Do you ever have those times where you can actively recognise, that at THAT particular moment you are completely happy? I had one of those this evening. And it's no coincidence it happened in a restaurant. Two, actually. In fact, the whole day was relatively peaceful and easy going, but it was only over dinner that I could actually name the sensation running through me: contentment.
My day involved a 15 month old who didn't want to take his morning nap, but after dressing him, feeding him warm milk and biscuits, a little play and giving his room a heating turbo-charge he was good to sleep. While giving Little J second breakfast I too had breakfast- two cups of tea and some speculos (really yummy gingerbread-style flavoured biscuits that the Frence are big fans of.) Then, with him down for a nap, I browsed my newspaper and then hunted for a suitable banana bread/cake recipe. Any mention in the review of it being "dry" and I was outta there. This family take their TIME eating cakes, so those helpful "great when microwaved and spread with butter" comments were no good to me. I needed "moist", "sensational" "disappeared the moment it hit the table." My recipe of choice ended up including brown sugar, and I substituted the buttermilk for creme fraiche. Perfect. (I may also have subsituted an apple for the third banana....)
And then, right on school pick up time, I got told Madame and Monsieur would be meeting up with us at the school and we would all be going home together and after that I was free to go home. I couldn't believe my luck- I was shooed out of my pen at 5.30pm!
I called N and suggested we disappear off to dinner at an actual restaurant. So we did....
Showing posts with label nanny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nanny. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
In a cloud of chemicals
What else but a hormone induced fug would convince me that it's a good idea to put my face DIRECTLY next to Little J's feverish, snotty, dirty little one? My brain knows that when another person is sick you're supposed to keep your breathing space separate to theirs, not inhale their exhales. My brain says snot smeared cheeks are gross. My brain begs me to put him in bed over there, and me in a room over here. And yet ... from somewhere else, some place that doesn't even have a voice, comes the urge to pick up the distressed little soul who's crying in his cot. To bring him into the darkened lounge room, to lay back on the couch and lay his stomach on mine, and cuddle him close. To snuggle his snuffles at my chin, to kiss his hot clammy forehead, to cradle his head and rub his back. To go cold and tingly laying in the same position, just so that Little J can get some much needed shut-eye.
I have heard that giving birth to children increases the amount of oxytocin floating around in the mother. But I am not his mother, he is not mine. Enter my new theory that cute little defenseless people (otherwise known as "babies" and "children") actually exude chemicals from their very pores. These chemicals convince other, bigger, more capable people (otherwise known as "adults", "nannies" or "suckers") to overcome all their normal self-preservation instincts and take care of the little defenseless ones.
I'm also working on another theory, that says men have managed to bottle this into "L'eau de defenseless", and wear it at random. Some of the above symptoms seem all too familiar....
Sunday, October 11, 2009
How long does it take to fall in love?
Six weeks. It takes exactly six weeks for a baby to fall in love. I have been here for six weeks now, and seen Little J's affections grow and blossom towards me. He was always fairly comfortable around me. But then things started to get serious. He gently head butts me as I lean towards him to get him out of his cot after nap time. He gives me eskimo nose-kisses when we snuggle at the high chair. He gave me a love-bite on my shoulder after bath time, when he was all swaddled in his towel. He shared his banana with me on Friday. I tore off pieces to give to him to hold, he would take a mouthful, then put it at my mouth for me to also have a mouthful. And thus we shared two bananas together. But here's how I know for sure. For the first time, when I was leaving the house in the evening, he wanted to leave his dad's arms and come with me instead. xo
Monday, October 5, 2009
Cooking lesson 1: Cucumber skin is NOT FOR EATING!
We return home, victorious, with everything. Little J was running minorly behind schedule for his nap, and between being overtired and his bubbly, snotty, blocked nose, decided that sleep wasn't on the cards. So, the entire time E and I were in the kitchen, he railed and cried from his crib. There were some pauses, but none longer than a few mins.
Back in the kitchen....most of the ingredients for the quiche just required grating- the carrots, zuccini, cheese. I thought E would be capable of this, which she was, but under pretty keen supervision.
And then I chopped up the onion with their fabulous pink chef's knife. (I'm not joking, it's a gorgeous pale pink Japanese number, gloriously sharp.)
And then I chopped up the onion with their fabulous pink chef's knife. (I'm not joking, it's a gorgeous pale pink Japanese number, gloriously sharp.)
"You're not allowed to use that knife."
"Yes I can, I'm a big girl."
"No, Dad said that no one except him is allowed to touch it. Not me and not even you. He told me the other day."
"Ah, but he doesn't know what a good cook I am. I'm used to using dangerous knives."
E pouts in the corner for a moment, and then decides to get up close because she wants the onion to make her cry. It does, and then she pouts some more because her eyes are stinging.
With the quiche finished, next comes the salad. (Little J is still railing away next door). I pulled out the red capsicum and E said she adores them. That's great, so do I. After doing to pre-chopping, I got her to chop it into little pieces. She tried one, and then declared she hates it. I put some aoili in a bowl (she loves it on her chips) so she could try it with that. "But that's for CHIPS" she said, wide-eyed that I would even consider putting it with anything else. "I know, I know, just try."
Blurgh, no success. "What about with mayonnaise?" (a similar reaction on all fronts: MAYONNAISE?! and more blurgh faces.)
She was so good at trying the capsicum that I decided next she should try the cucumber with the skin on it. She adores cucumber, it didn't seem like such a leap.
