petite anglaise

‘Look at my big nichons mummy,’ Tadpole shrieks, fingering her (papier mâché) breasts.

It is 10.30 am on Saturday morning and Mr Frog and I have come to watch Tadpole’s annual school carnival, while The Boy, not wishing to step over any invisible lines, remains at home. This year the children are all dressed up as works of art and the overall effect is a joyous riot of colour. The costumes, made out of stiff paper, are worn like pinafores, covering the children’s clothes and turning them into walking sandwich boards. As we stand at the edge of the school playground, behind improvised police-tape style barriers, rubbing sleep from our eyes, the children file past hand in hand.

Tadpole, unable to keep a secret, had whispered to me weeks earlier that the costume she was making was a Niki de Saint Phalle sculpture. I’d recognised most of the names she’d been bandying about over the past few weeks - ‘we did a painting just like Pollock mummy, we put the paint on the paintbrush and then did throw it in splodges onto the paper’ or ‘I did a picture of a lady with a very wide face, just like Fernando Bottero’ - but Saint Phalle was not a name I was familiar with. ‘I’m going to be a sculpture,’ explained Tadpole helpfully, as I waited for the relevant page to power up on Wikipedia. ‘A sculpture of a lady with great big nipples and a big fat bottom wearing a swimming costume.’

It was The Boy who, at the mention of Niki de Saint Phalle, pointed out that the fountains in place Igor Stravinsky, in the shadow of the Centre Pompidou are Saint Phalle sculptures. I knew them well, but never would have put two and two together.

‘Shall we go on the métro on an adventure?’ I suggest to Tadpole on Sunday afternoon.

‘Ooh yes, I love the métro,’ she replies, darting across the room to fetch her shoes. If only everyone were so easy to please.

When we reach our destination, Tadpole shrieks with delight and I catch The Boy’s eye, silently thanking him for coming up with the idea. We make several tours of the huge rectangular bassin, Tadpole racing on ahead, examining each sculpture in turn, trying to decide which one she likes best. My personal favourite is the reclining mermaid with water squirting out of one huge, multicoloured breast, but Tadpole is just as amused by the huge pair of lips, the spinning bowler hat, the Elmer-like Elephant and the majestic crowned bird, wings spread, reminiscent of a Mayan condor god. We take a few snaps of Tadpole, posing by the sculptures, squinting into the sun and grinning like the Cheshire cat.

When the skies darken and the first raindrops fall, we hurry into the Marais to find a restaurant where we can grab a bite to eat. Tadpole doodles on the back of a napkin with a biro unearthed from the bottom of my handbag.

Elbows on the table, chin cupped in my hands, I look from The Boy to Tadpole and back again, marvelling at how simple and how right everything feels.

For Gonzales (aka fella?).

Tadpole has a Chinese classmate called Evelyne. Evelyne didn’t start the moyenne section in September with the rest of the class. Her name was on the register from day one, but she only arrived shortly after the Christmas holidays.

Every schoolday, when I stumble down the hill to drop off Tadpole, jeans and a jumper hastily thrown on over my silk nuisette, bed hair crying out for a comb, we are greeted by the same sorry sight. Evelyne, crying inconsolably in the arms of Tadpole’s teacher, her eyes tightly closed as though she wants to make the world, or herself, disappear.

“Why is Evelyne so sad?” I ask Tadpole.

“Well,” Tadpole replies. “La Maîtresse says that she was nice in China and she doesn’t want to visit Paris. She doesn’t know how to speak French. She speaks always Chinese and she doesn’t understand us.”

“Perhaps you could try saying some words to her in Chinese,” I suggest. “It might make her feel better if she sees you are being friendly…”

Tadpole has been attending a Chinese class after school once a week since September. It’s a very informal affair, where she seems to eat more Chinese sweets than anything else, but that’s fine by me, because it’s just supposed to be a fun activity, and a way of helping her to understand the culture of many of the children in her class. Aside from being able to say “hello”, “goodbye” or “thank you”, she doesn’t seem to have retained a great deal, so far. I’m grateful for those few words, however, when we take a seat in one of our favourite Belleville haunts and Tadpole mounts a charm offensive on our unsuspecting Chinese waiter. Speedy, attentive service is guaranteed once Tadpole has wrapped the staff around her little finger.

