Disciplining the Undisciplinable

Last night was a big night for me and E.V.P. It was our first night chez daddy without daddy being there. It was a fragile situation that needed handling with great care. And although I donned my metaphorical pristine white gloves and determined to use my most delicate demeanour with him no. matter. what., we inevitably had some struggles. As excited as he was to be having ‘a sleepover’ with me and Viola, we did encounter a few minor blips at the start, most notably:

Our First (Little) Problem

I realised 5 minutes before he was let out of school that I hadn't brought a snack for him, so with no boulangeries in sight, I raced into the nearest supermarket and looked for anything with additives and a fun packet. I opted for some disgusting looking bacon flavoured chipsticks and ran back to E's school to greet him. When I sheepishly handed over the treat, I was expecting him to voice his deepest disgust and disappointment. But alas! He was pleased as punch, calling out 'YIPPEE', causing all the curious nearby parents to peer over to investigate what had merited such glee... Of course, I was immediately flashed with daggers when the observers saw that it was nothing more noteworthy than an inexperienced au pair downgrading from the standard post-school pain au chocolat/croissant/crepe to the humble crisp.

Me and my tiniest pal skipped all the way home, only pausing as we neared the Monoprix, where E.V.P. stopped me in my tracks to drag me in (I do occasionally have some control over him, I swear.)

'Buy me my snack, then!' he ordered. Oh right, sorry. It's just that I was under the impression that you'd just eaten your weight in bacon chipsticks...?

However, feeling somewhat guilty for not catering to his most basic of needs, I caved. Heading to the confectionary aisle, my head held low in shame, I noticed there was something amiss. Where was my teeny companion?

It didn't take long to locate him- he was at the entrance of the shop, looking longingly in turn at those stupid (child magnet) machines (the ones where you put a euro in and receive a shit plastic egg with an even shitter toy encased within) to my bag, and back again.

'No,' I said.

His face began to crumple.

'No.'

I am not cruel. I don’t say ‘no’ for the sake of saying ‘no.’ I said it in this particular instance because I believe that he should start learning that he won’t always get whatever he asks for (I certainly don’t), and more importantly that his tantrums will not always be rewarded.

So I took his reluctant hand and led him away, catching another shopper's eye and exchanging a knowing, long-suffering look (even though I've only technically been suffering for 3 weeks. But you can't put a time frame on the uphill struggle of taking care of a bubba). 'Kids, ey?' our looks seemed to say to each other. Or something like that.

So after I'd picked up every box of biscuits and cakes in the shop, each one receiving a negative head shake and a sigh, we eventually settled on the plainest, most obvious biscuits in existence (incidentally, the very first ones I'd suggested.) I then (very, very foolishly) fished out the exact change to pay for them, and E.V.P. asked to count it. Pleased to see him practicing his maths outside of the classroom I (very, very foolishly) let him.

Ever the sneaky snake, he grabbed a €1 piece and made a mad dash to the front of the shop (of COURSE he did), snacks utterly discarded.

I sprinted after him, but to no avail (he's surprisingly speedy... or more accurately, I'm surprisingly slow.) By the time I'd reached him he'd already slipped the coin into the slot and was looking up at me, proudly.

'No!' I said, somewhat redundantly now.

Physically removing his tiny paw from the machine, I retrieved the coin. Exhausted, I took his hand and started to pull him back to the snack aisle. As I struggled I happened to catch the eye of the same man from before. My kindred long-suffering spirit. OR SO I THOUGHT... 

The man smiled at me again, came closer ('erm?' I thought), came closer still, held out his hand towards E.V.P. ('oh no', I thought), and... handed the grateful tot a euro coin!!

The fucking traitor.

Honestly.

Now E.V.P. is not my son. It is not really my job to discipline him. But when I get the chance to put some rules into place, I take it. For complete strangers to then take it upon themselves to stand in my way and give him mixed messages is not only infuriating, but also inappropriate. Completely inappropriate. T'es qui, toi?!

A relationship with a child is no easier than a relationship with an adult. In fact, I'd readily go as far as saying that it's much more difficult. As much as you may want to be his pal, a child needs to be disciplined, and that naturally doesn't always go paw in paw with being his best mate.

With this particular pup we have a big problem. A big rectangular shaped problem. The iPad. Or more precisely: the iPads (he has two.) His parents don't like him playing on it/them too much, but he's incapable of understanding the concept of 'just a few minutes.' Usually he’s allowed ‘15 minutes’ or even ‘half an hour.’ However, whenever the fateful time comes for him to switch it off, without fail we have tears, sulking, foot stamping, and utter hysteria. For our little hero, when it comes to his iPad(s), as my beloved Luther once said, it really is 'Never Too Much.' Which leads me to...

Our Second (Slightly Larger) Problem

Later that night me and E.V.P. encountered said second problem. I took the (obviously outrageous) liberty of taking his iPad off him and hiding it (nothing else seems to prove quite as effective) because he wasn't listening to me, an action which well and truly opened the floodgates.

