Never in my life, despite years of swimming outdoors, in the rain, in the wind, in the morning fog in Southern California -- did I ever have an ear infection this bad.
One morning last week, just out of bed, a pain started in my left ear. I thought I had just slept on it funny. But I went to work and it would not go away. My French colleague told me to take an Ibuprofen and to go see a doctor as soon as possible. I laughed at the time, but took her advice later when the Ibuprofen wore off.
My doctor took a quick look and diagnosed it as an otite exterieur. She sent me away with Ibuprofen and ear drops that contained antibiotics and cortizone.
Next day, no change. I call her. The pain is pretty bad. Is it OK if I take Paracetamol in between doses of Ibuprofen? Oui. OK. Another day passes. The pain was not going away. I call her. You said on the prescription that I would only need 2 days of Ibuprofen. Now we're going onto 3 days. Faut etre patiente. OK. The weekend comes and goes. For me, it crawled by because I was houseridden and I was holding my ear most of the time. Sunday night rolls around. I stop taking the painkillers just to see how my ear is doing. It is hard not to grimace every 30 seconds. My son thinks I am dying and he says he wants to cry for me. I joke with him and he relaxes. But it is not really funny. I resolve to complain to my doctor next morning in the strongest French tones I can manage.
So she sent me to an ear-nose-throat specialist last Monday, who said I have an otite serreuse labyrinthine, or something to that effect. She seemed excited to have such an advanced case. Her excitement made me feel kind of useful, in a scientific kind of way. But then she gave me a hearing test and said I lost 60% of the hearing in my left ear. She did not seem terribly optimistic that I will get it back, or at least, not all of it. Super. I'm going to be partially deaf.
She gave me 6 different drugs to take and one nose-spray. Usually I am quite wary of pill-popping. But now that I'm a bit desperate, I've left all caution to the wind.
Speaking of wind. The French believe it's the wind that causes les otites. Our French granny Memere Monique believes kids get sick because of air circulating in one's home. She can often be heard saying, "Y'a un courant d'air!" (There is a wind tunnel!) and then off she scurries to shut all the doors. French moms cover their children's ears and necks like there are ghosts in the wind that could tear off their heads. I do not know if this wind theory is urban legend or if there is some truth in it. What is true is there are many winds here and particularly in our region, there is one that always seems to be blowing.
I have a colleague who comes from Morocco who lost 80% of his hearing (in one ear) due to an otite four years ago. That is crazy. He is a full-grown person, his only crime was not to wear a hat with earflaps. Us poor foreigners, we don't know about French winds. We come and settle in your beautiful country and think it's nice and warm, let's uncover our heads, and then it's all too horribly late.
Currently, I can hear my breathing. Like I'm scuba diving. I hear my ear pop a little when I swallow (an improvement). But when I talk, I hear my voice as an echo from the other side of a long, dark cave.
I have a followup appointment with the specialist next Monday. Let's hope...
We spent New Year's in Perpignan, where it got up to 18 C (65 F)
Thursday, 12 January 2012
Monday, 14 November 2011
Testing, testing... 1,2,3...
This is an attempt to write.
I haven’t written for years. I feel the muscles in my brain flail, the synapses firing without much response. A long, dull echo – nobody’s home.
Where have I been all this time? Moving to London, meeting my husband, getting married, changing jobs, getting pregnant, breastfeeding for eleven months, imagining our children growing up in London and getting depressed, moving to France, learning French, getting settled, making friends, moving again, getting pregnant again, breastfeeding again, and not wanting to work but finding a job. Now where? Making adjustments. I can be called responsible, I suppose, for a full-time, energetic family of four where I am supposed to be the wife/mother/lover/cook/cleaner.
Life has changed. I blinked, and here I am.
I still dream of New York, but from ten years ago. We danced swing until midnight at Windows of the World. Exhausted, taking off my shoes and wandering around the 107th floor. Finding a full-length window opening straight into the bright night sky and watching my toes only an inch away from the edge of that Tower. Then one day, we watched it fall. We cried together, over sushi, on Sept 14th. We heard people chanting to unnamed gods in Union Square Park. We tried to pray. I walked through the empty streets until my legs ached. The smoke cleared. Wall Street moved uptown. I made a deal with the bank, packed up my rabbit and left in December.
