Cat on Loan

This is Isis.

The kids love her and she seems to tolerate them, even seeking out Son#2's company for his 'cat massages'.

But I think she's a pain in the butt with her 1-a.m.-scratching-by-my-window.

The husband and I sat drinking wine in the freezing air after the boys went to bed far too late.

This morning, they only woke at 8 when Son#3 toppled down the stairs.

I hop from adrenaline rush to adrenaline rush.

Later, when the husband wakes, we'll pack a picnic and head to Rennes' Thabor Parc.
The weather is great.


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Sensory path

We spent a wonderful day at Jardin de Broceliande, a play/educational centre close by.

There was a sensory path - walking barefoot over rocks, seeds, grass, wood chips, mud, through a stream.
Then a 'blind' walk, where I smacked into a pole, haha.
There was a skywalk too.

We had a fantastic time!

In the morning, Rennes.



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Islands

It was a truly gorgeously clear day.
I got up very early - Son#3's nightmare and #2's inquisitiveness.

We drove to Vannes on the southern coast.
Lovely, but the enormous amount of tourists milling about ruined it a wee bit.
In between, keeping track of 3 boys is daunting.

Then further south, to Pont Blanc, where we caught the boat to Ile-Aux-Moines.
Simply wonderful.
There, also, droves of tourists, and bicycles galore, but we walked up through narrow streets and down again, to a narrow strip of beach.

The boys built small rafts and sandcastles until we left again for the boat back to the mainland.
I had a major meltdown in the car back to Rennes, tired from getting up too freaking early, tired from a constant fever, life in general and raising three defiant and energetic boys.
I cried for 70 kilometres.

At home, the husband took charge: sandwiches for dinner and straight to bed.

Tomorrow we begin this shit all over again.


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Happiness is...

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Home, for a while

We stayed mostly at home today, and it does feel like our French home.
Son#1 and the husband took the bikes and bought croissants in the next village.

Son#2 and I played with Breton games until the drizzle started.
The weather ain't great, but we're happy.

In the afternoon, we found an Ikea and bought a better pillow for the husband, then lunch in their restaurant.
Kiddie menus here are much healthier: fruit or water, yoghurt, small bags of tomatoes.

Tomorrow, we'll drive south to Vannes, perhaps ferry to an island, and a small dinner somewhere.
Nice, nice.


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Saint-Malo and back again

We drove to Saint-Malo, where we found an aquarium with submarine (and scared the bejesus out of poor Son#3).
Us adults and Son#2 thought it was fantastic.
Son#1 gave us a taster of what his teenage years would bring us.
Sigh.
I lack the patience for drama (and trust me, we go Up and Down on the Emotional Scale).

Afterwards, hungry, we drove to Dinard, which was a dream.
Gorgeous views and all things new.

The husband drove home again, about 70 km, and I napped in the car, interspersed with biting inci'dents' (pardon the pun, haha, but I've had a glass of wine), elbows in faces and playing tag on the backseat.
Yes, anything is possible.
I cloistered myself, a glass of delishush wine and my 38,6 degree fever in the bedroom.
Enough of this togetherness.
Ten years ago, I pushed a fat ,11-pound bubby with deep voice into the world.
I deserve a damn medal.

Tonight, hamburgers for the lanky ten year old.
Wine for his mum.



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Mr Double Digits

Son#1 is ten.

I have a kid that's been around a full, round decade.
Phew.
Mr. Moneybags got money (saving for a laptop).
We're going to Saint Malo today, to the aquarium which has a submarine.

We stayed at home yesterday, save for one trip to Rennes to look for an open supermarket, which we didn't find.
We saw nice squares, though.

In the afternoon, the sun broke through and the husband and Son#3 came back with wild flowers with spiders for me.
Bless.

So far, this home exchange concept is Brilliant.
We're having a ball.
The husband is going through some kind of stress detox - he feels like the stress is dropping off his shoulders yet it feels as if it's getting worse before it will get better.
The body keeps holding on to that which is familiar and predictable - relaxation is obviously not predictable.

But.
Different culture.
Different surroundings.
Different way of thinking required.


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Nearly a decade

Son#1 is moving into double digits tomorrow.
We are not allowed to mention it at all - instead, his lordship has decreed that he is to be surprised.
I've been clearly instructed not to ask 'And whose birthday is tomorrow?'.

It's raining in Bretagne today.
The husband and Son#2 have discovered the Wii.
Son#1 is on a Minecraft-Youtube binge.
Son#3 has pasted a million fake tattoos all over his body, tattoos that came with candy we bought yesterday.
He told us that he's a 'real man' now.
Sigh.

I'm just stuffed from cheese and whatnot.
My clothes are tighter again.
Oi.