He cried for 5 minutes straight (that may not sound like a lot, but my god, it fucking is when there's nowhere to hide), then grumpily sloped off (where he actually did hide) to the shower (a favourite hangout of his.) Finally, ignoring him and going to make myself a mug of tea, he (in what I can only assume was a final act of desperation in a bid to make me jealous) acted as though he was having the best time anyone's ever had with some figurines shaped like rubbish bins ('best game ever!', he cooed; 'so much fun!' he whooped, 'cool!' he exclaimed.)

Calling a truce, I then attempted to reason with him about why I'd taken his precious iPad away from him. But there was no reasoning to be done here.

He glared at me, shook his head in disdain and then proceeded to hurl a barrage of words at me, not with anger but with immense disappointment (eugh, everyone knows that's the worst)- 'I thought tonight was going to be really fun, and it's actually turned out to be a disaster!' (soz tiny guilt tripper.)

I would have to agree with him there, though. Success story, this was not.

Getting heated, and really in the stride of things now, he well and truly wound himself up into a frenzy. My personal highlight was: 'you never want me to be happy! You want me to be deprived! You don't want me to ever play on it! You've hidden it FOREVER!!'

Trying to calmly explain to a hysterical six year old that you've taken his most prized, most cherished possession off him 'just for now' is no mean feat. All he can understand is that right now there is no iPad. And really, when you're six (and even when you're twenty-two) right now is all that really matters.

Anyway, we eventually managed to move forward with our lives and let go of the past. Or so I thought.

E.V.P. appeared to have forgiven me, but little did I know that under the surface he was merely plotting his revenge, quietly waiting for the perfect moment to strike when my guard was down.

And my guard was definitely down when P.P. called to check up on E.V.P. later that afternoon. I only heard one side of the conversation, and it went something like this:

‘Salut papa!’

.....

‘Oui... ca va.’

.....

‘Oui, nous avons passé un bon moment...’ (We’ve had a good time.)

.....

‘Mais Silvia est méchante. Elle a dit que je ne pourrai jamais avoir mon iPad. Jamais...’ (But Silvia is nasty. She said I could never have my iPad. Ever.)

THE. LITTLE. GRASS!

E.V.P. then leaned on the phone, unwittingly putting it on speaker phone, just in time for me to hear the words: ‘Bien sûr que tu peux jouer sur l’iPad, chéri.’ (Of course you can play on the iPad, darling.) Oh throw me a bloody line, P.P.!

WHY IS NOBODY ON THE SAME PAGE AS ME??

And then to top the whole escapade off, when we had another iPad breakdown earlier today, Viola simply placed E.V.P. in front of the TV and left him to lick his whiskers with complete victorious satisfaction.

I swear to god. 

A quick aside... What's the general protocol on letting children win games?

Me and E.V.P. play football a lot. I've never been good at sports. Ever. And I'm still not. So when we play and I win, I win. I don't pretend to let him win. Nobody ever pretended to let me win when I was little. My dad would actually make a point of dancing around triumphantly whenever he beat me at anything, so I soon learnt not to be a sore loser. And, in my humble opinion, that’s the best way.

With this though, we don’t have any kind of problem. E.V.P. is always the bigger man, and will happily admit when he’s losing (well... most of the time.)

Last night we played a particularly energetic football match, and the aims were gradually extended as he got more and more into it (and also every time he realised he wasn’t quite winning.)

‘First to five wins!’

‘I meant ten!’

‘Okay, first to twenty!’

‘Well... let’s just see who the first to get thirty points is, shall we?’

‘Shall we do fifty?’

This got tedious f a s t. So I played some music to help pass the time.

The first song that came on my iPhone was ODB and Kelis’ ‘Baby I got your money.‘ (My iTunes needs updating. Shut up.) When it came to the bit where ODB sings, ‘I don't have no trouble with you fucking me, but I have a little problem with you not fucking me,’ I thought it best to quickly change over. Rhye came on next, and E.V.P. asked me to turn it up. In English. When Luther came on and E.V.P. descended into frenzied air guitar madness I really started to think, ‘hey, I think I’d want to be your pal even if I wasn’t being paid to be (well, if and when they ever decide to give me any money.) Even though you’re six, and solve arguments by screaming and sobbing (not unlike the more dramatic of my gal pals), I think you might actually be a laugh.’

So. We’ve turned a corner. And now we’re standing on the precipice of a breakthrough.   

Toyz

Now, as an only child and a fiercely independent one at that, when I was younger I was forced to be extremely creative when it came to entertaining myself. I could have hours of fun with three pebbles and a plastic cup (I had a lovely childhood, promise.) It’s the same with babies at Christmas or birthdays- you spend a fortune on a thoughtful and fun gift and they ignore it completely to concentrate wholeheartedly on the box it’s wrapped in.

However, with E.V.P. this is not really the case...

He has an overflowing toy box (and toy wardrobe, and toy chest, and toy set of drawers, and toy container, and general toy emporium) at both mummy and daddy’s house. His toys range from the humble football to a Lego Star Wars Red Five X-Wing Starfighter™... And everything in between. On an average day we play with approximately... 99% of all his toys. We’ll seamlessly go from a darts tournament to a heated car chase to a Pokemon card competition (are they called competitions?! Fuck knows what I’m playing most of the time.) He has the attention span of a goldfish. Maybe because he’s so quick and smart. There’s no ‘hey! Why don’t we play sleeping for a while?’ with E.V.P. None o’ that. He has this little look he gives me that simply says, ‘do you think I was born yesterday, you ridiculous idiot?’