I may as well have suggested she eat her shoe. "WITH THE SKIN?????!!!!!"
"Yes, just try it."
She pulled the skin off and went to eat it separately.
"No no, together. They'll taste better together."
WELL, the biggest pout for the day came out to play, she clamped her mouth shut and wouldn't say another word.
"But you're a big girl, you can try it."
Extremely emphatic head shake. Whimpering.
"Why not? I don't understand, you're not saying anything. Only babies don't speak, and you're not a baby."
And with that she whimpered and ran from the room. I conceded, and peeled the cucumber and finished the salad, thinking I was giving E time to cool off. Nope. She came in on her little white mobile phone, and passed it to me so I could speak with her mother.
In English:
"Um, so what is the story about the cucumber?
I shared
"Ah, well, in France we never eat the skin, so she has never seen someone eat the skin. But that's it?"
"Yes"
"Oh, so it is not at all serious then?
"No, it's really not.
"haha, ok then, well, I'll be home for lunch like we planned. Bye"
I think E was disappointed that I didn't look at all scared or told-off when speaking with Mrs.
The pouting continued into lunch, with E barely touching her quiche or salad. Mr and Mrs cracked a joke about Australia being full of rabbits (which I mis-heard as full of bread. I seriously explained that no, normally we wouldn't eat bread with the quiche, until I realised Mr had said 'lapin', not 'le pain'. He's not a vegie fan, so my voracious appetite for fruit and vegetables has thrown him for a loop.)
But, the next day, Mrs thanked me again very much for lunch and said how much she had enjoyed it. She loves vegetables (I had noticed her second helping of salad, and her keeness over the red capsicum.) She loves eating vegetables, and loved eating something that was fresh, not fried, not too much butter. A nice change.
After all of that, who would have thought that the person most enamoured with my cooking adventures would be her??
Monday, September 14, 2009
8 days a week
Ok, well, I don't have to work 8 days a week. It's total Beatles-mania over here and it's a bit catching.
But I do have to work 5 days a week, starting at 9am and typically not leaving until 8pm, sometimes later. And then, as mentioned in Saturday Markets, I also have to work a couple of hours on Saturday morning once or twice a month. It's a lot of hours and a severe change in lifestyle for me, being used to either the flexible university student lifestyle or even when I worked full-time in retail I could still run errands during the day without a problem. Not anymore....
A typical day runs thus:
Arrive 9am, baby handover from Mr
10am, Little J has nap
11.45am, Little J wakes up. Get him dressed if he wasn't when I arrived.
noon, feed Little J
12.30, Mr and Mrs come home from the office for lunch cooked by Mr (Normally a simple style of meal, I'm lucky if I see so much as a vegetable shaving, although at least one bottle of wine is typically drunk.)
2pm, Little J down for arvo nap
2pm/ 2.30pm Mr and Mrs return to the office
3.45pm, get Little J up, ready for school pick-up and play in the park
4pm/ 4.15pm leave home for school pick up
4.30pm school's out. Battle my way through the throngs of parents, grandparents, au pairs and other children through to the narrow gate, down the narrow path to the tiny courtyard where I have to wait for E to wave at me from her Juliet balcony. She then points me out to her teacher, who I have to acknowledge and wave my little blue security card at (it's got E's photo on it).
4.35pm, give E her afternoon gouter (snack) that I brought with me, she then runs off onto the lawn to play with her friends. French schools typically don't have much space to run around at lunch time, so it's their first chance to run off some steam.
I now have to entertain Little J, give him a gouter, stop him from crawling onto other people's rugs or taking their balls or eating mysterious ground-matter. Spending time in the park has become much nicer now that I've made friends with an American nanny. I'll call her Beth. Beth has a 3yr old and a 7yr old. They're more independent, so she doesn't have to supervise too closely at the park. But they're also quite rude, so I think I prefer my high-maintenance but cutie-pie 1 yr old.
5pm, leave Parc Monceau, walk home with E. If she's lucky I've brought her little razor scooter so she can trip home on that, otherwise she has to walk (which she doesn't like much at all. I tell her sport's good for her, and that she's just being lazy.)
5.25pm, back home. Try and convince E to play with her brother, because he loves it so much and laughs like crazy around her.
5.45pm Little J has last nap of the day. Give E something else to eat, do her homework, play with her, tidy her room
6.30pm bathe Little J, make sure E is also showering or bathing.
6.45pm, put the wriggle machine into his pyjamas, and into his high chair for dinner. Dinner takes a minimum of 25 minutes. Which never really ceases to amaze me, that even if he's on his best behaviour it still takes that long. It would definitely go quicker if I could feed him through his ears. I spend so much time looking at his ears while he scopes the room for the object he most wants to bang around his tray table for all of about 30 seconds to max 2 minutes. Then it's back to scoping for the next object.
7.15pm, playing with Little J, making sure E's room is tidy, listening to her piano practice
Between 7.30-8pm Mr arrives home, Little J can go to bed, I can do the baby-baton change and head home.
Variations on a theme:
Sometimes, like today, I get a phonecall around noon saying Mr and Mrs are too busy to come home for lunch, so I'll have to cook something myself. I would like this more, I think, if their pantry came stocked with my choice of food. However, I still like it because it means I get to eat lunch earlier (today it was a pan-seared chicken fillet with tabole and tsatsiki) and then after lunch I take Little J for a walk to my fave bakery and we grab an espresso and something sugary, like a strawberry tart, berry danish or today's choice, escargot. He also gets to eat my complimentary meringue, which is fab cos it gives me a head start eating the sweet-yumminess that I ordered.