My dreams always take me to a suburb of Los Angeles, where there is a house on a street I once knew. Then I’m driving on a freeway that dumps me at the beach. It is blackest night, so I hear the waves but cannot see them. The sound is so close, I think I’ve driven into the water.
The tide pushes me, pulls me, and pushes me back. It is my little boy’s warm body climbing into bed with me, pushing and shoving so he can have some of the covers. He kisses my cheek and says “Maman.” His little hands find mine. My husband snores softly. It’s Saturday morning. We have nothing planned. Then the alarm goes off – our baby, with her lusty cry. I gather her up and make her milk, along with my morning tea. Yawning Hubbie kisses everyone and prepares breakfast. Mom calls and says she’s coming for Christmas. My son opens the shutters, and the sun comes streaming in.
I haven’t written for years. I feel the muscles in my brain flail, the synapses firing without much response. A long, dull echo – nobody’s home.
Where have I been all this time? Moving to London, meeting my husband, getting married, changing jobs, getting pregnant, breastfeeding for eleven months, imagining our children growing up in London and getting depressed, moving to France, learning French, getting settled, making friends, moving again, getting pregnant again, breastfeeding again, and not wanting to work but finding a job. Now where? Making adjustments. I can be called responsible, I suppose, for a full-time, energetic family of four where I am supposed to be the wife/mother/lover/cook/cleaner.
Life has changed. I blinked, and here I am.
I still dream of New York, but from ten years ago. We danced swing until midnight at Windows of the World. Exhausted, taking off my shoes and wandering around the 107th floor. Finding a full-length window opening straight into the bright night sky and watching my toes only an inch away from the edge of that Tower. Then one day, we watched it fall. We cried together, over sushi, on Sept 14th. We heard people chanting to unnamed gods in Union Square Park. We tried to pray. I walked through the empty streets until my legs ached. The smoke cleared. Wall Street moved uptown. I made a deal with the bank, packed up my rabbit and left in December.
My dreams always take me to a suburb of Los Angeles, where there is a house on a street I once knew. Then I’m driving on a freeway that dumps me at the beach. It is blackest night, so I hear the waves but cannot see them. The sound is so close, I think I’ve driven into the water.
The tide pushes me, pulls me, and pushes me back. It is my little boy’s warm body climbing into bed with me, pushing and shoving so he can have some of the covers. He kisses my cheek and says “Maman.” His little hands find mine. My husband snores softly. It’s Saturday morning. We have nothing planned. Then the alarm goes off – our baby, with her lusty cry. I gather her up and make her milk, along with my morning tea. Yawning Hubbie kisses everyone and prepares breakfast. Mom calls and says she’s coming for Christmas. My son opens the shutters, and the sun comes streaming in.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
The Quiche that Kicked my Butt, or Je Suis Une Quiche
Last month, to celebrate the change of season and all the nice produce that comes with it, I wanted to cook something supremely autumnal: le cèpe. A cèpe is a mushroom that reaches giant proportions in forests in France. As the French seem to love this mushroom, I thought it would be a good idea to cook some up for my inlaws, who were coming for the weekend to celebrate my mother-in-law's birthday.
So I went online to my favorite French recipe website and found a recipe for quiche aux cèpes. Perfect, I thought. A quiche. This will be easy peasey.
The recipe called for four big cèpes. Hubbie picked up some impressive ones from our local LeClerq supermarket. With a very serious expression he said, "Do you know how much they cost? [Dramatic pause.] Over six euros EACH." I stuck them in the fridge as he muttered, "It better be a good quiche."
The next morning, I started to prepare my ingredients. Suddenly, while watching me turning over the cèpes with a quizzical expression, Hubbie became filled with fear and told me to wait while he googled how to handle the mushroom.
How to handle the --? But it's a mushroom, for crying out loud! Okay okay, I'll wait until you find some guidelines.
Little did we know what a pandora's box that would open.
First of all, we should not have put the mushrooms in the fridge. Not sure why, but that's what several people said.