Despite myself, I do find most of his games quite fun (but almost always ludicrously complicated). He’s constantly having to stop halfway through his construction of the Eiffel Tower in miniature or his excavation of pretend Chinese gold mines to sigh and talk me through what I’m meant to be doing. ‘Why are you putting that Shogun steel Beyblade into the hybrid wheel?! That doesn’t even go together!’ he’ll sigh, exasperatedly, and I’ll nod in agreement.

‘Ah yeah, I know, I was just... checking that you know! Ha ha ha... ha.’

This truly is an education.

My memory is atrocious. I can’t remember what I did last night never mind what I used to play when I was six. However, I can vividly remember some of my favourite games included jumping off the side of my Nonna’s house with my cousins, competing to see who could jump from the highest (and coincidentally most dangerous) height. This particular game (which may seem wildly boring to an outsider, but you, quite frankly, have no idea...) would only end when someone started bleeding or crying, and not a minute before. 

Another favourite pastime was invented at school with S.C., my oldest friend. We’d collect branches from the trees in the playground, and those branches would then become our ‘dogs.’ We’d then while away hours (well, the 50 minutes we had for lunch) by flinging ourselves around, pretending that said dogs were rabid and out of control. What larks.

Another fun activity of ours would be to stand on the school benches and sing Blue songs, announcing to anyone who would listen (so nobody) that we were holding a ‘Blue concert.’ Surprisingly enough the only people who would watch would be the dinner ladies, who more often than not wouldn’t cheer and throw their knickers at us (thank god, that might have been frowned upon...), but would encourage us to ‘play a less raucous game, maybe?’

As a special treat at the weekend me and S.C. would dress up in my mum’s aprons or Hawaiian print shirts from the 80s, wrap coloured scarfs around our heads, switch off all the lights in the house, put on the Spice Girls, and, equipped with hand-held torches and glow sticks, have ‘a disco’ (mostly involving just running up and down the landing, squealing ‘I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, really really really wanna Zigga Zig Ah!’)

I’m sure you’re getting the idea... but ain’t no stopping me now.

When me and my cousins would occasionally sleep at my gran’s house and the sun came out to play (or didn’t; nice weather was never essential) she’d hand each of us a pot of tap water and old paintbrushes from the garage and ask us to ‘give the fence a nice topcoat, please.’ FUN! 

The point that I’m trying to make is that the children’s games I’m now learning about day by day are proving to be less inventive, more intricate and dare I say it... a bit boring?

When I was young enough to play Lego (well, I still am, clearly... But first time round), I remember there being two Lego shapes: square and rectangular. Just the two. Maybe a few triangular ones thrown in to allow for the occasional roof. But either way, you were either building a house, or, at a push, for the more architecturally gifted, a castle. 

Now, in 2013... building a Lego anything takes an engineering degree. I don’t have an engineering degree. I have a French and English degree. So if E.V.P. wants me to lecture him on Modern British Fiction since 1950 or tell him all about African Francophone literature, then I’m his girl. If, instead, he’s asking me to help him with the delicate construction of his new Lego fire engine, equipped with working flashing lights, minibar and a host of firemen, each with their own personal hopes, fears and insecurities? Not so much.

On the left you can see the Lego that I’m used to. On the right you can see the bane of my existence Lego that now appears to be the norm.

And as a petit sidenote: WHY ARE THE PIECES SO FUCKING TINY?! Children put everything into their inquisitive little mouths. I’D LIKE TO SEE A CHILD TRY AND SWALLOW THAT NICE, SAFE, CLUNKY BLOCK ON THE LEFT!

Don’t even get me started on clearing it all away.

It takes E.V.P. 2.5 seconds to empty the Lego box all over his bedroom floor.

It takes him 25 seconds of playing with it to decide that he's changed his mind and actually wants to do a penalty shootout in the front room, where all of the doors are made of glass and there is a fragile-looking television the size of the whole of Lenton's Odeon.

It takes me 25 minutes to put all the stupid, minuscule pieces of discarded Lego back in their box.

It takes me 2.5 hours to feel like myself again after the whole ordeal. 

 

I threw myself into the Lego building regardless, and on Friday we spent the majority of the afternoon working on the engine of a private jet, with me painstakingly reading out the required pieces and finding them in the mess of his other 50,000 pieces, while E.V.P. barked out instructions like, 'are you even going to help me build this thing?' and 'I might as well be doing this by myself at the rate you're going! Hurry up!'

It took hours, but I began to feel a sense of pride at the work that we'd done as a team (ha! I say team...), and even started to see the appeal of creating something from scratch that looked so... lifelike.

When we stood back to admire what we'd done, I felt fulfilled. I'll admit it: I felt satisfied. 2013 Lego is GREAT!!