Or I might get a call around 7pm saying I have to cook dinner for E. That call's not as much fun.
But I do have to work 5 days a week, starting at 9am and typically not leaving until 8pm, sometimes later. And then, as mentioned in Saturday Markets, I also have to work a couple of hours on Saturday morning once or twice a month. It's a lot of hours and a severe change in lifestyle for me, being used to either the flexible university student lifestyle or even when I worked full-time in retail I could still run errands during the day without a problem. Not anymore....
A typical day runs thus:
Arrive 9am, baby handover from Mr
10am, Little J has nap
11.45am, Little J wakes up. Get him dressed if he wasn't when I arrived.
noon, feed Little J
12.30, Mr and Mrs come home from the office for lunch cooked by Mr (Normally a simple style of meal, I'm lucky if I see so much as a vegetable shaving, although at least one bottle of wine is typically drunk.)
2pm, Little J down for arvo nap
2pm/ 2.30pm Mr and Mrs return to the office
3.45pm, get Little J up, ready for school pick-up and play in the park
4pm/ 4.15pm leave home for school pick up
4.30pm school's out. Battle my way through the throngs of parents, grandparents, au pairs and other children through to the narrow gate, down the narrow path to the tiny courtyard where I have to wait for E to wave at me from her Juliet balcony. She then points me out to her teacher, who I have to acknowledge and wave my little blue security card at (it's got E's photo on it).
4.35pm, give E her afternoon gouter (snack) that I brought with me, she then runs off onto the lawn to play with her friends. French schools typically don't have much space to run around at lunch time, so it's their first chance to run off some steam.
I now have to entertain Little J, give him a gouter, stop him from crawling onto other people's rugs or taking their balls or eating mysterious ground-matter. Spending time in the park has become much nicer now that I've made friends with an American nanny. I'll call her Beth. Beth has a 3yr old and a 7yr old. They're more independent, so she doesn't have to supervise too closely at the park. But they're also quite rude, so I think I prefer my high-maintenance but cutie-pie 1 yr old.
5pm, leave Parc Monceau, walk home with E. If she's lucky I've brought her little razor scooter so she can trip home on that, otherwise she has to walk (which she doesn't like much at all. I tell her sport's good for her, and that she's just being lazy.)
5.25pm, back home. Try and convince E to play with her brother, because he loves it so much and laughs like crazy around her.
5.45pm Little J has last nap of the day. Give E something else to eat, do her homework, play with her, tidy her room
6.30pm bathe Little J, make sure E is also showering or bathing.
6.45pm, put the wriggle machine into his pyjamas, and into his high chair for dinner. Dinner takes a minimum of 25 minutes. Which never really ceases to amaze me, that even if he's on his best behaviour it still takes that long. It would definitely go quicker if I could feed him through his ears. I spend so much time looking at his ears while he scopes the room for the object he most wants to bang around his tray table for all of about 30 seconds to max 2 minutes. Then it's back to scoping for the next object.
7.15pm, playing with Little J, making sure E's room is tidy, listening to her piano practice
Between 7.30-8pm Mr arrives home, Little J can go to bed, I can do the baby-baton change and head home.
Variations on a theme:
Sometimes, like today, I get a phonecall around noon saying Mr and Mrs are too busy to come home for lunch, so I'll have to cook something myself. I would like this more, I think, if their pantry came stocked with my choice of food. However, I still like it because it means I get to eat lunch earlier (today it was a pan-seared chicken fillet with tabole and tsatsiki) and then after lunch I take Little J for a walk to my fave bakery and we grab an espresso and something sugary, like a strawberry tart, berry danish or today's choice, escargot. He also gets to eat my complimentary meringue, which is fab cos it gives me a head start eating the sweet-yumminess that I ordered.
Or I might get a call around 7pm saying I have to cook dinner for E. That call's not as much fun.
Saturday Markets
Late in my second week I discovered that I was just 'expected' to be available on Saturday morning to help look after Little J while Mr and Mrs completed their errands for a few hours. Afterall, they said without a trace of irony, Saturday morning is the first chance all week we have to go grocery shopping, drop by the bank and do a million tiny things that we didn't have time for during the week. No shit? Had it occurred to them that when they're at work, I'M AT WORK??!! Why don't they do what normal people do and either take turns at the errands or take baby with them??
Anyway, Saturday morning I arrived at 10am for my once/twice monthly 'coup de main' (more like a favour than strictly speaking part of the job). Mr, Little J, his stroller and their grocery cart (think of a nanna-trolley) and I headed off to pick up fresh bread, fish, fruit and vege, cheese and wine. I very quickly took charge of the shopping caddy, leaving Mr to deal with the wonky stroller (unless you're using two hands it constantly veers to the left. I think of it as working out my core strength muscles everytime Little J and I take a stroll.) He offered me the choice and I quite honestly said I'd prefer the caddy just to mix things up a little.
I find food markets an incredibly exciting experience. There's so much POTENTIAL at a market, all those meals that could be....
The poissonerie was definitely a highlight. So much gorgeous, glistening fresh seafood to choose from. And not just the range I see in Melbourne either, random things like what I think is abalone (in spikey cases?) and live crabs and shells with fish in them that I didn't even know you could eat. The smell of a well-kept fish shop is a wonderful thing. I feel healthy just being in there!
