leo’s doudou and runs off cackling like a mad man, leaving Leo crying and toddling after it - I’m trying to remember that he wants time with me, too, wants the attention, and that my angry approach is divisive; both for them, and for Max and me. In Max’s mind, it was always Mama and Max. When we’re alone - while Leo takes his naps, or during our coffee dates in the mornings - he is absolutely calm, perfectly happy to sit on my lap with a book, a puzzle or our blocks, or just to be held, “like a baby,” as he sometimes requests. I wrap him up tight as he snuggles down in my arms as we were when he truly was a tiny baby, and we enjoy the moment. And then he asks, “Am I a little baby now?” If that isn’t pure honesty…. None of the running in circles and screaming or looking for something (body) to knock down.
My husband gently reminded me yesterday, that Max needs me, too. It makes me think, sometimes, that as mature as he’s always been for such a young thing, that he was forced to be a big brother far before he was ready to give up his role as ‘baby.’ It makes me think of a time at a friend’s house, when Max was about 18 months old or so, when she asked us naively, “If you tell him not to touch the food on the coffee table, he won’t touch it, right?” She’s since had her own child, and I’m certain, knows better, but these are the reactions to his personality that he illicits.
I learning, though, that I can’t be a complacent mom. While I’m probably not horrible, I’m learning that I need to grow with my boys to meet their needs. He was up to his usual antics of harassing Leo, yesterday evening, when I asked him to go sit on his bed in the bedroom until I came. If we can’t play nicely together, then we need some space, I told him. I came to him 5 minutes later, and crawled into the cave (the lower bunk) and snuggled in next to him. Here, I decided to try my hand at some ‘emotion coaching’ though I wasn’t certain that he was ready to be on the receiving end; to ‘respond.’ Again, as I am every time I underestimate Max’s sense of awareness, I was mistaken.
“Do you know why you’re in here?” (First mistake. I should’ve just told him why he was there.) The in between was a blur and it didn’t follow the emotion coaching concept to the T, but the end result, 2 minutes later, was excellent.
“…… Is it that you don’t like it when I hold Leo?”
He answers, “Yes.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I want you to hold me, too.” And he crawls on top of me, and rests his face in my neck.
“Of course I’ll hold you. I’ll remember that you need me too. I forget sometimes because you’re such a big boy. But you need to use yours words to tell ME that you want to be held, and not hurt others.”
Later, in the living room where I’m again holding Leo on the sofa, sitting next to the husband, Max grabs his blankets and asks, “Can you hold me, too?” And there, we all snuggled in close.
Because Max has always been pretty mellow, an early speaker thus he didn’t have to cry or whine much for what he needed, etc. and with his old soul eyes, he’s always seemed to be more of a little boy to me, than a baby. More often than not, I forget that he’s still small and needs his Mama. How humbling it was, and what a lesson for me, that he just came out and told me what he needed from me, when I gave him the opportunity.
Hopefully, we’re on our way to understanding the other’s needs. That Max still needs me. That he understands that Leo needs me. That I need to divide my time and affections more equally, as my big boy really sometimes wants his turn to be small, too.
No commentsNot so quiet around here…
“Tu dois pas me laisse tout seule comme ca,” Max called from the balcony, where he was concentrating on eating his popsicle. The words were a bit like white noise in my head as I read, and didn’t register. My husband laughed and asked whether I’d heard that.”You shouldn’t leave me alone out here like this,” he said. My husband and I had retreated to the living room - the other side of the glass door and less than 5 feet away - leaving him on the chair, to finish his treat. As his parents, everything that he says is amazing to us, not because his statements are so profound, but because of their timing and context. Because in addition to really speaking and forming his own sentences, he lifts exact sentences that he’s heard from us in the past, manipulates them a little and regurgitates them in context. I’ve told him countless times, “(I need to bathe Léo and) I can’t leave you out here alone like this.”Listening to Max’s progress has been surreal, if that’s possible. He began speaking fairly early first in english and, shortly after, added french to his repertoire when his grandfather began to spend time with him on a regular basis. From english words in a food context… MORE, APPLE, NANANA (or banana), his french influence emerged in the form of Frenglish words or maybe just one: Ap-pomme. As his only constant English speaking source - it’s on the rare occasion that he hears any english since we don’t watch much TV - I was concerned that his English wouldn’t be up to par; that it would be broken, accented or that he would prefer to speak in French, with me included; the usual behavior when your exposure to a ‘minority’ language is scarce. That he speaks english 100% of the time with me (to date), lends some reassurance that we’ll maintain our ‘connection.’ That things won’t be left unsaid as he grows older, to the extent that he’s willing to communicate with me, when those times come. That our primary languages will be on par; that we will have the means to communicate and express to one another.While there is a clear preference for French - he speaks to strangers, other children at the park, family and friends in French, even when he initiates - he knows to speak to me directly or indirectly in English. While he’s speaking with my husband in French, when I ask what they’re talking about, he tells me in full sentences. In English. With Anglophones, I might tell him to speak to them in English, adding, ”the way you speak with Mama.” I’m not sure that he understands the true concept of speaking two languages, though it’s clear to us that he’s aware of speaking differently with me. The mechanics of bilingualism - or the non-mechanics as it seems to be in multilinguals that are born into it - is nothing short of fascinating and amazing. And I say non-mechanic because it comes naturally; it’s not a skill that’s honed consciously. My mom once wrote to me (in a not so nice way) that as soon as I began to speak, I was arguing, protesting and questioning. Max is no different, as tells us what he wants and doesn’t want. Je ne veux pas manger! Je ne veux pas dormir! Je’n suis pas fatiguer! Je veus jouet avec…. Je veux sortir! I don’t want to eat! I don’t want to sleep! I’m not tired! I want to play ball….balloon…bubbles….I want to go out! I want to ride my bicycle! I want cookies. I don’t like rice. Screeeech.Pull the needle off the record. Whoa. What? You don’t like rice? My writing in French is horrible, but you all get my drift. In any other context, to expect full bilingualism from a child may seem a bit monster-mom’ish. In our context, it’s important, as we’re a multicultural family. To add a personal spin to this, one of my prominent fears is an inability to communicate effectively with my boys as they get older.As Max’s only input in English, we’re experiencing progress beyond our expectations, since bilingual infants are expected to speak later than ‘normal.’ As Léo will have a very influential French input in Max, I can’t help but to wonder how his linguistic path will differ.
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