Her repertoire of songs in Mandarin, on the other hand, is pretty impressive, even if she can be somewhat vague about the meaning of what she is singing. In the Tadpolecast which follows, there are three songs, and here is what I was able to glean:

1) “It talks about two tigers. One of the tigers has only one eye. The other has no tail. Or maybe it’s one tiger with one eye and no tail. I can’t remember, mummy.”

2) “It’s about a pair of ducks. The fisherman is fishing for them.” (No doubt they end up crispy? Yum.)

3) The first bit means “I dance, I dance” and the second bit means “I sing, I sing.”

Enjoy!

Tadpole came back from “daddy’s house” this weekend singing an unfamiliar song, over and over again. The tune sounded consistent, but the lyrics a little approximative in places (including a reference to ketchup which I strongly suspected had no business being there whatsoever).

By way of explanation, Mr Frog emailed me a link to a youtube video of France Gall singing her 1965 Eurovision winning, Gainsbourg-penned Poupée de cire, poupée de son.

I couldn’t possibly have felt more like a stage mum last night in my bathroom recording studio, my MacBook balanced on my knees. Tadpole squinted at the lyric sheet I’d pulled off the internet and sang her heart out, occasionally adding a little splash for dramatic effect. Once she’d gone to bed, I began the editing process and shuddered to hear how very bossy I sounded as I attempted to squeeze the very best performance out of my very own singing doll. Move over Lynne Spears…

So fascinated is Tadpole by Miss Gall (a teen star/singing puppet when ‘Poup�e’ was recorded) that she clicked on several of the links on the Youtube page (under my strict supervision, of course, as I’m sure you could get from “princess” to “porn” in under five lateral clicks) and unearthed the controversial Les Sucettes.

Now, I’m aware of the fact that, at the time of its release, children sang this hit song in playgrounds all over France, oblivious to Gainsbourg’s blindingly obvious double entendres. France Gall herself claimed to have no idea whatsover that she was singing about fellatio.

But when Tadpole began singing along with Miss Gall I must admit that I clicked away, long before we got to the part about barley sugar running down her throat and sending her to seventh heaven.

“Let’s sing Poupée de Cire” again,” I said hastily. “Mummy likes that one better.”

Tadpole's own composition/improvisation - and no, I don't understand all the lyrics either.

I go to a village pub in Norfolk!!!

While I’m busy, please listen to the following message from our sponsors:

After a bumper post-bathtime recording session yesterday, I now have enough Tadpole tracks laid down to launch her musical career. Better get her myspace page up quick smart. In the meantime, however, I’ll be rationing her songs over several Fridays.

The first in the series “il était un petit chat” is a charming song with a sensible message (cats must listen to their parents) which is sung in the archaic past historic tense. A tense never spoken, only written, which my A Level teacher said there was no point actually learning as long as I was able to recognise it.

Almost every French library book Tadpole has brought home from the school library has been written in the past historic tense, however, a fact which I find perplexing. Verb conjugations are tough enough at the best of times (”papa j’ai ouvri la porte!”) without learning tenses which mummy doesn’t even know.

Enjoy.

I didn’t think to send a letter to Father Chrismas this year with Tadpole’s requests, largely because the only desire she has expressed is for a château fort avec des chevaliers, something which she saw in a window display at Galeries Lafayette after her gifts had already been purchased. Hopefully a turquoise velvet medieval style Princess dress will satisfy her instead.

At school, however, I discovered that a copy of the class photo has been stuck on the wall outside Tadpole’s classroom with an arrow pointing to each child and a little bubble saying what they would like from Père Noël.

Zino would like a bicycle.
Clara is hankering after a Barbie doll.
Natalie is dreaming of a Dora the explorer backpack.

I locate my daughter, grinning cheesily on the back row of the photo next to Jules, and follow the arrow to the corresponding bubble. I stifle a giggle. Tadpole’s dearest wish is apparently to receive un éléphant.

“Sweetie,” I say (but not in an AbFab kind of way, you understand), “I don’t think papa noël will be able to fit an elephant in his sleigh. There wouldn’t be enough room for all the other children’s presents…”

“But mummy,” replies Tadpole, “of course he can. It’s a MAGIC sleigh!”

Oh well. I tried. I should probably be grateful that it will be Mr Frog and his parents who will have to explain to her on Christmas morning (or more likely the evening of the 24th if they do it the French way) that elephants were out of stock this year.

For Tadpole’s sake, I am valiantly struggling to make Christmas feel special.