Caught up in our victory I shouted, 'GIVE ME FIVE!' and turned expectantly to E.V.P. with my palm raised... Only to find he had already lost interest and was walking away to find his next game. Hmph.

We didn't get a chance to work on the jet after that, as. E.V.P. had other more pressing issues to deal with, what with various playdates and a big sleepover last night. But this morning I ventured into his room to get him dressed, and took the opportunity to go and gaze proudly at our Lego work of art once more.

I looked left, I looked right. I searched high, I searched low. All I could see was the usual debris of a million pieces of lego.

'Erm... E.?'

'Oui?'

'...Where's our jet?'

'Oh I stood on it in the night, and it broke.'

'Oh.'  

Our jet ^

His games are not always disappointingly regimented though. The other day, during breakfast, he got creative with his Beyblade arena and improvised a couple of extra obstacles...

Now that I like.

There's hope for him yet.

I'll have him Zigga Zig Ah-ing along his landing in no time...

In other news, this is how I was gently roused from sleep yesterday morning...

8am, still dreaming, snoozing, having a great time, I vaguely hear a scrabbling noise and the unmistakeable sound of my (very high) door handle being anxiously grasped at. Then I hear a frustrated sigh, a jump, and the squeak of the door handle successfully being yanked down. Another little sigh. Then I hear footsteps. Tiny ones.

‘Silviaaaa?’

‘Mmmm?’

‘T’es réveillée?’ (Are you awake?)

‘No.’

‘Silviaaaa...?’

‘Yeah?’

‘T’es un petit peu réveillée?’ (Are you a little bit awake?)

‘No.’

‘Silvia?’

‘Yes?’

‘T’es un tout petit peu réveillée?’ (Are you the tiniest bit awake?)

‘Not even a tiny bit.’

‘Silvia?’

‘Yesssss?’

‘Erm...’

‘RIGHT, I’M UP, I’M UP, I’M UP, I’M UP.’ 

Turns out little boys are just as needy as big boys.  

Cauchemar Dans La Rue d’Elm

It’s really quite something to reflect on just how much energy and concentration one tiny little boy can demand. As a general rule me and children get on like the proverbial house on fire- I’m always that lunatic pulling faces at babies on the bus, or having a chat with toddlers in queues. HOWEVER, hanging out with a child who is not related to you and who you don’t have any affective ties to can sometimes be e x h a u s t i n g. So very exhausting. He goes through phases. Some days he’s so excited to see me that he can barely contain himself, running across his bedroom, shouting ‘VIOLA!’ (his other nanny’s name... he’s struggling with mine. I’ll take whatever I can get), to greet me with a big cuddle. And other days... you can tell he wants nothing more than for me to stop being all up in his shit. And can you blame him? He didn’t ask for a live-in playmate nearly 4 times his age, cramping his style every day of his busy baby life. One day at the park I saw him point me out to one of his little pals and say, ‘that’s my friend. She’s really funny, you know.’ CUTE. But I could be Lena Dunham (shit example, I’m pretty sure 6 year olds wouldn’t find her self deprecating humour funny... Sorry about that!), and it still wouldn’t mean that E.V.P. would want me around all the live long day. Poor mite. 

Now, we have had some fun days, but we’ve also had a couple of full blown cauchemars (nightmares). One particular example springs to my still mentally-scarred mind... Let me set the scene for you:

I arrive at the house to find E.V.P. looking angelic (and sleepy, thank god) in his tiny striped pyjamas (so French), smiling sweetly at me. His mother is looking equally angelic, all clad in Acne shirt and Isabel Marant flared trousers (I’m so jelly of her whole wardrobe), also smiling sweetly at me, and about to run out the door.

‘Au revoir maman!’ E.V.P shouts.

‘Au revoir mon amour, je t’aime!’ A.V. coos back.

N’aw. What a picture of complete domestic bliss I hear you thinking. Aw yeah, blissful. Adorable. Picture perfect. Just absolutely lovely...

The door slams shut as A.V. leaves the house.

‘MAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!’

E.V.P. emits the loudest squeal I’ve ever heard. And then... all. hell. breaks. loose. Not like a normal, healthy hell breaking loose scenario, but like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.

Faster than I can control him, the baby starts running around the house, scampering up and down the stairs, throwing his full (admittedly light) weight against both doors, jumping on the sofa, flinging himself on the floor, beating his tiny fists against the kitchen table, grabbing his felt tips and scrawling on the walls, throwing his teddy bears into the air, all the while howling with all the angst of a heartbroken teenage girl.

And there’s no stopping him.

I try shouting, I try threats, I try consoling him, I use my disappointed voice, I use my angry voice, I use my peacemaker voice, I get down to his level, I stand above him, I look over my shoulder at him, I imitate him, I ignore him, I mock him, I try to tell him I understand, I try to tell him I don’t understand, I pick him up, I put him down, I leave the room, I offer milk, I offer a shoulder to cry on, I offer him his abandoned teddies, I say ‘bed’, I say ‘teeth’, I say ‘come on now...’ And then I say, ‘what would mummy think if she saw you making such a scene?’ As soon as he hears the trigger word, ‘mummy’, his sobs catch in his throat and he starts to look hopeful.

