will WE play in Peoria?

It’s hard to be strict about bedtime in summer. Ok, I’m not good at being strict about bedtime any time, but I did find that putting Kaitlyn to bed early does result in a more pleasant evening for me and a more pleasant child the next morning before school.

But ever since she got the chicken pox and her school year came to an abrupt end, there’s been no real reason to get up before 9. She’s had lots of reasons to stay up late: barbecues that go late, rides home from the zoo during which she naps making a reasonable bedtime impossible. I haven’t pushed it. I haven’t been able to sleep lately (I don’t know why). So I don’t really want to have her getting up at 7 or 7:30 while I’m still trying to get some rest.

Tonight after cleaning up her room and reading two books, I turned out the light and told her goodnight. Then she started in with her “I just want to ask you one question” routine. She is obsessed with asking what we’re going to do “at morning.” And if she doesn’t like your answer… for instance if you answer an honest “I don’t know”… she gets mad. So tonight she started in with that. I told her we have French lessons; we actually have to get up. Apparently that isn’t the answer she was looking for because she kept asking me over and over until I got so mad I had to just turn around and leave her room before I exploded at her.

Just when I was starting to think that just maybe she’d fallen asleep, she came out of her room and said “Mommy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Seriously. That’s what she said. How can you stay mad at that?

I’ll tell you how. Five minutes later she was back out of her room asking Bill “what we going to do at morning?”

Kaitlyn may have to teach herself how to swim.

Trying to sign her up for swimming lessons has turned into a serious ordeal. And it has become far more trouble than it is worth, to say the least.

Last year, I mentioned to a friend with a little boy the same age as Kaitlyn that they should take swimming lessons together. She signed him up, left us out and that was that. This year I mentioned it again.. more firmly. I said we should go together to the pool and arrange it. Well, she went without me and signed both kids up for lessons. On Wednesdays, Saturdays and Sundays. I know I’m looking for something to do other than stay at home on the weekends, but fighting the crowds at the public pool isn’t quite what I’d envisioned. So she went back to change it and ran into the issue that the two families’ vacation schedules are making it difficult. So she gave me his phone number and left it to me to get with the teacher. I’m not entirely sure why, but ok.

I stopped by the pool one cool and un-crowded afternoon in hopes of finding him there. I don’t even know what this guy looks like, I just know his name. No, he wasn’t there. Try back tomorrow. Well, Saturday came and when I told Bill we needed to stop by the pool I might as well have told him he needed to dip his toes in acid. Neither was going to happen. So in a fit of annoyance, I broke down and called the swim teacher. I’d practiced in my head what to say, but still fumbled around when I had to actually talk. Still, I think I managed to get the point across including my phone number. I even turned our answering machine back on so I won’t miss his call. That was Saturday. Today is Monday. And he’s yet to call back. This afternoon I had another friend of mine who speaks French very well call and she, too, got his voice mail. She doesn’t know my number by heart so she gave him her number to call. I bet he won’t call her back either.

I’m just trying to find out if Kaitlyn can have a lesson Wednesday. The day after tomorrow. I don’t want to just wait till then and drag her to the pool for a potential let down and melt-down.

At this rate, this is going to be a long summer.

I am determined not to spend every weekend here at the house playing Wii or watching Slingbox. That’s not to say I don’t like both; I do rather a lot.

But here’s the thing. A year from now we could be getting ready to move… home or elsewhere. I don’t want this stint to come to an end and to say “gee… I’m a pro at Wii bowling but never saw Provence or the Cote d’Azur.” It’s really bizarre. A few months ago we were still among the newer people. Then we hit our 18 month mark. Now we’re creeping up on 2 years and once you get to 3 all anyone asks you about is when you’re leaving and where you’re going. One day you’re trying to get used to how to order bread at the bakery; the next day you’re consumed with making sure you go where you want to from here.

So Saturday arrived and I’d come up with a short list of places to go. First was a summer sled run. But when we looked it up online it looked far too serious for Kaitlyn, even if she had met the height requirement. You ride part of the Olympic bobsled track from 1968. Alone. Not really a good activity for a little kid.

Next on the list was a giant display of garden railways. Bill’s been wanting to go since we got here and one of our French teachers told us about it. Kaitlyn turned up her nose. Now, we could have dragged her there anyway and hoped for the best… but we didn’t hold out any hope that it would be a successful plan. Bill had zero interest in the castle I’d found. And neither of us felt much like fighting crowds at any of the local lakes.

Tired of me grumping around the house, Bill printed out information about the zoo in Lyon’s version of Central Park. He made a couple of jelly sandwiches for the car ride, loaded them and us in the car and off we went.

Lyon isn’t that far away but we’ve only been a couple of times… and at that really only for the Toys R Us. It’s supposed to be the gastronomic capital of France. But this trip wouldn’t be to explore any cafes and certainly not to try our luck at a restaurant. No, this was just for the zoo. Honestly, I have zero interest in yet another zoo… especially one known for, well, nothing. But I was not in any position to really argue it. So I shut up and got in the car.

