Franglaise Mummy

Archive for the ‘Family’ Category

Hubs is away at the moment, and as I blogged about here this means that not only am I solo parenting but I also need to attempt to walk the dog on my own with L (age 6) and C (age 6 months). The solo parenting I don’t have a problem with, but trying to walk the dog with the kids is always a challenge.

So I was delighted yesterday evening when my baby brother came by on his way home from work (he lives a 10 minute walk away and we’re on his walk home from the tube station), and sat with the girls while I walked the dog. His payment? A beer or two.

Baby brother and his payment

I’m linking up with the The Gallery on the Sticky Fingers blog, where this week’s theme is Drink. Pop on over to see more drink images.

6 years ago I was a first time mother to a 5 month old baby girl and living in the south of France. I didn’t have a clue how to even begin weaning, so I looked online and discovered Baby Led Weaning (BLW), it sounded perfect – no making up tons of purées, and none of this letting my food go cold while I feed the baby.

I embraced it fully with L and even translated Gill Rapley’s report on it for our “nounou” (childminder) to help her understand this crazy Rosbif* and her strange English ways. I was so excited about it but I totally wasn’t ready for the backlash that this decision would receive. I am very lucky in that Hubs was 100% behind me and our nounou accepted this and “fed” L this way without trying to talk me out of it.

L’s first BLW meal – 6 years ago

However this support was not universal and I had to lie to my paediatrician (in France you see your paediatrician every month when you have a baby) and tell her we were weaning with purées. Wherever we went I got shocked looks, negative comments about my parenting, including one woman who asked me “are you trying to kill her?” when L was happily feeding herself courgette batons at 7 months old! Fortunately I’m pretty bloody-minded and we carried on and I’m so glad I did, from L’s earliest age we’ve shared mealtimes as a family and she understands the importance of meals as a social occasion, and now eats pretty much anything (even though she’s never had a huge appetite and prefers playing to eating!).

With C this time round, it’s 6 years on, we’re living in the UK and no one seems in the slightest bit shocked by BLW, which is a relief after having to fight so hard to do it last time. We’re only on week 1 of C’s weaning but it’s much easier this time round, maybe because I know that it’ll all be fine, maybe because I don’t have to hide the way we’re weaning or be embarrassed or apologetic for it, or maybe because things just tend to be easier second time round. Or maybe it’s simply a case of BLW being more acceptable 6 years on, as I can’t comment on how it was in the UK 6 years ago. Whatever it is I have to say that BLW is the way forwards for this family, and no, I’m not trying to kill my kids!

C’s 5th BLW meal – this week

*We call them Frogs, they call us Rosbifs.

After seeing so many people in my Twitter feed talking about this book (French children don’t throw food) and asking me if what Pamela Druckerman says is true I had to read it myself to see.

In case you don’t read this blog often and want to know if I’m qualified to comment, here’s some quick background on me:

I am a Brit, married to a Frenchman and I have two half British/half French daughters, we spent the first 3.5 years of our eldest daughter’s life in France and have been in the UK for the last nearly 3 years. In total I lived in France for 13 years and I have lived in the UK for 24 years. I should also point out that I never lived as an expat in France; I have a degree in French, I am bilingual, the majority of my friends in France are French and I had a French boyfriend for 3 years before meeting my husband of 10 years (both of which came with a French family that I became part of).

So that out of the way, here are my thoughts/feelings on the book.

Whilst it is a very interesting read and sometimes has valid points, an awful lot of the book has no truth to it with regards to the majority of France and not a tiny minority in Paris.

I read it whilst on holiday in France last summer, and staying with various French friends who have small children. I loved seeing their faces when I read snippets of it to them – they varied from horror to amusement to utter disbelief.

The book has recently come out in France and has been highly criticised as it is so far from the truth. Interestingly it is entitled “Bébé Made in France”; just the English title made my French friends laugh, as they pointed to their own toddlers throwing food on the floor whilst we were talking.