‘Call her! I want to tell her to come home!’ 

Oh no. As soon as I start my excuse, ‘We can’t...’ the howling recommences. Give. Me. Strength.

He gets himself into such a pitiful state that he gets to that crucial point where he has no energy left to cry, and as soon as I hear a break in his tears, I jump right on in.

‘Milk?’

He nods, despite himself. I give him a cuddle as I’m warming his lait up in the microwave and he seems to calm down somewhat. He asks for honey in between sniffles, even managing a half-hearted ‘please’ in English, and insists on putting it in the cup himself. Of course the lid falls off and sticky honey explodes all over the worktop. FUCKIN’ELL.

I suck it up though (my frustration, not the honey), and laugh through gritted teeth, ‘Ha ha ha, you silly little monkey. What’re you like, ey?’

I watch in disbelief as his little eyes start to look heavy. Could we have a sleeping six year old soon? Could we really? Is this real?

No.

No it’s not.

He downs his milk and slams the empty cup on the table, then declares defiantly, ‘I’m waiting up ‘til mummy gets home.’

Oh. Right. You are, are you? 

Cue Negotiations Round II.

A gruelling 30 minutes later and I’ve managed to persuade him to go to his bed (well, his mum’s bed.)

An even more gruelling two hours later he’s persuaded me to watch two DVDs and read him two stories (French ones. ‘Why would I want English ones? I DON’T UNDERSTAND THEM!’)

Just when I think I’m going to fall asleep, he starts to settle down.

I breathe a sigh of relief and tiptoe out the room.

Even as I’m creeping up the stairs like a thief in the night, dreaming of a cup of tea and a Skype with my boyfriend, I hear, ‘Silviaaaaaa?!’ (Sometimes, when it suits him, he knows who I am.)

I turn around and then proceed to turn him around too and frogmarch him back into his room, chanting, ‘bed, bed, bed, bed,’ with every step we take. 

‘Will you stay with me?’ he asks.

Through my dizzying veil of fatigue I remember old episodes of ‘Supernanny’ (back when it was lovely Jo Frost and not that new, mad one who gets children to chop up vegetables with sharp knives to teach them some kind of backwards, fucked up lesson), where she says that you need to be cruel to be kind and leave children on their own in their bedrooms to cry it out.

But I look at his little face and I can’t.

So I stay with him.

He peers over his duvet at least every 5 seconds to check if I’m still there. I am.

The longest 20 minutes of my life later and he’s (probably, maybe, please-let-him-be) asleep.

I drag myself back upstairs and collapse onto the sofa, where I sit very, very, very, very still for the rest of the night.

When A.V. breezes in later on, she asks me, ‘so how was he?’

‘He was an angel.’   

No Money, No Mates

So I’m shacked up in Paris in a 48 year old man's spare room. He seems cool, plus he's not even here so I'm pretending his amazing apartment is my own. It’s fancy as fuck. Makes sense being as a quick Google search revealed that its owner is actually a renowned artist and film maker. The family have promised to find me my own studio apartment soon though- well, so they said over a month ago... I’m crossing my wonky little fingers that it'll be happening in the not-so-distant future. As much as I’m revelling in this deluded fantasy that I’ve somehow managed to afford a flat this big and beautiful in my favourite area of the city on a budget of approximately... nothing, I need my own space and a clear cut off point at the end of the working day (my working day consisting of chasing a six year old, E.V.P., round on his endless play dates and answering to his every ridiculous whim.) However, my setting, with its enormous windows, even bigger desks, and tasteful minimal decor is definitely easing my unease somewhat. This place is so perfect I don’t know how P.P. (the father of the child I’m minding, and coincidentally the bachelor who’s pad I am claiming as my own) can ever bring himself to leave it. I know that I, for one, am struggling to ever do anything with my day. I’ve taken to staying in bed ‘til 12, only venturing out to buy pastries or get coffee. Quelle surprise. The longest summer of my life appears to be continuing indefinitely.

As blissful and carefree and erm... laidback(?!) as I’m potentially making this set up sound, I had a mini (medium-sized) breakdown yesterday when it really sunk in that I live here now. It’s exactly what I wanted. Exactly what I wanted. AND YET. And yet...

I am slightly under the impression that I’m just living someone else’s life- their life, more precisely. These people fly to New York at a moment’s notice, go to Albania to meet with the president, don’t book their return tickets until the day before they leave, and throw out perfectly good food before its expiry date. It’s a lot. A.V., the mum of my charge, is scatter-brained to put it politely. She’ll call me out of the blue at 7 to work at... 7. Which is fine, for now. Luckily for her (less luckily for me) I have no social life or mates to speak of yet, so I’m more than happy to coax and bribe and beg a teeny tot to eat his dinner, to stay off the iPad, to brush his teeth, to go to bed, to stay in bed, to stop screaming, to stop spitting and to PLEASE JUST STAY IN YOUR BED UNTIL MORNING, I REALLY MEAN IT THIS TIME, I’M NOT JOKING, DOES THIS FACE LOOK LIKE I’M MESSING AROUND? NO, YOUR MUM DID NOT SAY YOU COULD STAY UP ‘TIL SHE GOT HOME, I SAID NO IPAD, NO! PUT IT DOWN! GET INTO YOUR BED, FOR THE LAST TIME, HOW OLD ARE YOU? WHY ARE YOU ACTING LIKE A BABY THEN? DON’T PULL MY NECKLACE, STAY IN YOUR BED!, at a moment’s notice. So yeah, I’m more than happy to do that for now. 