Mr has known the fishmongers and the grocer for 10 years, and went out of his way to introduce me to them all so that if I came by to pick up some things for the family, I would be looked after (and it would just be placed on his account.) A relationship like that would be impossible for me to cultivate in just 12 months on my own. I would still be considered a stranger otherwise, even if I went every week. As Mr said, it means that they won't give me dodgy produce. Heartening, isn't it?
The cheese shop was fascinating, but not as personally exciting. I don't know my cheese very well, and it's one of those things I really like having a couple of my key cheese-friends around to let me know what's what. I can't handle anything too mouldy, and sheep's cheese is a complete and utter no-no. Blargh!
One of the perks of the Saturday coup de main is that I got to stick around for the yummy homecooked lunch, which was french pan seared prawns (a little too fresh- they were alive when he bought them and he didn't put them in the freezer first to put them to sleep before frying them. Sob) followed by boiled fish (this sounds really strange to me, but it tastes just like steamed fish) and rice with hollondaise sauce, followed by a selection of cheeses with baguette stick (about 6 cheeses to choose from.) The lack of vegetables in French cuisine would likely annoy me more, except that I can go home at the end of each day and eat heaps for dinner.
Anyway, Saturday morning I arrived at 10am for my once/twice monthly 'coup de main' (more like a favour than strictly speaking part of the job). Mr, Little J, his stroller and their grocery cart (think of a nanna-trolley) and I headed off to pick up fresh bread, fish, fruit and vege, cheese and wine. I very quickly took charge of the shopping caddy, leaving Mr to deal with the wonky stroller (unless you're using two hands it constantly veers to the left. I think of it as working out my core strength muscles everytime Little J and I take a stroll.) He offered me the choice and I quite honestly said I'd prefer the caddy just to mix things up a little.
I find food markets an incredibly exciting experience. There's so much POTENTIAL at a market, all those meals that could be....
The poissonerie was definitely a highlight. So much gorgeous, glistening fresh seafood to choose from. And not just the range I see in Melbourne either, random things like what I think is abalone (in spikey cases?) and live crabs and shells with fish in them that I didn't even know you could eat. The smell of a well-kept fish shop is a wonderful thing. I feel healthy just being in there!
The green-grocer was interesting, with one or two things I hadn't seen before, such as funny-shaped tomatoes or things I don't see very often like epinards. I also noted that their little pineapples were selling for 6e a pop. Twelve dollars for a PINEAPPLE!! And 1e per kiwifruit. Good to remember sometimes how lucky I am that some of my favourite fruits are cheap in Aus.
(Below: Their punnets of berries here are too cute- love the little baskets. Below Right: prices are hung from little boards above the fruit. Bottom left: a general feel for the shop. It's quite narrow, often people don't even go in the shop assistants hear what you want and bring it all to you. Bottom right: the strange tomato, I think called a Spanish tomato.)
(Below: Their punnets of berries here are too cute- love the little baskets. Below Right: prices are hung from little boards above the fruit. Bottom left: a general feel for the shop. It's quite narrow, often people don't even go in the shop assistants hear what you want and bring it all to you. Bottom right: the strange tomato, I think called a Spanish tomato.)
Mr has known the fishmongers and the grocer for 10 years, and went out of his way to introduce me to them all so that if I came by to pick up some things for the family, I would be looked after (and it would just be placed on his account.) A relationship like that would be impossible for me to cultivate in just 12 months on my own. I would still be considered a stranger otherwise, even if I went every week. As Mr said, it means that they won't give me dodgy produce. Heartening, isn't it?
The cheese shop was fascinating, but not as personally exciting. I don't know my cheese very well, and it's one of those things I really like having a couple of my key cheese-friends around to let me know what's what. I can't handle anything too mouldy, and sheep's cheese is a complete and utter no-no. Blargh!
One of the perks of the Saturday coup de main is that I got to stick around for the yummy homecooked lunch, which was french pan seared prawns (a little too fresh- they were alive when he bought them and he didn't put them in the freezer first to put them to sleep before frying them. Sob) followed by boiled fish (this sounds really strange to me, but it tastes just like steamed fish) and rice with hollondaise sauce, followed by a selection of cheeses with baguette stick (about 6 cheeses to choose from.) The lack of vegetables in French cuisine would likely annoy me more, except that I can go home at the end of each day and eat heaps for dinner.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
La rentree (the return to school)
I still have E home with me for the morning because school doesn't start until the afternoon, but she’s in and out with her Dad getting last minute school supplies. Yesterday I had to cover all her text books (we’re talking about a seven-year-old, remember) in plastic. Not sticky contact, as in loose plastic and sticky tape. Contact as I know it is apparently a French rarity. Who the hell knows how they missed out on that? I had been worried about my covering job not being up to scratch for E’s exclusive private school (the school of French celebrities). And then, genius!, E popped up with a pair of tiny scissors wanting to help me. Well, I wasn’t going to turn that offer down. So, together, we cut and she, to the very best of her seven-year-old abilities, sticky-taped away. Bless.
Dinner on the hop
E was upset her parents were going to be late, but her little eyes lit up when I said this meant she could eat dinner a couple of hours earlier than usual. And so, one of my standard no time, no ingredients, no recipe meals popped into my head. Spaghetti bolognaise. Wonderful. We’ll go past the tiny mini mart on the way home and buy what I need.
