A godchild is a child that God sends you to cheer you up because you can’t have kids of your own. At least, that’s my very own theory.
Yesterday, I had a fantastic day with A, my little bundle of mischief. For his sixth birthday, I had planned a fun day in Brussels:
- eating hamburgers and fries in a restaurant where painted monsters are watching you from every wall
- imagining the exciting lives of the ducks at the ponds (according to A, the fountain in the ponds was nothing more than the ducks’ shower)
- going wild in the playground (and in the trees surrounding the playground)
- discovering – cooking – making art in the Children’s Museum,
- playing hide and seek with godmother in the middle of the city,
- and eating huge pieces of apple pie.
Then it was time for A and his mom to go home. They jumped in dad’s car, and the little family of three drove off to their house in the suburbs. Me, I walked home through the streets of this city, feeling very alone, feeling I’ll never be the proud mom taking the pictures, but always the crazy godmother trying to only step on the white lines of the crosswalk, and hiding behind trash cans on Avenue Louise.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Just a peek...
Last week our wedding pictures were ready. This one is one of my favourites. It's taken through the glass wall of a bus cabin - giving the picture a timeless look. And making P and myself just unrecognisable enough to post it here, on the blog :-).
Friday, February 5, 2010
Fever
Hi everyone. Today I'm writing in an horizontal position (don't get any wild ideas). I'm just flat out on the couch, throat-spray, painkillers and cup of tea within reach. That's right, after facing sneezing students for the past 3 months, my imune-system finally gave in.
Being sick always reminds me of Barbizon, where I was the lovely hostess of several viruses during my first couple of months in the countryside (remember?). My memory goes straight back to our cosy flat above the art galery, where I re-read every single Harry Potter, all covered up in blankets, and in the loving company of Phoebe the hamster. Making quick trips across the street for croissant aux amandes from the bakery, or for home-made lasagna from the deli. And taking loads of medicine. So you see, I do miss France from time to time - even if it's triggered by such things as having a fever...(wait, maybe I'm just delirious?)
Being sick always reminds me of Barbizon, where I was the lovely hostess of several viruses during my first couple of months in the countryside (remember?). My memory goes straight back to our cosy flat above the art galery, where I re-read every single Harry Potter, all covered up in blankets, and in the loving company of Phoebe the hamster. Making quick trips across the street for croissant aux amandes from the bakery, or for home-made lasagna from the deli. And taking loads of medicine. So you see, I do miss France from time to time - even if it's triggered by such things as having a fever...(wait, maybe I'm just delirious?)
Thursday, February 4, 2010
It takes two
I want a baby.
No need to be ashamed of it, and no need to make a big thing out of it. It’s normal, lots of people want babies, and it doesn’t make me some kind of freak.
Sorry, I had to write that down once, just to keep my sanity. ‘Cause here at home, I can’t talk about it. It’s the big “taboo”. It’s only my wish, and nobody else’s.
My hormones have been screaming “Reproduce!” for the past five years now, and believe me: ignoring them is getting harder and harder. Also, at 33, I mustn’t kid myself (no pun intended) : the clock is ticking. I look at fertility charts taking a deep plunge after 35. While the charts with all sorts of “complications” go up-up-up around the same age.
P and I have always been on different timelines. I wanted to live together – I had to wait (years). I wanted to get married – I had to wait (years). The problem with the baby-issue is that “waiting” is becoming less and less of an option. I don’t want to calculate, take hormone treatments, visit fertility clinics, take high risks for my baby (and myself), etc. I just want nature to take its course and do its thing – sooner or later. But I can want a lot of things. It still takes two to tango, as we clearly saw in Buenos Aires.
No need to be ashamed of it, and no need to make a big thing out of it. It’s normal, lots of people want babies, and it doesn’t make me some kind of freak.
Sorry, I had to write that down once, just to keep my sanity. ‘Cause here at home, I can’t talk about it. It’s the big “taboo”. It’s only my wish, and nobody else’s.
My hormones have been screaming “Reproduce!” for the past five years now, and believe me: ignoring them is getting harder and harder. Also, at 33, I mustn’t kid myself (no pun intended) : the clock is ticking. I look at fertility charts taking a deep plunge after 35. While the charts with all sorts of “complications” go up-up-up around the same age.
P and I have always been on different timelines. I wanted to live together – I had to wait (years). I wanted to get married – I had to wait (years). The problem with the baby-issue is that “waiting” is becoming less and less of an option. I don’t want to calculate, take hormone treatments, visit fertility clinics, take high risks for my baby (and myself), etc. I just want nature to take its course and do its thing – sooner or later. But I can want a lot of things. It still takes two to tango, as we clearly saw in Buenos Aires.
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