But what happens when I do start going out? I am going to have some mates soon, I’ll definitely find some. Right?

Just... how? And where? Where is a 22 year old girl English girl, whose French is only any good once she’s had at least six drinks (at which point she admittedly thinks she is French), and whose only colleague is six, meant to pick up like-minded friends? It’s just not something that’s going to happen naturally. How could it? I’m not meeting anyone, and I haven’t got anyone to go out with to meet anyone to go out with to meet anyone. Ah merde. And even if I were to go out (on my own??) I’m not sure that I would have it in me to approach anyone and offer up a hilarious anecdote or something similar to show them that I’m a laugh. Plus, I’m 99% sure I’m not a laugh in any languages other than English. Even in English I’m an acquired taste. Bloody hell. This is so daunting. I’ve always been someone who likes to have a few really good, close palz, rather than 500 fair weather friends, so I don’t really know what I’m doing. I told R.D., ‘It’s really starting to dawn on me that I’m going to need some mates,’ and her response was, ‘Why? I don’t have any.’ So at least there’s always that.

My main concern (well, one of) is where are fully grown girls meant to meet other girls? Or boys that just want fun platonic friendships with no ulterior motives? In the local Monoprix? On the metro? Waiting outside E.V.P.’s school? It’s just not viable!!!

To continue my moaning, I’m feeling acutely unfulfilled in my work life too. As much as dressing up as Captain America and competitively honing my Beyblade skills fills me with glee, I can’t help but think, ‘shouldn’t I be working on my career at this point in my little life?’ All of my experience so far has been working with children, apart from my flash in the pan three week stint at a celebrity and lifestyle magazine, and I don’t dream of making my fortune (ha!) looking after other people’s children. Truly I don’t. I was hoping that E.V.P.’s well connected, creative parents (his mum is a film producer) might well connect me, and inspire the creator in me. Before I came we agreed that I’d help them out with whatever they needed help with, but while I had visions of helping them with press releases and scripts, they had other plans (namely, ice hockey meets and pizza parties.) I mean... I helped out with a film review last week and I'm meant to be doing some more soon. But as with all of A.V.’s promises, there are no concrete dates or plans ever provided. That side of things is fun (the working in the office part, not the never knowing where I stand part.) I want more o’ that. I want lots more o’ that.

Last, but by no means least, in my list of ailments: money. Puff Daddy and Mase once famously said, ‘Mo’ money, mo’ problems’, but I beg to differ. Admittedly, maybe if the song had been called, ‘No money, mo’ problems’ it wouldn’t have been quite such a hit, but I bet lost souls in their early 20s all over the world would have nodded their (poor) little heads with their hands in their (empty) pockets whenever it came on the radio, sighing, ‘you said it, Mase...’ (Poor Mase, he never deserved such a premature demise. I, personally, really liked ‘Welcome Back.’) Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is this one: I am financially s t r u g g l i n g. Uphill struggling. It’s quite the stark contrast when A.V. is giving me 50s to take E.V.P. to the cinema to see ‘Planes‘ and then 2 hours later I’m fumbling around in the bottom of my handbag to find an unused metro ticket. I’m meant to be getting paid monthly, but I’ve only seen a fraction of my first month’s pay, which was ironically given to me the night before I got my purse stolen in the local McDonald’s... WAH. (I was clearly being punished for my late night piggin’.) Paris is not a city that you can enjoy fully if you have no money. On average, brunch costs €22, drinks cost €8, coffee costs €4, and the cinema costs €12. On average, my daily budget at the minute is... €5. You see how far that gets me?

Fittingly, I had a very enlightening conversation with E.V.P. during the aforementioned trip to see ‘Planes.‘ He decided he wanted me to buy him a ‘cadeau‘ (prezzie), and ‘no, popcorn doesn’t count, silly!’ This conversation then followed:

Me: I can’t buy you a present bubba, I have no money.

E.V.P.: Just pay with paper money. They’ll give you change!

Me: I have no paper money.

E.V.P.: Well just pay with your card!
Me: I have no card, sweetie.
E.V.P.: (Blank look)

Me: (laughing) I’m poor!
E.V.P.: ...Is your mum poor?

Me: No... just me.
E.V.P.: Do you have a house?
Me: Nope. I’m living at your daddy’s house.
E.V.P.: (Blank look. Silent for a few minutes.) So... how do you have that phone if you’re poor?

Me: I bought it before I was poor.

At this point he lost interest in the whole thing, the concept of having no money being so entirely foreign to him. We then proceeded to while away another leg of the journey by singing ‘Billie Jean‘ and swinging arms. Then he piped up one last time to say, ‘I like my grandma best. She buys me whatever I want.’

So.   