This idea was somewhat altered by their lack of spaghetti, mince, tomato paste, garlic…you get the picture. Spag bol became tuna penne. This was, of course, assuming they had tuna. Which, if I could just remember the French word for tuna I’m sure I could find…
The Arabic guys running the store were lovely and very helpful. It was the same shop I dropped past after the first Monday night, to purchase some wine (and chocolate biscuits) from. On the Monday night, I had arrived teary and became worse when I came across a tin of cat food with a dead-ringer for my own cat on it. She’s so pretty, with long white fur, deep green eyes and a purr that’ll blow your house down. That Monday, while watching me sniffling and packing my wine, biscuits and tin of cat food into a bag he had slipped an extra chocolate bar in there and I am eternally grateful for his thoughtfulness.
So I have no doubt he remembered me, when on Wednesday I did my crazy dash around the shop, asking him for “fish in a tin in olive oil.” (Thon, I finally remember, is French for tuna.)
Being able to wrap up the evening according to my own schedule suited me much better. Children’s natural clocks are early, so being able to bathe, feed and bed baby by 7pm, and E by 8.30pm was more my style. In the week since I have struggled a little to cope with the elongated evening home-stretch. If the French have a reputation for being rude, and for being food-obsessed, it’s because the two go hand-in-hand. If you only ate twice a day, 7 hours apart, no snacking, you’d be rude and bloody hungry too! (I would like to add that this is a vicious stereotype, that I have seen disproved more than I have experienced.)
This idea was somewhat altered by their lack of spaghetti, mince, tomato paste, garlic…you get the picture. Spag bol became tuna penne. This was, of course, assuming they had tuna. Which, if I could just remember the French word for tuna I’m sure I could find…
The Arabic guys running the store were lovely and very helpful. It was the same shop I dropped past after the first Monday night, to purchase some wine (and chocolate biscuits) from. On the Monday night, I had arrived teary and became worse when I came across a tin of cat food with a dead-ringer for my own cat on it. She’s so pretty, with long white fur, deep green eyes and a purr that’ll blow your house down. That Monday, while watching me sniffling and packing my wine, biscuits and tin of cat food into a bag he had slipped an extra chocolate bar in there and I am eternally grateful for his thoughtfulness.
So I have no doubt he remembered me, when on Wednesday I did my crazy dash around the shop, asking him for “fish in a tin in olive oil.” (Thon, I finally remember, is French for tuna.)
Being able to wrap up the evening according to my own schedule suited me much better. Children’s natural clocks are early, so being able to bathe, feed and bed baby by 7pm, and E by 8.30pm was more my style. In the week since I have struggled a little to cope with the elongated evening home-stretch. If the French have a reputation for being rude, and for being food-obsessed, it’s because the two go hand-in-hand. If you only ate twice a day, 7 hours apart, no snacking, you’d be rude and bloody hungry too! (I would like to add that this is a vicious stereotype, that I have seen disproved more than I have experienced.)
Zebra Crossings
We trundled off for an afternoon promenade dans la pousette. I was confused by all the zebra crossings, which appear with helpful regularity, yet most unhelpfully cars ignore any pedestrians and zoom through them. What’s the point of the crossing? And then, having taken the wrong street and wanting to perform an immediate street-crossing, I realized. When people say the French touch-park, they mean it. It’s impossible enough to squeeze myself through the kissing bumpers, let alone la pousette. French zebra crossings are like that school matron at 1950’s dances, making sure there’s thirty centimeters of decency between dancers.
While out on this late afternoon stroll I received a very strange phone call from Mrs. She prefaced it by saying, “What I’m about to tell you I don’t want E to know.” Her discretion was somewhat foiled by the constant and loud traffic on the street, but I managed to convince her I wouldn’t give anything away. Without, of course, actually saying that. (This entire exchange felt more like a scene from Borne Supremacy than The Nanny Diaries.) Her aunt was in the hospital in a serious condition, she might die in the next few hours. Don’t tell E anything, but we won’t be home until late. You’ll have to cook dinner and feed the children.
(I knew this would be upsetting for the family, the aunt was particularly beloved. She had been a very close part of their family life, looking after the children weekly.)
While out on this late afternoon stroll I received a very strange phone call from Mrs. She prefaced it by saying, “What I’m about to tell you I don’t want E to know.” Her discretion was somewhat foiled by the constant and loud traffic on the street, but I managed to convince her I wouldn’t give anything away. Without, of course, actually saying that. (This entire exchange felt more like a scene from Borne Supremacy than The Nanny Diaries.) Her aunt was in the hospital in a serious condition, she might die in the next few hours. Don’t tell E anything, but we won’t be home until late. You’ll have to cook dinner and feed the children.
(I knew this would be upsetting for the family, the aunt was particularly beloved. She had been a very close part of their family life, looking after the children weekly.)
Breakfast in Paris
Today I took my first Parisienne breakfast; espresso and croissant on my way to work. After all the hot weather, the cool breeze was a perfect breakfast accompaniment and I strolled off to work feeling very French.
Having yesterday discovered the apartment’s internet access I was desperate to write home and touch base with everyone else’s goings on. This made me generally impatient for E to start school the next day, so I would then have Little J’s nap times to cybercruise to my heart’s content. But, alas, I had two children to entertain. When Little J was awake, it was him that needed the close attention and when he was sleeping it was nose back to the Polly Pocket-sized grindstone.