France has a real problem with “Enfants Rois” (King Child) as Druckerman talks about in her book. But she doesn’t really go into detail about this phenomenon which is getting worse and worse. My MiL is a school doctor in the Avignon region and when I told her about this book she burst out laughing as she told me about the nastiness, aggression and lack of general respect that she gets from children as young as 3 years old pretty much every day, as parents are letting them get away with murder.

So what is true and what is false and what differences are there really?

• Children in France throw food. Children in the UK throw food. There are some children in both countries that don’t, but in general this is what small children do.
• Women in France have a lot more pressure on them to go back to being “a woman” very quickly. This includes everything from weight, to general appearance, to having a social life sans bébé to returning to work soon after giving birth. French maternity leave is 16 weeks and most mums return to work within 3-6 months of having a baby.
• As most women do go back to work soon after having a baby and as childcare is so affordable (with state help) in France, it means that most French children are raised on average 4-5 full days a week by a “nounou” (childminder) or in a crèche (like a UK nursery).
• French babies on average sleep in their own cot, in their own bedroom as soon as they come home from hospital (aged around 5 days). Co-sleeping is almost unheard of and definitely frowned upon. Some parents have babies in their room with them, but nowhere near as much as in the UK and not for as long.
• French parents shout at their children. At home. In the park. In the supermarket. I have heard the following being yelled at small children in public “tu me fais chier!” (you’re pissing me off!), “tu me gonfles!” (you’re doing my head in!) and “tu continues comme ça et je t’en colle une!” (carry on doing that and I’ll give you a smack/wallop you one!) Not exactly the picture that Druckerman paints in her book.
• Our eldest daughter is 6 going on 16 at the moment, as are most of her school friends in the UK, and the other mums and I are often talking about the attitude we get from them. On a recent holiday to France I had the exact same conversation with a French friend about her 6 year old daughter. It’s the same, people!
• School on the other hand is totally different. School in France is super strict, with children being shouted at regularly and kept in place by fear, with creativity shunned and learning done by rote (French children have to learn poetry and do dictations from a young age). I remember our nounou’s 6 year old daughter being terrified one day as she’d forgotten her ruler and would get in trouble for not having it. Her mum and her plotted that she would drive home and get it, the daughter would sneak to the toilet so the mum could get it to her without the teacher knowing. Wow, great lesson in life to teach kids: lying and deceit.
• School in the UK is more relaxed, creativity is encouraged and all the teachers that L has had so far (3 different ones) have managed to keep their classes of 30 children in line through being nice but firm. I have never heard any of them raise their voices to the children. I was recently on a school trip with L’s class and it’s amazing the respect and control that their teacher was able to command.
• Druckerman talks a lot about British parents being “helicopter” parents, but I have rarely witnessed this. I have seen as much helicopter parenting in France as in the UK and I think it depends on the type of person the parent is, rather than their nationality.
• French parents are more willing to leave their babies/children at a younger age and for a longer time than British parents. As an example I went back to work 4 full days a week in France when L was 3 months old, and when she was 2 years old Hubs and I went to the Dominican Republic for 2 weeks without her, leaving her with her nounou, who she called “Tata” (Auntie) as she was so like a member of the family. I have also just left C with Hubs for the weekend so I could have a girls’ weekend with my friends from uni – she turned 6 months on Sunday. (I am still breastfeeding so simply expressed whilst away and Hubs fed her bottles in my absence.)
• From experience I would say that the French are far more open to smacking (bottoms) than the British. I don’t know anyone in France who this shocks, yet a lot of my British parent friends would never do this and frown upon those who do it.

I don’t mean this to be an attack on either France or the UK. I love both countries, have great French and British friends (most of whom are parents these days), I think that both countries have pros and cons in their parenting styles, hence us raising our children the Franglais way (taking the bits of each culture that work for us). However at the end of the day babies are babies, children are children and some will be livelier/better or worse behaved than others, I’m not sure how much culture has to do with that, I’d say it’s much more down to the child’s and parents’ personalities than anything else.

One final thing to point out, this is based on my experience which is in the southeast of England and the French Riviera and Avignon area of France. Social class also plays a big part but I have friends from quite broad social classes, encompassing cleaners, bar-tenders, secretaries, teachers, computer programmers, lawyers, managers and business-owners.