To-do list for... now   

-Ask my employers to pay me

-Ask my employers to find me a more permanent abode

-Ask my employers to let me accompany them on future trips to New York and Albania

-Get some mates

-Get a life (one that goes beyond watching ‘Misfits’ with a baguette as a bed partner)

Million Dollar Cry Baby

I'm posting this on the 21st September, because I've been a lazy little toad lately, and just could.not.be.bothered to keep this up to date. But do not fear, I'm back in the game, and I'm going to be a regular little postman once more!

6th September

23:44

All bets are off. You know, those bets that you all (probably) had on me and B, and our joint futures and shit? Those ones. Yeah, they’re off.

It’s all over. Not just with him, but with my whole little Parisian life that I’d set up for myself... and not only. France is over, my year abroad is over, and life as we know it is all o v e r.

I’m such a sad little bunny, I just can’t.

Tears have been flowing freely, keeping the olive trees flourishing in Puglia (that’s a little clue to tell you just how much I’ve been sob-ob-ob-ing, and a bigger clue as to where in the world I am right now).

I don’t really want to discuss this. But I mean, I will if you want to comfort me. To be honest, it’s the only thing I can concentrate on at the moment but I don’t think that you necessarily care to hear about me and B’s irreconcilable differences, or about the way he cheated on me with my best friend, or about the way I cheated on him with his mum, or about the way he slapped me around, or about the way I didn’t tell him about my stint in prison, or about the way he told me that he didn’t like my hair, or about the way I told him he had shit taste in clothes and food and people, or about the way he was a liar, or about the way I was always late to meet him... Do you?
Oh you guyzzz. Honestly? None of those dramatic things happened. It was the most civilised and kind break-up that I’ve not only ever been involved in, but that I’ve ever even heard of. 

And you know what? That made it all the harder to deal with.

The conclusion I’ve come to is this: break-ups are only bearable if one of you hates the other one, or even better, if both of you hate each other.

But I digress...
The real point I’m attempting to make here is this: mums and crying daughters. Why is the former always drawn to the latter like a maternal moth to a weepy flame? Answer me that, chicitas! Answer me that.

On two occasions this week my mum has appeared when I least wanted, but most needed her. It’s quite magical really.

Occasion 1: Me and B break up.

I’ll set the scene...

Skype date. The essential form of communication for yearning long-distance couples. Me on my end, grinning from ear to ear. B on his end, looking nervous and edgy and quite frankly, concerned. Well, we talked, we laughed, we decided to break up, I cried, he got upset, we decided it was for the best, we laughed again, we hung up.

It didn’t take place quite as quickly as that, and a lot more was said, and a lot more long, lingering looks were given, but that’s the general idea of what went down. Bear in mind that this conversation took place at 1am. Also bear in mind that my mum had been fast asleep in her bed for well over 2 hours. Fast asleep. Maybe dreaming. Probably snoring.
Alright, so, here’s an update of the scene and all the characters involved, in case you were getting lost in the complex plot... There was me in Nonna’s kitchen, digesting the fact that me and B were now me. And B. There was B in his little bedroom in Paris, hopefully heartbroken, and preferably crying (the image of that makes me feel so much better). Then there’s my tiny mum, fast asleep upstairs, oblivious to everything.

You might be thinking that I sound as though I handled the break up like a brave little soldier. You’d be wrong. It took me all of 10 seconds to start crying, and as soon as the floodgates opened it was a free for all. A kitchen-flooding, run-for-your-lives, get-your-wellies-on-quick free for all. Now although there may have been a lot of water produced, I do pride myself on the fact that I can cry very quietly and reservedly when I set my mind to it. Obviously I can sob and weep and gulp my little heart out if I feel like a melodramatic soap opera cry, but if I really concentrate I can get all my tears out in a very organised and lady-like fashion.

So I had my five minutes of delirium, and then I got my shit together, and was looking through what me and B had typed to each other on Skype, analysing where it had all gone tits up, when I heard the unmistakeable padding of my mum’s footsteps on the stairs. My tears had all more or less evaporated by this point, so I was relatively calm by the time she wandered into my lair. Now, she knew I’d been speaking to B because I’d already started talking to him before she traipsed upstairs to beddy byes. So I was relatively sure her first question would be something like, "so how’s B?" or... "Is B okay?" or... "what’s new with B?" or "what’s poppin’ in Paris?"

Something like that was bound to be asked; I geared myself up for it. I was ready and waiting to hit her back with something casual like, "yeah, B’s cool," or "Paris is chill," or "all’s bangin’ and slammin’ in France," or something similar; I was so ready.

I’d already decided to potentially wait until morning to tell her we’d broken up, so that I could have one solitary night of private mourning time. This because I knew my mum would take the news as badly, if not worse, than I had. She only met him once, but when she hugged him goodbye she teared up and told him, "thank you for looking after my Silv," and afterwards confided in me that she’d "fallen in love with him." She’s not a love rival; she just automatically likes anyone that takes me off her hands (je rigole!). So my intention was to spare her a sleepless night. Probably.

So, as predicted, mum spotted me at my station, and asked, "so how’s B?" No surprises there.