Having yesterday discovered the apartment’s internet access I was desperate to write home and touch base with everyone else’s goings on. This made me generally impatient for E to start school the next day, so I would then have Little J’s nap times to cybercruise to my heart’s content. But, alas, I had two children to entertain. When Little J was awake, it was him that needed the close attention and when he was sleeping it was nose back to the Polly Pocket-sized grindstone.
Parc Monceau
Work, day 2: Tuesday I arrive armed with fresh knowledge. I now know the full nap routine, including how to put him to sleep and how many sleeps he should be having each day (the correct answer is three.)
E played beautifully with her brother, which he adores because he adores her. We checked out the rather large and gracious Parc Monceau, ready for my impending after school pick-ups. I had been rather formally presented with the family’s collection of park tokens, with tokens for the swings and the mini carousel. Mrs pressed them upon me, making sure I kept them in my bag. She assured me that she would remember to ask for them back on Friday so I didn’t run off into the weekend with them (heaven forbid they miss out on a loyalty stamp.) The swings surprised me, looking very different to your average backyard tire on a rope or even your more up-market Australian-park number. These swings have an attendant, cost 1.10 euro a turn, and require two kids per swing. So I guess the money goes towards the matchmaking service provided by the swing attendant, plopping the right two kids on either end of a very dangerous metal pendulum. (Amazing that with the number of swing attendants I assume exist in France they still have such high unemployment…)
But, nothing broke, including me, and I reached the end of the day feeling very pleased with myself. Being offered a chilled glass of sauv blanc while we waited for Mrs to return, and discovering internet access, topped it all off perfectly. Mr pointedly indicated to Mrs that I had resorted to alcohol at the end of my day. Always with the cracks about my alcoholism, which, if you knew how little I drink at home, is either ironic ridiculous or both. I laughed it off and used his own words, saying it’s not wine, it’s an aperitif. Ho ho ho’s all round for that one.
I bid everyone a most cheerful au revoir after Tuesday’s dinner, thinking that this was indeed a job I could accomplish with my sanity intact. Tsk tsk.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Alone with les enfants, day 1
I would like to preface this post with a warning that it is being typed on a French laptop, with French keyboard that's driving me nuts. It probably woulnd't be so bad, except that I keep switching between my mac and this laptop and my brain's going a bit haywire.
E didn't start school until the Thursday, so I had 3 whole days alone with both children to look forward to. Not a terrible thing by any standard, although it was certainly a little different to the understanding reached on the telephone months earlier whereby I was only working in the afternoons......
E didn't want to be back in Paris. She was upset to be starting school soon and to no longer have the outside freedom she has in the south, where she goes for all her holidays. (And had just spent 2 months straight.) Little J, meanwhile, was grousy from the latenight flight on Sunday. The first time I tried to put him down for a nap he cried, hard, continuously for at least 30 minutes. When i went in to him he'd bitten his lip, which, with a bit of blood now around his lip, looked a bit scary. Ok, so no morning nap. Come lunchtime when the parents returned (as they always do to cook a big lunch at home.) and he didn't really feel like eating properly he was so tired. Only then, when he went down for his post-lunch sleep was I shown the sleep routine which is, apparently; always followed to a tee.
All the downtime from Little J was, of course, spent playing with E. I had professed to adoring Polly Pockets, so Polly Pockets it was. And my, haven't they changed?! Someone obviously decided a toy without clothes wasn't going to do much for share dividends, so they now look rather a lot like tiny tiny barbies. You thought a Barbie shoe was small, just wait til you try and find one of Polly's.
Jean awoke at around 3 and got grisly rather quickly. I had been destined to stay for dinner (as a regular thing, not just first night thing) but mentally decided that I was waaaaay past being able to wait around until after 8 for that to happen. Having already cried once when Little J was beside himself, I was feeling fragile.
I begged off dinner, but got caught when Mrs asked me if everything was ok. I was right on the brink of tears when she asked, and being nice was just a bit too much. So, like Little J, I cried.
Mrs was concerned for me, but not at all concerned that it wouldn't work out. She told me that I was very courageous to be doing what I was doing, and all would be good tomorrow. Go home, drink some wine, fall asleep, come back tomorrow!
And so, I did.
E didn't start school until the Thursday, so I had 3 whole days alone with both children to look forward to. Not a terrible thing by any standard, although it was certainly a little different to the understanding reached on the telephone months earlier whereby I was only working in the afternoons......
E didn't want to be back in Paris. She was upset to be starting school soon and to no longer have the outside freedom she has in the south, where she goes for all her holidays. (And had just spent 2 months straight.) Little J, meanwhile, was grousy from the latenight flight on Sunday. The first time I tried to put him down for a nap he cried, hard, continuously for at least 30 minutes. When i went in to him he'd bitten his lip, which, with a bit of blood now around his lip, looked a bit scary. Ok, so no morning nap. Come lunchtime when the parents returned (as they always do to cook a big lunch at home.) and he didn't really feel like eating properly he was so tired. Only then, when he went down for his post-lunch sleep was I shown the sleep routine which is, apparently; always followed to a tee.
All the downtime from Little J was, of course, spent playing with E. I had professed to adoring Polly Pockets, so Polly Pockets it was. And my, haven't they changed?! Someone obviously decided a toy without clothes wasn't going to do much for share dividends, so they now look rather a lot like tiny tiny barbies. You thought a Barbie shoe was small, just wait til you try and find one of Polly's.
Jean awoke at around 3 and got grisly rather quickly. I had been destined to stay for dinner (as a regular thing, not just first night thing) but mentally decided that I was waaaaay past being able to wait around until after 8 for that to happen. Having already cried once when Little J was beside himself, I was feeling fragile.