As with all treats, like a trip to see grandma and grandad, or mamie et papy, or even just the prospect of a weekend with daddy, I enjoy whetting her appetite, watching her excitement build every time I mention it, until, finally, she reaches fever pitch. Because my own childhood memories suggest that it’s the anticipation of the event which is often the best part.

So, on Sunday, despite a mild hangover, I braved the department stores of the Boulevard Haussmann so that Tadpole could marvel at the Christmas windows. Her little ooh’s and aah’s of delight were almost worth the stranger danger terror each time I lost her pigtails from sight for a few heart-stalling seconds. The windows at Galeries Lafayette and Printemps have cunning little boardwalks erected in front of them, you see, and you are expected to dispatch your little darling onto the steps at one end, then wade through the sea of frazzled parents, stacked approximately ten deep from windows to edge of pavement, and intercept your child at the other end. There are some activities which are much more difficult as a single parent, and this most definitely qualifies.

On Monday I heaved a rather soggy Christmas tree home, a fine mist of drizzle making it difficult to see much through my glasses, and causing me to bump into several fellow pedestrians. After some head scratching, I finally remembered that my Christmas decorations had been safely stowed in Mr Frog’s cellar when I moved apartments. Once these had been duly recovered, Tadpole helped me to hang the stars and tinsel - breaking only two paper-thin baubles - and her gasp when I switched on the lights gave me all the validation I needed for spending € 25 at the florist’s for a tree which doesn’t even come up to Tadpole’s forehead.

The presents I cunningly ordered two or three weeks ago arrived from Eveil et Jeux by post yesterday. Or rather, I collected them from the local post office, where unbeknown to me they had been sitting for the past week. I dashed home to wrap them immediately, so that if they were accidentally found, the surprises would remain intact. There are only so many hiding places a 33m2 apartment can afford, and a single game of hide and seek could all too easily throw the whole enterprise into jeopardy.

Our Christmas cards - featuring a festive Tadpole wearing antlers as per usual - were written, signed (both by me and by Tadpole) and posted two days ago. Hopefully the old antlers have a few years mileage in them yet, before Tadpole reaches for a telephone to call the French equivalent of Childline.

It would appear, on the surface, that everything is in place.

And yet, somehow, my heart just isn’t in the whole thing. Whatever we do, it feels as though something, or someone is missing. An extra pair of eyes at the grands magasins, an extra pair of hands helping me to drag the tree home from the florists and hang the decorations, another person to help me choose and wrap the gifts.

There is a Mr Frog shaped hole in our Christmas preparations.

Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I want to rekindle the flame with Mr Frog. It’s just that there’s something about Christmas which makes me yearn for his presence alongside us. Watching Tadpole’s delight alone is only half as exciting as watching it with him. Instead of catching his eye and exchanging gleeful smiles, I must content myself with sending pictures and short “guess what she’s done now!” texts to his mobile. It’s not the same.

I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion that there are some parental pleasures which need to be shared in order to be fully appreciated.

I caught Tadpole singing this rather disturbing little song this evening in the bath, which mamie apparently taught her. It’s rather a coincidence that she should sing it now, as St Catherine’s day is on November 25th.

A Catherinette, according to French tradition, is a woman who has reached the ripe old age of twenty five and remains unmarried and “pure”, as St Catherine herself is the patron saint of unmarried girls. At thirty-four, I am not only long past my sell by date, but an unmarried mother to boot, so I regret that I won’t be donning green and yellow headgear on the day of my fête.

Dodo Dinette,
Saint Catherinette,
Endormez-moi cet enfant,
jusqu’à l’âge de vingt ans.
Quand elle aura vingt ans sonné,
on pourra la marier!

Tadpole has been going to school in Belleville for less than a month, and she is already speaking the language of the ‘hood, apparently.

I would like to point out that the distinctly meaty sniff you will hear was courtesy of my daughter.

Something tells me 34 is going to be the perfect age…

After two whole weeks in the provinces with mamie and papy, Tadpole has returned, albeit in her French incarnation. Singing songs I have never heard before. Reciting the alphabet, in French. And, somewhat randomly, obsessed with camels.

Over dinner this evening, as I attempted to shovel a forkful of green beans (frozen, bad mummy) into her mouth, she nearly made me fall off my (ikea, child’s) chair when she said:

“Maman, comment on dit dromadaire en anglais?”

a rossignol, a princess and a tower

alphabet city

A Tadpole is for life, not just for Christmas.