Secondly, we should not have picked cèpes that have greenish spores. Looking under the caps of our four benign-looking cèpes, we saw two had greenish spores. Perhaps they turned green in the fridge, I suggested. Hubbie shrugged. At any rate, the spores need to be taken off before you cook the 'shrooms. This I did with no problem.
Thirdly, big cèpes are most always home to a few maggots. Maggots??? Yes, maggots. I shivered. Again proceeding as recommended, we wrapped the 'shrooms in cling film, turned them upside down and waited for the worms to come gasping out. We waited twenty minutes, and...
Nothing.
The pressure was mounting. What to do? ETA of the inlaws: one hour. Hubbie found additional advice, which we followed without reflection. We were asked to exhale into the plastic so as to reduce the breathable air for the worms. We waited another twenty minutes. About two nearly-strangled worms came wriggling out onto the plastic of one mushroom. No worms came out of the others.
What to do? I got a creeping suspicion there were more worms to be found. Putting on my sushi-chef/samurai/extremely anal attitude, I decided to go ahead and chop them up, examining each piece to annihilate each and every worm in my precious cèpes.
Gone was my ever optimistic, over-confident assumption that cèpes were as wonderfully tame as your friendly button mushrooms.
I worked on three mushrooms until they looked like they had been butchered by a madwoman. Finally, I sheathed my sword. Looking at the score, I had pried out about six worms from each cèpe. Yes, six! It's the stuff of nightmares, believe you me.
Then, I came to the last mushroom.
It looked like a white sponge. There were holes all over it. And now that I had three cèpes under my belt, I knew that did not bode well.
That is when it hit me. How far was I willing to go for taste? The Japanese risk their lives eating blowfish. Would I risk my life serving maggoty mushrooms to my mother-in-law?
I cut up the last mushroom, just as an experiment, without the slightest hope of it being edible. Of course, each hole in its white flesh meant that a worm had marked its path. It was infested. I shivered and started feeling itchy.
What could I do? I thanked heaven we had at least three good cèpes. The recipe then called for a few champignons de Paris (button mushrooms). Whew, I could relax.
Little did I know, my kitchen blunders had not ended there. The quiche was in the oven, but 45 minutes later at 200 C: Noooo! My $30 quiche is still liquid! What is going on?
In all my quiche-making, never had I come across a quiche that needed to be cooked at anything higher than 200 C. But this quiche, which contained plenty of water from the mushrooms, really did need to be cooked at 250! Rather than trust the writer of the recipe, I had automatically glossed over the 250 C and put the oven to 180 C.
I served the "quiche" to my inlaws and my husband said, "I told her to do an omelette aux cepes, but she wouldn't listen..." Thankfully, they have good senses of humor and stomachs of iron. Later, my mother-in-law magnanimously pointed out my fatal flaw: "It says 250 C."
Yes, I thought I had mastered the humble quiche. But instead I got a hefty serving of humble pie.
So I went online to my favorite French recipe website and found a recipe for quiche aux cèpes. Perfect, I thought. A quiche. This will be easy peasey.
The recipe called for four big cèpes. Hubbie picked up some impressive ones from our local LeClerq supermarket. With a very serious expression he said, "Do you know how much they cost? [Dramatic pause.] Over six euros EACH." I stuck them in the fridge as he muttered, "It better be a good quiche."
The next morning, I started to prepare my ingredients. Suddenly, while watching me turning over the cèpes with a quizzical expression, Hubbie became filled with fear and told me to wait while he googled how to handle the mushroom.
How to handle the --? But it's a mushroom, for crying out loud! Okay okay, I'll wait until you find some guidelines.
Little did we know what a pandora's box that would open.
First of all, we should not have put the mushrooms in the fridge. Not sure why, but that's what several people said.
Secondly, we should not have picked cèpes that have greenish spores. Looking under the caps of our four benign-looking cèpes, we saw two had greenish spores. Perhaps they turned green in the fridge, I suggested. Hubbie shrugged. At any rate, the spores need to be taken off before you cook the 'shrooms. This I did with no problem.