Naturally, the parking garage was on the opposite side of the park from the zoo. But that’s ok, the walk would do us some good. Naturally, I didn’t wear shoes that keep tiny pebbles out and who’d have guessed that all the paths in the zoo are covered with tiny gravel. But I wasn’t going to say a word. Not a peep out of me and my feet.

We walked past a playground and convinced Kaitlyn we’d return after seeing the animals. Then we passed a small pool filled with kid-size motor boats. We stopped and let her drive one. She thought it was ok; I think she’d have liked it more if the smaller kid hadn’t kept bumping into her (and everyone else). Than we passed the little race track with cars and motorcycles for little kids. Kaitlyn hopped on a pink motorcycle there. The guy asked us if she’d done this before and I said no, but before he could finish explaining it to her she hit the gas and was off. That she really loved.

The zoo was not at all what I expected. It isn’t a separate thing. It’s in the middle of the park. One minute you’re at the playground, the next you’re staring at a lemur. There were some animals I don’t think I’ve seen before… varieties of lemurs and teeeeny tiny monkeys. But none of the displays seemed very big and definitely seemed like something the humane society would freak out about at home. The lions and tigers had a bit more room, but they didn’t seem so very separated from the people. There was one area that looked like a flock of ducks had assumed squatters rights. Bill figured that was just where the zoo kept the tigers’ next meal.

Kaitlyn became obsessed with having a stuffed snake. We had to skip the elephants in order to work our way back to the stand where she’d seen the must-have toy. Since we didn’t pay anything to get into the zoo, it didn’t seem so bad to pay for the snake. Which she named princesssssss (yes, with the hissing sound) and happily wore around her neck like a scarf.

I held princesssssss while Kaitlyn climbed and jumped on the playground. She was having a ball until she announced she had to go to the bathroom. We walked toward what we assumed would be it and she said “why can’t I just go in the grass?” Sometimes, she’s so French. Then at the bathrooms came the next dilemma…. they were nothing but holes in the ground with porcelain foot spots. Nice. Difficult. Especially for a little girl wearing a stuffed snake around her neck and tights on her legs. (Yes, it was about 80 degrees and she insisted on wearing tights.) With visions of the time she peed like a bum on the train platform in Barcelona in our heads, we were about to entirely disrobe her when Bill peered inside the separate handicapped bathroom. Lo and behold… it had a regular toilet. No light, but at least a toilet. Seemed like a fair trade.

All in all it was a good day. But my goal for this week is to come up with some sort of box of day trips… pull one out that’s where we go. Leave it to chance. Or not…

True to her word, this evening Kaitlyn asked me for a paper towel so she could walk around and pick up the rodent droppings deposited by the hamster while he spun in his exercise ball. For those who have never had the joy of a hamster in the house, they are basically pooping machines that leave little pellets everywhere… all the time.

Anyway, she picked up and washed her hands. Yes, I did have to explain to her that one does not put the towel with the tiny turds on the kitchen counter. But at least I only had to tell her once. So far.

She doesn’t pick up her Polly Pocket shoes with as much gusto as she picked up that shit. That’s one point for the rodent… minus one for the plastic girl.

We have two house guests for the next couple of weeks. A turtle and a hamster. I’d offered to sit for the hamster thinking it would help teach Kaitlyn that having a pet rodent isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. (in her mind)

They arrived yesterday afternoon. So far, Kaitlyn has tried to move the hamster into her doll house (and I don’t think she understands why I vetoed that), driven him crazy putting him into his exercise ball only to plunk him right out, drawn him a picture to hang by his cage, gone to the store to buy special treats for him (ok, I did drive there and pay for it but I did manage to talk her out of buying him a special cage one could use to tote his pet rodent around), and now she is playing hide and seek with him. Which should have me far more worried than I am that a hamster is potentially running loose in the house. But Kaitlyn isn’t screaming enough for me to think that’s the case.

Truth is, she loves that stupid thing. This plan of mine isn’t working. Maybe she’ll find the cleaning up part unbearable.

I am (re)reading “A Year in Provence” for my book club. When I first read it 15 some years ago, I found it interesting but not riveting. The only thing I remembered from that reading was the Mistral and how absolutely horrible it sounded. (The Mistral is the bitter winter wind that whips down through Provence all winter… battering everything in sight.)

I had no idea that years later, I’d end up living just outside Provence.

But, here I am.

Now, reading the book again, I have quite a different perspective.

The book doesn’t really mention the language challenges one faces living here, especially in a small town. And the cultural differences are the very things the author and his wife embrace, rather than struggle against. They don’t have a small child going to school. They aren’t working. They’ll eat just about anything… even smelly cheese.

Still, I find myself reading the book and thinking “gee, that sure sounds nice… what a pleasant lifestyle… eating big lunches cooked by little old ladies in restaurants as old as the hills… chatting with odd ball neighbors… swimming… going to markets… bicycling up the old hills… “

Then I remind myself of one thing. I do live in France. And my France seems to be a rather different France than his. Why does his sound so much more appealing?

Kaitlyn woke up this morning, all excited about going to a friend’s birthday party. The friend she makes “suffer with English.” But she didn’t have the chance. While she was in the bathtub soaking off the distinct odor of a dirty 5 year old, I started seeing spots. On Kaitlyn.