So all in all I’d say you’re probably doing a good job with your kids, whether you’re British or French or any other nationality. It’s a war zone out there and if you can make it to the end of the day in one piece then you’re doing well. French or British or other – go and celebrate that with a glass of wine! Cheers!

My perfectly behaved French child (!) looking like butter wouldn’t melt

If I can find the time (and energy) I might write my own book one of these days on my personal experiences of the differences in British vs French parenting, if you might be interested in hearing more then sign up for blog updates via RSS or email on the top right hand side of this page.

There are no words to explain how amazing a sunny bank holiday weekend in the UK is, so I’m going to use pictures instead. Here’s our fab weekend en famille in the sun:

Saturday

Saturday saw L and I heading to our local park for some long overdue one-on-one time. She hung upside down. I took photos. I don’t do swinging on climbing frames these days.

Sunday

On Sunday Hubs, L, C and I were joined by Hubs’ twin brother and girlfriend for everyone’s first visit to Kew Gardens. They lived up to everyone’s expectations and we had a wonderful, if tiring, day out soaking up nature in the sun.

Sunday

We even managed to get a rare shot of the Franglaise family, even if you can’t really see Baby C fast asleep in her carrier!

Monday

We ended our lovely long weekend with a family picnic on the Common at the end of our road (I LOVE the fact that London is littered with these amazing green spaces!). L was delighted to have all the time in the world to climb “her” tree, C drank it all in from the picnic blanket, Hubs and I chilled in the open air and even managed a bit of reading (a favourite pastime of ours).

All in all it was a simple, but perfect weekend. Amazing what a bit of sun can do.

I am linking up with the Sticky Fingers blog and The Gallery for today’s blog post, where the theme is The Weekend. If you want to see other posts about the weekend, hop on over.

Or in fact to anyone who does any solo parenting over any length of time.

Hubs was away with work for 3 days last week, and he is away again for a further 3 days this week. I don’t do solo parenting very well. I always get excited first of all at the idea of having the remote control to myself, of being able to hog the whole bed, of eating junk food in front of the TV and calling it dinner.

But then reality hits, and on top of the usual parenting malarkey, I realise that our gorgeous, yank-your-arm-out-of-its-socket-on-a-walk, dog will need taking out at least twice a day. And I’ll need to do it with a 6 year old and a 5 month old in tow.

Our energetic dog – don’t be fooled by appearances

Yesterday I couldn’t persuade L to get changed before the dog walk at 7pm, so if you saw a 6 year old, wearing a fairy dress, wings, a tiara and welly boots, pushing a 5 month old in pyjamas in a pushchair, accompanied by a stressed out, mad-eyed mummy, being dragged along by the afore-mentioned dog in south London, that would have been us.

24 hours and 2 dog walks to go until Hubs is back. And counting. Until then, pass me the remote and my crisp butty, I might as well make the most of my freedom.

Yesterday I had my cake. And I ate it. Thanks to the lovely people at Baker Days who sent me a personalised cake through the post. Yes, that’s right, I got a cake, delivered through my letterbox.

I had heard about Baker Days and their letterbox cakes on Twitter but to be honest I didn’t think they’d be up to much. Surely the dog or cats would get to it before I could? Surely it’ll get mashed up as it comes through the letterbox and hits the floor? Surely it’ll taste horrible and not fresh if it’s coming through the post?

So when Baker Days contacted me to ask me to review one of their cakes, curiosity got the better of me. Hopefully this blog post will help answer these questions and others you might have.

Baker Days make letterbox cakes (amongst other things) which, as the name suggests, are cakes that are small enough to fit through a letterbox. If you place your order by 2pm your cake will be delivered the next day, cakes can be personalised and cost from £14.99.

My cake arrived on my doormat yesterday morning.

My Baker Days cake upside down on the doormat

It landed upside down and as I was busy doing other things I didn’t go and pick it up off the doormat for a couple of hours.