Thirdly, big cèpes are most always home to a few maggots. Maggots??? Yes, maggots. I shivered. Again proceeding as recommended, we wrapped the 'shrooms in cling film, turned them upside down and waited for the worms to come gasping out. We waited twenty minutes, and...
Nothing.
The pressure was mounting. What to do? ETA of the inlaws: one hour. Hubbie found additional advice, which we followed without reflection. We were asked to exhale into the plastic so as to reduce the breathable air for the worms. We waited another twenty minutes. About two nearly-strangled worms came wriggling out onto the plastic of one mushroom. No worms came out of the others.
What to do? I got a creeping suspicion there were more worms to be found. Putting on my sushi-chef/samurai/extremely anal attitude, I decided to go ahead and chop them up, examining each piece to annihilate each and every worm in my precious cèpes.
Gone was my ever optimistic, over-confident assumption that cèpes were as wonderfully tame as your friendly button mushrooms.
I worked on three mushrooms until they looked like they had been butchered by a madwoman. Finally, I sheathed my sword. Looking at the score, I had pried out about six worms from each cèpe. Yes, six! It's the stuff of nightmares, believe you me.
Then, I came to the last mushroom.
It looked like a white sponge. There were holes all over it. And now that I had three cèpes under my belt, I knew that did not bode well.
That is when it hit me. How far was I willing to go for taste? The Japanese risk their lives eating blowfish. Would I risk my life serving maggoty mushrooms to my mother-in-law?
I cut up the last mushroom, just as an experiment, without the slightest hope of it being edible. Of course, each hole in its white flesh meant that a worm had marked its path. It was infested. I shivered and started feeling itchy.
What could I do? I thanked heaven we had at least three good cèpes. The recipe then called for a few champignons de Paris (button mushrooms). Whew, I could relax.
Little did I know, my kitchen blunders had not ended there. The quiche was in the oven, but 45 minutes later at 200 C: Noooo! My $30 quiche is still liquid! What is going on?
In all my quiche-making, never had I come across a quiche that needed to be cooked at anything higher than 200 C. But this quiche, which contained plenty of water from the mushrooms, really did need to be cooked at 250! Rather than trust the writer of the recipe, I had automatically glossed over the 250 C and put the oven to 180 C.
I served the "quiche" to my inlaws and my husband said, "I told her to do an omelette aux cepes, but she wouldn't listen..." Thankfully, they have good senses of humor and stomachs of iron. Later, my mother-in-law magnanimously pointed out my fatal flaw: "It says 250 C."
Yes, I thought I had mastered the humble quiche. But instead I got a hefty serving of humble pie.
Monday, 18 October 2010
Crime and Punishment - Part II
Mom came to visit for two weeks and after she left, we took stock and realized Lulu was out of our control. He had basically treated his poor grandmother like his slave. On the last day, I spotted a wound in my mom's leg and asked her about it, and she said, "I didn't want to tell you. Lulu bit me the second day I was here." My reaction: WHAT??? Since when does Lulu bite people??? Did he learn that at school? Probably, blessed "education" system!!
After I calmed down, I told Mom that because she didn't tell us, we weren't able to teach Lulu biting was wrong, and she let him get away with it... and several other things, which made him think he could beat her up, which he had basically done the whole of her stay. I think the behavioral boundaries were all off because, as she only sees her grandson once every year or two, she wanted to keep the peace. Lulu had clearly taken advantage of her silence to misbehave anytime we weren't watching.
So yesterday when we came back from church and he refused to eat lunch, we relaunched the "naughty corner." We had discussed it a couple of times during the previous week and Hubbie had suggested we had used it too early, when Lulu was too little to understand. Now, especially as he loves to be the center of attention, we thought he might understand the concept. The punishment basically denies him any interaction with us and he is neither seen nor heard (this takes some acting skill).
So he sat in the corner just next to where we were eating. Should he be allowed to sit? Good question from Hubbie. Not sure what the answer is. However, whether sitting or standing, as we moved to the living room to watch Gaby playing in her Leapfrog DJ Station, he started turning around and moving away from that ninety-degree angle he was sequestered to.
Poker-faced, I walked over and turned him around and put him back in a sitting position in the corner. I didn't even look him in the face. As soon as I left, he went soft as an overcooked noodle and came creeping out. So I had to do this several times.