I begged off dinner, but got caught when Mrs asked me if everything was ok. I was right on the brink of tears when she asked, and being nice was just a bit too much. So, like Little J, I cried.
Mrs was concerned for me, but not at all concerned that it wouldn't work out. She told me that I was very courageous to be doing what I was doing, and all would be good tomorrow. Go home, drink some wine, fall asleep, come back tomorrow!
And so, I did.
Raspberry Tart
Knowing that I had just turned 23 they very kindly held a birthday celebration on the Saturday night. I had been to the bakery earlier in thw day and couldn’t resist taking photos of the tart selection, especially the glossiest, rosiest raspberry tart I’d ever seen. Well, didn’t somebody just sneak back there later and grab it? It came out after dinner, full of sparklers and big ‘23’ in candles, and a funny little franglaise edition of ‘Happy Birthday’. I was thoroughly tickled and THEN they gave me a birthday present. It was a bottle of Dior perfume, Miss Dior, their new fragrance ‘L’eau’. It just shocked my socks off because the ad campaign for this perfume had been filling Vogue magazines back home for months and months and I had torn out these ads of this stunning model, floating above the rooftops of Paris, Eiffel tower featured in the background, holding onto a bunch of pastel coloured balloons. I’d even discovered the television ad for it on You Tube. It’s directed by Sophia Coppola and features a song sung by Brigette Bardot, ‘Moi, je joue’. (Me, I play.) I’d play the ad on loop whenever I was getting fed up with work, justifying another Saturday night at home to save money for Paris or generally feeling mopey. I crossed my fingers it was a sign all would go well.
Meeting Little J
I may my way back to their apartment at 6.30pm, where le bébé (Little J) was waiting, having been picked up from his elderly carer, the lovely 83 year old aunt. I knew from my phone calls that he was a chatterbox and didn’t stay still for a moment, ‘dynamic’ was the word his mother used.
He’s gorgeous. Blonde hair, chubby chubby cheeks, a wonderful gurgling laugh and best of all, he didn’t break into tears upon seeing me. So far, so good. I got eased into the routine, shown how to bathe and feed him. Bathtime was interesting, with Little J losing his balance (he loves, loves, LOVES to stand up in the bath and peer over the edge at whatever he’s tossed out) and getting head-dunked under the water. Mrs didn’t freak out, which I thought was a good sign. Then again, the French have a different attitude to water than Melbournians…
I was under firm instructions to be back at their apartment at 8am sharp in time to catch our flight to Montpellier in the south, ready to meet Miss Seven (E) and the grandparents at their house.
I wandered back home after dinner, enjoying the mild night and the feeling of finally walking down the street and through the blue door that I’d obsessed over on google maps for months.
He’s gorgeous. Blonde hair, chubby chubby cheeks, a wonderful gurgling laugh and best of all, he didn’t break into tears upon seeing me. So far, so good. I got eased into the routine, shown how to bathe and feed him. Bathtime was interesting, with Little J losing his balance (he loves, loves, LOVES to stand up in the bath and peer over the edge at whatever he’s tossed out) and getting head-dunked under the water. Mrs didn’t freak out, which I thought was a good sign. Then again, the French have a different attitude to water than Melbournians…
I was under firm instructions to be back at their apartment at 8am sharp in time to catch our flight to Montpellier in the south, ready to meet Miss Seven (E) and the grandparents at their house.
I wandered back home after dinner, enjoying the mild night and the feeling of finally walking down the street and through the blue door that I’d obsessed over on google maps for months.
J'y suis arrivée!
Arriving at the airport into Paris I could just spy Mr and Mrs through the glass partition. They were just like their photos, which was a comforting thought. The looks some people gave me when I said I was going to be an au pair in Paris based on an website match-up…
They were warm and pleasant. Having forgotten my mobile phone at their office, Mr drove back to the apartment via my telephone and Mrs and I jumped in a taxi. Driving through the periphery and towards some of those guidebook landmarks was a wonderful sensation. It’s a bit strange, and stomach-flipping or butterflies isn’t really the right description. I’d been planning this trip for so long. It had been a vague intention since high school, and then all the right elements seem to come together over 12 months ago. But, despite the lack of butterflies I was definitely excited. The six of us- Mr, Mrs, myself and my three bags- couldn’t all fit into their elevator the size of a dishwasher, so I held my breath and got packed in for the ride.
Chilled champagne awaited me in their kitchen, and we toasted my arrival and a successful year together. Sitting in their very Parisien apartment, in typical Haussman territory, with tall French windows and ornate ceilings and parquetry floors, champagne seemed oh so appropriate. Lunch came next, at a favourite local bistro of theirs. Bistro is, to the French, quite specific term to describe a certain kind of restaurant. This one only does lunch, and certain kinds of prices accompany that. I was most surprised to see the red wine come out in an ice bucket (I thought only Queenslanders did that…). I had forgotten what to expect in the way of cheesy ravioli but it certainly done the French way, with a strooooong French-cheese soupy base. Main was “gambas” with rice. After entrée, main, and the wines, espresso just seemed like a natural way to help cut the rich glut now sitting in my stomach. For a latte drinker, its been a surprisingly easy transition. The French just don’t do them as well as the Italians, so I figure I’m better off avoiding disappointment. When not in Rome…
Next, onto my very own piece of the heavens in a shoebox. I was most relieved to have their assistance porting my luggage up six flights of stairs. No dishwashers moonlighting as elevators for me. It’s probably lucky that I’d researched what to expect in the way of cheap apartment living, because the French really do take compact to a whole new level. And my apartment was no exception.