Whilst our dog and cats had a good old sniff around it they were unable to get at it, so it was safe for me to eat

When I opened it up, this is what I was greeted with:

Inside the box

There is a solid metal box that has the cake inside it, in the little bag to the left are 3 balloons, a party blower thing and 2 candles with holders. You can personalise a message to go on the card on top of the box.

The tin and the other bits

Here you can see the party blower thing (what are they called??) and the tin that the cake came in. It’s actually a lovely little box which L has now adopted.

So the moment of truth, what state would it be in after coming through the post and sitting upside down on our doormat for 2 hours?

Inside the tin

It was intact! There was no way you could tell it had been upside down. Also when you open the tin there are clear instructions for getting the cake out without damaging it. As for keeping it fresh, there is some kind of “keep dry” product stuck to the lid of the tin, and it certainly seemed to do the trick.

The cake!

And here is the cake! You can personalise your cake and I decided to have an underwater photo of L put on ours as I knew it was a good quality, professional photo, I don’t know what it might look like if you used a camera phone shot, but I’m sure the people at Baker Days can advise you on that.

L was absolutely delighted when she came home from school to this, especially as I hadn’t told her about it beforehand. I happened to have a couple of mummy friends over yesterday afternoon and my cousin over for dinner yesterday evening, so all in all 5 of us tasted it (Hubs is away at the moment so missed out this time round!) and the verdict was positive. It tasted fresh and actually very good. Baker Days chose a carrot cake for me which was very tasty indeed.

We all agreed that it was a great idea as a present (L, who is 6, absolutely loved it!) and a good alternative to something like flowers as there is no need to be home to receive it.

Having been very sceptical about the whole idea I have been totally won over and would definitely recommend it, I will also probably use this service in the future for birthdays or thank yous.

Just as an aside, Hubs thinks the expression “have your cake and eat it” is the most ridiculous saying ever, so this title is especially for him! For those wondering what the equivalent is in French, it’s “tu ne peux pas avoir le beurre et l’argent du beurre” which means “you can’t have the butter and the money for the butter”, which does make a bit more sense.

Disclaimer: Baker Days provided Franglaise Mummy with a free cake in return for this honest review. All opinions are my own.

If you would like Franglaise Mummy to review a product for you, don’t hesitate to drop me a line.

Baby C is 5 months old today so I feel it’s time to finally share her birth story with the world. Warning: Long birth story containing too much information for those of a sensitive nature.

It took me less than an hour to give birth to C, according to my hospital notes, and it took us all a bit by surprise.

So let’s rewind a bit before I go into C’s birth story….My due date arrived and I turned up to the hospital with a baby tucked up in the warm still, I was examined, given a sweep and sent home. The midwife didn’t seem to think that the sweep would do much as I wasn’t looking overly ready to give birth.

That was the Friday morning. Friday came and went. Saturday came and went with no labour-like signs at all. Even the Braxton Hicks that I’d been having for about 4 weeks had disappeared. So Hubs and I decided that he would finally get to go and see Skyfall at the cinema on the Sunday with my brother (I’d been making them put it off for about 3 weeks as I kept thinking the baby was coming!), whilst L and I watched Madagascar 3 in another screen at the same cinema.

Just as we parted ways at the cinema I felt a very strange sensation, so popped to the toilet and discovered that what I thought had been a show in the last few days had been nothing, as this was a very clear show. I got to our screen and decided to text Hubs to warn him, but I knew if I texted “I’ve just had a show” he wouldn’t have a clue what I was talking about, so I texted “I’ve just lost my mucous plug”. The reply I got back was hilarious “What? In the cinema? Can you find it?”!! I’m not sure he had any idea what I was talking about. Once he realised what it was he freaked out a bit, but I reassured him that I had no other signs, so he could sit back and enjoy the 3 hours of his film!

Nothing happened during the film fortunately, and that evening I suggested we have curry and red wine to see if that might encourage anything to keep going/get properly started. I enjoyed them but didn’t feel that they’d done anything when I went to bed.