My first call was to the birthday girl’s parents to let them know we wouldn’t be there. My next call was to our doctor. Naturally, she wasn’t in today. So I called the doctor in town we’ve used. I think the woman who answered the phone said she wasn’t in today. So I called another doctor we’ve never seen before… he was in. I thought I made an appointment. He didn’t ask my name. Good enough. If I’m in the office looking sad, I’m half-way there.

I dragged Kaitlyn out (she was watching Winnie the Pooh.. apparently it was a particularly dramatic episode and she hated missing the big ending) and we found the doctor’s office. Doctor offices here are generally tucked into apartment buildings and they are not easy to spot. I went in two doors before I found the lobby with the doctor’s name among the list of residents. Faster than I expected at least.

He came into the waiting room to get us and seemed not at all surprised by having a new patient whose name he didn’t even know. I introduced myself and started to explain what was going on in French. It didn’t take too long before he started talking to me in English. Well, half French, half English. Which was the perfect compliment to my half English half French. He used one of those things you use to look in an ear to stare at each little spot on her arms, legs, belly and back. I was right. Chicken pox.

At the pharmacy to load up on creams, special soaps and medicine, Kaitlyn burst into tears about missing the party. She told me it was not a case of the chicken pox, but that it was the handy work of a swarm of mosquitoes. Clever, but I don’t think so.

The doctor said she can’t go back to school for 8 days. In 8 days, school is over. So she gets an early vacation. She’ll miss the “fete de l’ecole” Saturday… which is the big end-of-the-year party where all the kids dance then we eat bad food then the kids play frustrating carnival games. Putting it that way, I have no idea why I was looking forward to that in the first place!

She’ll also miss a sleep over she was supposed to have Saturday night. Which is annoying… since now I’m scrambling to find a babysitter! Why does mine have to be in New York having a (hopefully) good vacation!

The doctor said she’ll be even more spotted tomorrow. We’ll see how she looks. And we’ll see if I can find a sitter. One who’s already had the chicken pox.

The pool guys didn’t have as much to do this year when they opened the pool. Normally, they have to fill it about half-way, because they drain that much out for winter. Today when they took the cover off, the water was to the top. I asked if it was rain water. Yup.

I stuck my hand in and it is cold. Like ice water. Only chillier.

When Kaitlyn got home from school, she dashed to the backyard to test the water for herself. Cold? Maybe… but not too cold! She then ran to her room and changed into her bathing suit. I added her floating swim suit thing and wished her luck. She put her foot in the water. And stopped. Too cold? Oh, no. No way. Not too cold. It took her a long time to get on the ladder with the water all the way up to her knees. And she stood there for a few minutes, while the bottom half of her legs numbed completely. Finally, she leaped into the water with a squeal, splashed in a circle and climbed back out. “That water is totally cold!” She repeated this drill several times. I finally convinced her to trade in the swimming pool for the bathtub and she went inside. I wonder how many teapots of boiling water it would take to make the pool water bearable?

The sun has finally come out. It’s warm. We can put away our sweaters at long last. So with a forecast of 30 degrees for tomorrow, I figured it’s about time to call the pool guys to open the pool.

I called the same pool guys who’ve been opening and closing our pool since we moved here. I like them because, among other things, they remember who I am when I give my name and they know where I live without needing directions every time. I told them I needed to have my pool opened, and he said he could come this afternoon. This afternoon? The first sunny day in month and they could do the job right away? Sure! I told them anytime after 2. Ok. Then he said the nicest thing. He said “Vous parlez francais tres bien maintenant.” That means: you speak French well now. Granted, the first time he showed up at the house we’d only been here a couple of weeks and I could muster hello and pool. Like Tarzan. Still… it was quite a lovely compliment.

Kaitlyn and I spent the day enjoying the warm sun as we walked through the old town of Geneva. It’s really quite nice. Filled with row after row of overpriced shops. It’s the part of town the gps mistakenly led us through the other day when we first arrived. We window shopped (something Kaitlyn’s not very good at quite yet), ate lunch (she threw a fit when I said I didn’t want to eat at the one with menus that had dinosaurs on the outside), rode a carousel, wandered through a department store in search of a bathroom, got lost, took a water bus across the lake. We were busy.

Our last stop before claiming our luggage at the hotel was the American Market. Since I’d made Dad go to the English bookstore (where he napped in a chair) and to a Starbucks (where he read Kaitlyn her new book about space, often offering the comment “I didn’t know that.”), I spared him the trip to the American grocery store.

The store turned out not to be far from our hotel. (Yes, I asked the clerk.) It was past a row of strip clubs, but since it was daytime it wasn’t too bad. Kaitlyn didn’t seem to notice the pictures of naked women in the windows. The store also turned out to be small and a bit on the dingy side. Maybe that’s a neighborhood requirement. The shelves are packed with all sorts of things that I didn’t even realized we missed until I saw them: chex mix, pop tarts, sweet pickles, Stewart’s ginger beer (I should have bought more than 2 bottles). I filled two shopping bags with 115 dollars of stuff we miss.