And, in answer to her question, instead of one of my safe, set phrases, instead of a laidback "yeah, B’s cool," what did I say? Would you like to know? WELL I’M TELLIN’ YA!
I plastered a big ol‘ fake smile on my face, and ‘nonchalantly‘ said, "we broke up." When coming out with this farce, the two key things I forgot were these:

1. I didn’t really feel like smiling, so the smile that was produced was fake at best, and scary at worst.
2. I am incapable of being ‘nonchalant’. My face just can’t manage it.

Needless to say, I was less than convincing.

All it took was for my mum to say, "oh sweetie," and to reach out to hug me, and I was doing that soap opera crying I briefly mentioned earlier. I tried to say, "I’m really okay" a few times through my tears, but it was kinda reminiscent of a yawning child insisting they’re not tired. Nobody bought it.

Credit where credit’s due, I kept the denial up for an admirably long time.

"It’s really fine, honestly." Tears.

"It’s for the best." More tears.

"We’ll both be less stressed this way." So many tears.

"I’m not even sad." The most tears ever.

"I’m actually relieved." An unprecedented amount of tears.

"I’m so happy." More tears than have ever been released at any time.

"In fact, I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been." Tears all over the floor.

"Nobody has ever been happier than I am right now." Wading through tears just to get tissues to mop up the new tears.

So, in conclusion, tears had free reign, were poured out by the bucket load, and ensured that the kitchen floor wouldn’t need washing for a couple of weeks.

Why is it that you automatically cry more when your mum tries to make you feel better? I doubt that it’s mums’ intention to cause more distress, and yet, that’s fundamentally exactly what happens. Before my little mum arrived, I was calm and resigned, handling the situation like a trooper, and yet 2 seconds after her arrival we were having a pool party in a piscine made out of my heartbreak.

Why is that? Is it because you automatically feel 5 years old again when you get a proper cuddle from your mum? And why is it that it also feels okay to nod and say, "okay", when she asks, "do you want to sleep in my bed tonight?"

At 21 years old that still felt like the only thing that would enable me to sleep in the sad-little-munchkin state I was in.

I think I could be 45 years old, and that would still feel like the most comforting thing in the world to do.

Ain’t no shame!

La mamma e’ sempre la mamma, no? 

Occasion 2: I have a breakdown over a text from B.

A few days later, mum’s tear-radar got a workout again.
I’d been out the night before with C.F., my cousin and soulmate. I’d sent B a text, asking him how he was and telling him that I was going to Rome at the weekend. He text back, and said that he was sad knowing that I wasn’t his ‘little miss’ anymore, and that he was ‘bon a RIEN’ in the state he was in. Upon reading this text, I was happy. I was more than happy- I was comforted. When you’re hurting over someone, one of the only things that makes you feel marginally better is knowing that they’re having as shit a time as you. So we text each other ‘goodnight,’ I got on with my night out with a significantly bigger smile on my face that I’d had before, and all was right in the world.

Until... I got up the next morning, and re-read the texts. Fucksake. Never do myself any favours, do I? No.

I read them once, read them twice, read them 6000 times. Tried to forget about them.

I wandered around the house, ate a load of prosciutto. Tried to put the whole shenanigan out of my mind. Managed this quite well, all things considered. Well, that’s until C.F. came over to chat to me, and asked the simple yet powerful question, "sei triste?" (Forgot to mention that cousins have much the same talent as mums for extracting unwanted tears.) I shook my head, and with the head shake unleashed another waterfall. My tear ducts are SO uncooperative, I swear. So I was in the process of having another cry, when we heard a chirpy little knock on the door that could signal one person, and one person only: my mother. Aaaaah shit.

"Don’t open the door!" I shouted frantically, as C.F. walked towards the knocking.

"Wait a minute!" Dashed the few stray tears away with the back of my hand.

"Coming mum!" Grabbed a tissue for my tell-tale mascara tracks.

"2 secs!" Splashed my face with cold water.

"Alright, open it!" Permission granted to C.F., as I ran round to the other side of the house to give myself a few vital extra seconds to compose myself. All under control. No sign left of any fallen tears, not even a puddle on the kitchen floor. Well done team.

Mum walks into the living room, where I’m positioned ‘nonchalantly’ on the sofa. We chat for a few minutes about our respective mornings; we exchange news (with me clearly avoiding mentioning the B word); we discuss lunch plans. Pericolo scampato. Yahoo! I’ve got away with having a sneaky little cry! I am so sly, nobody need ever know I had this moment of weakness, I am so good at hiding my inner...

"So why have you been crying?"

What. HOW?! How literally the fuck does my mum know?! It is just something that I will never be able to understand.

As soon as she says that, I do the fateful head-shake again, and out come the fateful salty traitors once more.

Once I’ve had another few minutes of amateur dramatics fun, I collect myself, and ask, "how did you know I’d been crying?", and my mum shook her head and said, "ma secondo te? Una mamma non sa quando sua figlia sta male?"

Not really the answer I was looking for, but it’ll do for now.

Maybe I’ll understand these magic tricks when/if I’m ever a mum myself.
But until then, I’ll just have to work on getting a grip of myself.