Around 2am I woke up with a contraction, but because that had happened so many times before with Braxton Hicks, I was annoyed rather than excited. I dozed until around 4am when I couldn’t sleep anymore as I was getting painful but irregular contractions. So I did what any other expectant mother would do, and I tweeted it to see if it could be labour. You’ve got to love Twitter, within 5 minutes (at 4am!) I got several replies from mums saying they’d had irregular contractions right up to their babies being born.

Right, time to take things seriously. I opened up my contractions app (loving the new technology since L’s birth in 2006) and started tracking them. 30 minutes apart. 12 minutes apart. 23 minutes apart. As my mum and dad were going to drive over for the birth (90 minutes’ drive into London) I sent my mum a text at 6am, “Morning! I’m having irregular but painful contractions and I’m having to control my breathing through them, it’s your call if you come now or not as you know more about this stuff than me.” Mum is a nurse, a trained midwife and has had 5 kids, while I had had one baby which I was induced for, so didn’t have a clue what “real” labour was like.

In less than a minute Mum called me, waking Hubs and confusing him as he hadn’t realised anything was going on. Whilst talking to Mum I had to stop talking to breathe through a contraction, at which point she said “I think we’ll get dressed and come up soon.”

Hubs was convinced it was a false alarm, as I’d already had Mum and Dad up for Braxton Hicks once before. We lay in bed until around 7.30am, trying to figure out if these were real contractions or more Braxton Hicks, at which point I got Hubs to get L up and ready for school while I had a bath to see if that made them go away or not.

When I got out of the bath the contractions were stronger, longer and every 10 minutes or so. I went downstairs in my dressing gown to have some breakfast and ended up eating peanut butter on toast whilst holding on to the table and rocking my hips to ease the pain. L must think this is normal behaviour as she didn’t bat an eyelid!

Around quarter to nine my parents arrived, and my contractions suddenly jumped to every 2 minutes. Mum took one look at me and sent me upstairs to get dressed while Hubs took L to school. At 9.05am we were in Dad’s (new) car on our way through London’s Monday morning rush hour traffic, with me mooing in the back and Mum fanning me and passing me water; Hubs was in the front cracking jokes while Dad kept looking anxiously at me in the rear view mirror, I’m not sure if he was more worried about my waters breaking/giving birth in his car or about the pain his daughter was in.

We pulled up outside the hospital at 9.30am and it took us until 9.46am (my official check-in time) to make it up to the maternity department and to get checked in. All I remember is stopping and starting my contractions app and holding onto walls in the hospital, hip-rocking and mooing. At this stage my contractions were coming thick and fast every minute.

It took the midwife 15 minutes to do an initial check of me as she kept having to stop when I had contractions. All I could think was “this baby is coming very soon, I must be about 8cm by now”. Can you imagine my disappointment when she told me I was just 4cm and that it would probably take another 4 hours or so?!?

I had been saying I wanted to give birth in the midwife-led suite with no drugs etc, but when I heard I was only 4cm I turned to my mum and said “there’s no way I’m carrying on like this, I’m going to need an epidural”, or something to that effect, probably with a few swear words thrown in for good measure!

Mum looked at me knowingly, nodding her head and saying “let’s just see”. She had warned me beforehand that the women in our family tend to do very quick births with labour being jumped through, but I couldn’t really compute that at the time.

Some time after 10am I was escorted into a delivery suite, I vaguely remember a midwife introducing herself but I think I had my eyes closed most of the time. I had bought a comfy new outfit to labour in, had brought hairbands to keep my hair out of my eyes etc but that all went out of the window as everything was so fast and furious.

I was leaning on the edge of the bed as I couldn’t face lying down at all, and all I could do was bark instructions at Hubs and Mum: “Water!”, “Fan!”, “Sick bag!” The most I managed to get out was to yell at the midwife “Get off my back” as she kept putting her hand on my lower back which was where the pain was.

I really felt like I wanted to push but all I could think was “you don’t push at 4cm, you’re crazy”. Finally I said to the room at large, “I need to push!” and the midwife warned Hubs that as I wasn’t on the bed he’d need to be prepared to catch the baby as it came out. The thought that flashed through my mind was “he’ll never manage that, he’ll let the poor thing crash to the floor on its head”.