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Douce, douce France

An uneventful trip to Rennes.
No farmers on strike.
No horrid traffic jams nor thunder storms.

Le Havre's Port de Normandie and the view from the top of the bridge.

A stop to stretch the legs and let the young pups out on the beach in Houlgate.

Wine and ice cream, yum.

We spent the evening with our French hosts, which was lovely.

A warm, artistic house.

They left this morning.
We are drinking coffee out in the sunshine, the boys are playing with new toys in a new environment.
We won't be doing much today.
Good, good, good.


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Early morning in Arras

We slept little, Sons #2 and #3 and I.
Son#2, whose tummy ached since yesterday, was up in the night, homesick and be-nightmared.
It's hard keeping young kids quiet in hotel rooms.
But truth be told, we left the house in such a spiffing state, that I felt sad to leave too.

Now we wait until their lordships, the husband and puberty-stricken Son#1, deign to grace us with their presence.

I pilfered the boys' coin purses for the joys of the coffee machine and waffles to keep the barbarians quiet for a minute.

The roads are blocked by angry farmers, and we have to get to Rennes by 6.
Then we'll have to speak a helluvalotof French with our homeswapping family.
Oi vey.


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The morning before

Bonjour.

There is a lady cleaning the house.
Utter.
UTTER.
Bliss.

The boys fight on and off.
Son#1 chopped Son#2's Minecraft-head off.
Sigh.
Son#3 talks.
All. The. Time.

Tomorrow afternoon we will drive to Arras, where we will sleep next door to a McDonalds.
Happy children, happy parents.
Screw culture, that's what I say.


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The good life

Here they are then:  gentlemen of the gentle life.

Popcorn.

Movie.

Catering Mother, ironing crap whilst her beloved children get to rest.

Sigh.

The more I clean, the more dirt I find.

It will never end, and that thought brings substantial amounts of solace and horror.

Three nights, then off to Brittany.

Tomorrow Son#1 returns home, thank goodness.

We've missed him.

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Lost Control Much?

Weight up.

Weight down.

Energy up and down.

Same goes for fever, but also stiffness, pain and patience.

I am clearly Not In Control of Life.

We drove to the in-laws to drop off Son#1.

He's coming back on Tuesday.

I miss him too much.

Sons#2 and #3 are be-curly-haired-terrors who made the 130km drive home, a hell.

This is how I know that I lost control of patience somewhere.

The husband and I watched a Swedish crime series and now it's the long wait until the sleep aid kicks in and pain to subside.

My feet are taking a pounding in terms of pain.

I think Life is talking to me.

'Just stay seated, Yo...'

My butt is probably the only part of my anatomy that doesn't hurt all the time.

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Jackie Chan-ed

Everybody was Kung-fu fighting...

We drove to a nearby ripped-and-remained-in-the-seventies-architecture village.

Library.

Ice creams.

School's out for summer.

Son#2 went back to the school playground and a fight popped up.

He came home distressed and upset.

It's been a long school year.

Next week, Brittany.

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Unique

I kiss the boys before I go to bed every night.
They all have their own, familiar smell.
I think I could quite possibly identify them by smell alone.

It is good to be able to love.

The husband went to a funeral today.
Our friend's father passed away, pancreatic cancer.

I have immeasurable amounts of sadness in me, although I am certainly not depressed.
'Grieved' fits better.
Grief for my dad still unresolved, and grief for a painful body and uncertain future.
The loss of certainty.
Always a pain in the ass.


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Cold, Wet

It rained all day, again.
The husband worked from home, and was kind enough to make me a fire this afternoon.
Cue Son#1 and Friend, sent off to the village shop to buy marshmallows.
It was lovely, one of those afternoons you want to hug gently for a long while.

Son#1 went AWOL to the Minecraft World and left the friend to play with Sons#2 and #3.

The appointment with the company doctor (I suspect she is autistic) was the same old boring tale, except that I got miffed at the end.
Once again I see that when someone has NO passion for their job, how that clearly shows.
I don't want to end up like that.

In the house, I wipe down a door here and there, slowly removing personal items for the imminent home swap.
I want to - have to - remove my dad's funeral notice which I haven't touched since November 2013.
A quick glance at a man my dad's age, build, complexion, familiar soft eyes - anything sets me off lately.
My tears are over quickly, but they are there.
It scares me how fragile and vulnerable to loss we really are.


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This Samsara we live in

The boys went on a school trip to a safari park.
I picked them up at 6, after what must have been a long, cold and wet day.

At home, the movement of merde from the main house to my art studio is slowly progressing.

Pretty soon we'll have a minimalist house [albeit with the cluttered chaos merely moved to a different location, waiting to be sorted post-holiday: cue Twilight Zone score].
But as long as our house-swapping guests are content, then so shall we be.