They were warm and pleasant. Having forgotten my mobile phone at their office, Mr drove back to the apartment via my telephone and Mrs and I jumped in a taxi. Driving through the periphery and towards some of those guidebook landmarks was a wonderful sensation. It’s a bit strange, and stomach-flipping or butterflies isn’t really the right description. I’d been planning this trip for so long. It had been a vague intention since high school, and then all the right elements seem to come together over 12 months ago. But, despite the lack of butterflies I was definitely excited. The six of us- Mr, Mrs, myself and my three bags- couldn’t all fit into their elevator the size of a dishwasher, so I held my breath and got packed in for the ride.
Chilled champagne awaited me in their kitchen, and we toasted my arrival and a successful year together. Sitting in their very Parisien apartment, in typical Haussman territory, with tall French windows and ornate ceilings and parquetry floors, champagne seemed oh so appropriate. Lunch came next, at a favourite local bistro of theirs. Bistro is, to the French, quite specific term to describe a certain kind of restaurant. This one only does lunch, and certain kinds of prices accompany that. I was most surprised to see the red wine come out in an ice bucket (I thought only Queenslanders did that…). I had forgotten what to expect in the way of cheesy ravioli but it certainly done the French way, with a strooooong French-cheese soupy base. Main was “gambas” with rice. After entrée, main, and the wines, espresso just seemed like a natural way to help cut the rich glut now sitting in my stomach. For a latte drinker, its been a surprisingly easy transition. The French just don’t do them as well as the Italians, so I figure I’m better off avoiding disappointment. When not in Rome…
Next, onto my very own piece of the heavens in a shoebox. I was most relieved to have their assistance porting my luggage up six flights of stairs. No dishwashers moonlighting as elevators for me. It’s probably lucky that I’d researched what to expect in the way of cheap apartment living, because the French really do take compact to a whole new level. And my apartment was no exception.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
My cute presents II- things for Miss Seven
These little ants are marching across the back of the lunch tin!!
The emu stamp also comes with a rolling stamp to make little emu tracks. I put in the ipod headphones so you could see how TINY those lip gloss cupcakes are.
This little sequinned galah will make the most PERFECT Christmas present.
Tasteful Australiana- a contradiction in terms??
I've had French friends for nearly 10 years and am well used to searching for that unique, Australian gift. The christening/housewarming/birthday/thank-you for letting me live in your house for 2 months present must be light, travel hardy and not scream "I bought this at Melbourne International Airport just before boarding."
I have been hunting for an entire collection of such presents for my nannying family for well over 6 months now, and have at last decided my hoard is complete. Here are photos of some of my finds. And yes, I'm aware they're not all totally Australian-y. But those ones were just too cute to leave behind.
I have been hunting for an entire collection of such presents for my nannying family for well over 6 months now, and have at last decided my hoard is complete. Here are photos of some of my finds. And yes, I'm aware they're not all totally Australian-y. But those ones were just too cute to leave behind.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
The Beginning
I have always ALWAYS wanted to live in Paris. To know its laneways and intricacies the way I know Melbourne's.
But how to make it to Paris? How to survive French bureaucracy? How to fund this glamorous life in the city of light for 12 months?
I was prepared to arrive in Paris, sans job, sans apartment, avec nothing but my wits and pennies. For a non-EU citizen, however, that's a pretty difficult path to follow, so I started job hunting in earnest at the beginning of 2009.
I have since found the perfect job, for the perfect family, in the perfect location. I'm going to nanny a French family for 12months.
At first, I investigated nannying as a means to an end- smoothing a path to a life in Paris. Quickly, however, I became attached to the idea of nannying itself. Nannying offers a rare invitation into the intimate family life of another. It's a chance to share culture, to teach language, to inhabit the world of childhood fancy once more.
My blog title is a play on a popular French children's book series: Le Petit Nicolas. I know from my previous French travels that my name is considered a boy's name in France, and garners considerable consternation wherever I go. We shall see how well it copes this time around in France's most cosmopolitan city, Paris.
I look forward to sharing my Parisian life with you in both words and pictures. Please, suivez-moi as I become that icon of the French park: the au pair.
But how to make it to Paris? How to survive French bureaucracy? How to fund this glamorous life in the city of light for 12 months?
I was prepared to arrive in Paris, sans job, sans apartment, avec nothing but my wits and pennies. For a non-EU citizen, however, that's a pretty difficult path to follow, so I started job hunting in earnest at the beginning of 2009.
I have since found the perfect job, for the perfect family, in the perfect location. I'm going to nanny a French family for 12months.
At first, I investigated nannying as a means to an end- smoothing a path to a life in Paris. Quickly, however, I became attached to the idea of nannying itself. Nannying offers a rare invitation into the intimate family life of another. It's a chance to share culture, to teach language, to inhabit the world of childhood fancy once more.
My blog title is a play on a popular French children's book series: Le Petit Nicolas. I know from my previous French travels that my name is considered a boy's name in France, and garners considerable consternation wherever I go. We shall see how well it copes this time around in France's most cosmopolitan city, Paris.
I look forward to sharing my Parisian life with you in both words and pictures. Please, suivez-moi as I become that icon of the French park: the au pair.
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