Around this time the midwife asked if my waters had broken yet, and it was only then that I realised they hadn’t, so she told me I could push, and lo and behold, there went my waters, all over the floor in the delivery suite – taking Hubs a bit by surprise (Mum and the midwife seemed unfazed by this).

The midwife then decided she wanted to examine me and got me up on the bed, on my knees as there was no way I was lying on my back. Then I was given the green light to do what I needed to do, so I pushed like I’d never pushed before.

I was convinced when I had L, that even though I’d had an epidural, that I’d felt the pain of labour as I could feel when to push with the contractions. I can safely say that was a big, fat lie. I had no paracetamol or anything for C’s birth, in fact the gas and air arrived just as I started pushing and I ended up breathing through my nose and just clamping down on the tube in my mouth. I certainly felt this baby coming into the world! And was she ever ready to get here!

In 5 minutes of pushing (L came after 12 minutes of pushing) she arrived on the bed, but as I was knelt up against the back of the bed I couldn’t see anything, and no one said anything. My baby was here, but was it a boy or a girl? I asked “What is it?” and finally Hubs announced “It’s a girl”. And that’s when the (happy) tears came.

She had come out with the cord wrapped around her neck and was distressed (medical speak for there being meconium in the waters) so they kept an eye on us, but she was healthy and I was fine (apart from the minor case of second degree tearing of course!), and L had the baby sister she had wanted for so long.

So all in all my official labour on my hospital notes is 59 minutes, and I went from 4cm to fully dilated in less than half an hour, with 4cm to delivery in just a mere 45 minutes. Not bad work by 10.45am on a Monday morning!

I’m not sure my English birth could have been more different to my French birth (which you can read about here), but the most important thing in both cases was the safe delivery of my beautiful baby girls

This post is dedicated to my cool, calm and collected Dad for getting me to the hospital without freaking out, to my amazing Mum for being my other midwife (I loved having you there this time, Mum), and most of all to Hubs for being there and still wanting to be with me after seeing me in that state!

It was so worth it.

20 minutes old – first breastfeed

Skin-on-skin with Papa

Feeling better after a shower, 4 hours later

First official photo, 6 hours old

I don’t know about you but time just seems to be flying for me at the moment, which means it’s hard to find the time to tell the important people in our lives how we feel. So in honour of Mothers’ Day I have written a letter to my mum, to say all the things that I don’t take the time to say.

Dear Mum,

I suppose the main aim of this letter is to say thank you. I always knew you were a fab mum, when growing up you taught me “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again”, when you always encouraged me to be the best I can and to follow my dreams, when you listened to what was going on at my 15 and 16 year old parties without judging, when you let me have totally unsuitable boyfriends so I could figure out for myself what worked and what didn’t, when you took me to hospital (on your day off from being a nurse) to have my broken arm fixed after falling down some stairs drunk and you comforted me in my hungover and nil by mouth state, when you accepted with no reproach, criticism or negativity my decision to move to France even though it was hard on you, and so much more. But I really discovered quite how amazing a mum you are when I became one too.

In 2006 I gave birth to L, in a foreign country and in a foreign language. You had been staying with us for 2 weeks around my due date, but had to fly back home empty-handed when L refused to be born, only to fly back a few days later when she was finally born, for a 24 hour visit. That meant so much to me.

Over the last 6 years I have come to realise more and more what a great mum you were to us when we were younger, and what an amazing mum you still are to me now as I need you in a different way (not to mention what a fab grandma you are too!). I have two children who I love more than words can say, but who can also drive me crazy at times, but you, you had 5 children over a 10 year period and you didn’t even get to escape to work like I do. How did you do that and stay sane?!? I have no recollection of you attempting to kill us, but you must have wanted to so often!

You were, and still are, so selfless as a mum, far more than I have ever been with my own children, yet you have kept your own identity and although you are “Mum”, to me you will also always be a nurse, a bereavement counsellor, an NCT counsellor, someone who does yoga, plays badminton, squash, swims, reads and who instilled in me that I can be who I want to be, regardless of my gender.