The company doctor awaits in the morning.
I sleep very little.
The boys wake up almost every night, and I have to wait until my need for sleep finally overpowers my physical pain levels, roughly around 1 a.m.

The pain has gotten worse over the last few months - loosely described as a helluva flu mixed with 12 rounds in the ring with Muhammad Ali (he won).

Could years and years and years of stress have done this to me?
I'm afraid I already know the answer, which makes me cry instantly.
To find one's way back from the edge - that is the tough part.


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When The Cat's Away...

Playground Pleasure.

No holds barred.

A friend of Son#2's dropped off a belated gift.

Afterwards, #3 couldn't keep his eyes open.

I let him sleep.

I do love my kiddos so.

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All that endures is art, after all

If one wishes to leave an indelible mark, one needs to do it in the form of art.

Books, fine art, films.

Especially in this everyone-has-a-blog-and-opinion world we live in.

We all like to think that we are something special.

The husband and I once went to the museum of modern art in Antwerp, an exhibit called The order of things (a la Foucoult).

A brilliant photographer, Hans Eijkelboom, took photos of people with similar dress on the streets, and grouped them together (a.k.a. serial portraiture).

Men with red pants, ladies with yellow shopping bags, grunged youths with dark clothes, ladies with skirts of a certain length.

It made an incredibly big impression on me, and I have often thought of it in the past 5 years or so.

The scary part: We ALL fall into some obscure category.

The good part: There are like-minded weirdos out there.

We ain't that special nor unique.

The thought takes an awful amount of pressure off of my shoulders.

I can just BE.

There is no need to stand out.

It's not even possible.

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Meaning of Life

Stuff of dreams.

Bbq, or Braai as we say in South Africa.

The sun shines, and that's all right by me.

And then the ice cream truck drove past with its

 'Mr Sandman' happy tunes.

Son#3 told us that's it is the best day of his entire life.

Tomorrow, the husband is going camping with Son#1 for 1 night.

Sons #2 and #3 and I are going for a neighbourhood picnic.

I've been working myself up.

Son#1 had yet another altercation with the Break Gestapo at school, a woman named Judith with too short hair and no chin, plus bags full of sarcastic vitriol she seems to save for my kid.

Way back when, Son#1 ran away from school because of this awful person.

My cup runneth over [with impatience].

An oeuf is an oeuf.

For tonight, we have wine, lovely boys (Son#3 on repeat, singing. the. same. damn. song. over. and. over)

and each other.

My mum is coming in 6 weeks' time.

Next week, I'm seeing the company doctor.

The boys are in the last throes of the school year.

I have much pain and discomfort.

Everything ends, eventually.

My mother and I had a conversation about the lack of meaning in life.

But perhaps there IS no point.

We exist for a while.

We disappear again.

And that might just be enough.

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Footsie Footsie

Slowly but surely, the house and its ensuing chaos of The Big Clean-Up, is coming together.

Objects long, long forgotten are unearthed, dusty and sticky, and finding their way to boxes destined for the dumping ground or charity.

It feels good.

 

Although I feel quite knackered, and have to do the bulk of the clean up on my own, It gives me a lot of energy.

The trick is to pace myself carefully.

 

 

 

A la Marie Kondo, I thank the objects for their good service, and, miraculously, it makes it better to let them go.

She's on to something here.

 

The next 2 weeks before the summer holiday starts, are filled with doctor's appointments for myself and Son#2.

Homeopath, eye specialist, ear specialist, company doctor, internal medicine.

Dizzying, I can tell you.

Chuck in a children's party or two, packing our holiday gear , and cleaning-whatever-is-left...

Sigh.

 

 

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Words to Live By

 

 

Towards good things.

 

 

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Objects of Beauty

Like white brides dancing outside the kitchen window.

Things are growing in the garden.
There are courgettes, peas, blueberries, tomatoes, herbs.
Hopefully some of them will ripen before we go on holiday.

The weekend has been quiet due to the incessant heat.
Who can clean or tidy with temperatures in the high thirties?
Tomorrow I'm tackling the playroom, where a culling of toys is in order.

On towards the simple life.

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Hotness itself

Two sets of friends came today.
One mother needed a babysitter, the other kid had dinner with us after Son#1 spent the whole afternoon at his house.
Amidst social visits, the house exploded.
40 degree temperatures made us all cranky and unpleasant.

A friend with 4 kids once told me that by the time her husband came home, she was all through with being kind and loving.
I get that.
I like solitude.
I like being home alone.

Tomorrow will be another scorcher.
I'm tired of correcting 3 kids constantly.
When oh when does the having-conversations-phase arrive?

When?


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