Whilst I wouldn’t call you a feminist you taught me that gender has nothing to do with what is achievable in life, or who should play what roles, raising your sons and daughters identically whether it be regarding goals in life or chores around the house.

The most special moment in our relationship came in November last year when you were present at the birth of your 5th grandchild and my second child, not only were you helpful and knowledgeable (I suppose that having 5 children and being a nurse and trained midwife count for something in these situations!) but you were also a calming influence during this high speed labour! Thanks for bringing a fan to the hospital too – I didn’t realise I’d need one!

Thank you again for being the best mum anyone could hope for, if I manage to be even a quarter of the mum you are to my daughters then I will be happy.

Happy Mothers’ Day!

Lots of love,
Sophie

The start of it all – Mum with me as a baby

We’ve recently got back from our first family ski holiday to the French Alps. Hubs learnt to ski when he was 3 and was doing competition skiing by the age of 10. He is a God on skis. End of. I, on the other hand, “learnt” to ski in my early twenties after moving to France (where EVERYONE seems to ski), a good 15 years later I still look like Bambi, in slow motion, as I attempt to come down the slopes.

Despite that fact, for the last 3 years I have been saying we should have a family ski holiday so L can learn to ski while she’s young enough to not have The Fear. Finally 2013 is that year. L is now 6 and I’m glad to say we haven’t left it too late.

Our week was amazing with Hubs and L bonding on the slopes every afternoon, just the two of them, doing something they’re both passionate about. While they were doing that I was chilling with C and doing baby things, but also reading and doing a bit of writing for this poorly abandoned blog while she slept.

This is the summary of our first family ski holiday:

• L learnt to ski, has no fear, loves it and skis like a little champion. Proud mummy moment.
• C learnt to roll over from her tummy to her back. Not quite so momentous, but equally exciting and proud mummy moment. (Also scared mummy moment as that means we’re getting closer to a mobile baby and I can still remember the absolute joy of that from when L was little!)
• I ate my body weight in cheese and charcuterie, but surely that’ll all be burnt off by breast-feeding, non?
• Hubs totally chilled out, switched off from work, skied about 1000 miles and spent the whole week bursting with pride over his daughters’ accomplishments.
• L also caught us out on the second night by pulling a tooth out that was only starting to wobble, leaving it on the bedside table and not telling us as she wanted to surprise us with a coin from the tooth fairy (La Petite Souris in France) in the morning. Eek! Cue some quick thinking from Mummy in the morning when the tooth had not been taken and the coin had not appeared.
• We also used these holidays to work on L’s French; her ski lessons were in French, we only spoke in French and met up with various French friends. We also decided to do some French reading with her, now that she’s pretty solid with her English reading. We were playing a game and she had to pronounce the French word “lapin” (rabbit), however she pronounced it “la pine” which means “dick” in French. On seeing her parents in uncontrolled fits of laughter she decided to shout this louder and louder. In France. Where everyone could understand her. Ah the joys of bilingual children! (We didn’t tell her what it meant.)

It was a ridiculously expensive holiday and may mean we have no other holidays this year, but I don’t regret it one bit, as it was an absolutely fab family break, even if my 6 year old now puts me to shame on the slopes. At least I can roll over better than my 3 month old!

Franglaise family chilling in the French Alps

Wow! I haven’t blogged in ages. Since just before going from being pregnant to a mummy of 2! So hopefully I can be excused for being lax on the blog as I’ve been too busy being a mummy to my two wonderful children.

For those of you who don’t follow me on Facebook or Twitter, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl on Monday 12th November. This time round it was an all natural – and incredibly fast – birth, and C was born at 10.45am, weighing 3.2kg /7lb (more on the birth story to come in a later post).

Hubs, L and I couldn’t be happier – L in particular as she was desperate to have a baby sister.

Proud daddy of 2

Hubs with C when she was about 5 hours old.

Proud big sister

L with C when she was about 7 hours old.

Proud mummy of 2

Me with C when she was about 7 hours old.