It was annoying.
This is the reason we started slacking off on the "disinvolvement" punishment. It is tiring and time consuming. And poor Hubbie ended up having to do everything! I had also gotten to spend more time with Lulu while Mom was here, so it was no longer an issue of not having my attention.
Now I am wondering if a naughty bench would be a better method. Would he be more likely to stay on the naughty bench than in a corner, which is not delineated? A bench provides a clearer boundary than a corner -- he knows whether he is on or off the bench. It is not clear at what point one is in or out of a corner.
Another question is, how long should he stay in the naughter corner/bench? Five minutes? Ten? More or less as appropriate to the crime? Or at three years old, do they too easily forget the crime if left alone too long? And will the punishment itself start to fail if we leave him punished too long?
We will have to keep trying. I suppose consistency is key...
After I calmed down, I told Mom that because she didn't tell us, we weren't able to teach Lulu biting was wrong, and she let him get away with it... and several other things, which made him think he could beat her up, which he had basically done the whole of her stay. I think the behavioral boundaries were all off because, as she only sees her grandson once every year or two, she wanted to keep the peace. Lulu had clearly taken advantage of her silence to misbehave anytime we weren't watching.
So yesterday when we came back from church and he refused to eat lunch, we relaunched the "naughty corner." We had discussed it a couple of times during the previous week and Hubbie had suggested we had used it too early, when Lulu was too little to understand. Now, especially as he loves to be the center of attention, we thought he might understand the concept. The punishment basically denies him any interaction with us and he is neither seen nor heard (this takes some acting skill).
So he sat in the corner just next to where we were eating. Should he be allowed to sit? Good question from Hubbie. Not sure what the answer is. However, whether sitting or standing, as we moved to the living room to watch Gaby playing in her Leapfrog DJ Station, he started turning around and moving away from that ninety-degree angle he was sequestered to.
Poker-faced, I walked over and turned him around and put him back in a sitting position in the corner. I didn't even look him in the face. As soon as I left, he went soft as an overcooked noodle and came creeping out. So I had to do this several times.
It was annoying.
This is the reason we started slacking off on the "disinvolvement" punishment. It is tiring and time consuming. And poor Hubbie ended up having to do everything! I had also gotten to spend more time with Lulu while Mom was here, so it was no longer an issue of not having my attention.
Now I am wondering if a naughty bench would be a better method. Would he be more likely to stay on the naughty bench than in a corner, which is not delineated? A bench provides a clearer boundary than a corner -- he knows whether he is on or off the bench. It is not clear at what point one is in or out of a corner.
Another question is, how long should he stay in the naughter corner/bench? Five minutes? Ten? More or less as appropriate to the crime? Or at three years old, do they too easily forget the crime if left alone too long? And will the punishment itself start to fail if we leave him punished too long?
We will have to keep trying. I suppose consistency is key...
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Crime and Punishment
One of the hot issues in our household the last few months is how we should discipline our three-year-old son, Lulu. Overall he is a good kid, even adorable. He has a good sense of right and wrong and what's dangerous for him. He loves telling us to call the firemen when he thinks something has gone wrong ("apelle numero 18!"), and he is not shy in telling us when he thinks Mama and Papa have not been nice to each other. However, on any given day, he mocks us, he deliberately ignores our warnings and he laughs at our attempts to punish him.
Up till last week, we were at a total loss as to what to do. We had just tried the yellow card/red card punishment system (based on rugby sin bins) in which he gets sent to his room for a yellow card and he gets a spank on the bottom for a red card. That didn't really work because his behaviour following the punishment didn't improve -- he went right back to disobeying us. Before that, we had tried negative incentives, positive incentives, the naughty bed, the naughty corner and the naughty bench. We had also tried keeping him emprisoned in our arms for two minutes as a punishment (as he is so active and hates to sit down). What hadn't we tried?
I shared the problem two weeks ago with the women's bible study group I attend, and then Hubbie and I talked about it again last week when I broke down in tears. It became clear it was with me that he was especially naughty.
It wasn't that we didn't do things together. I went swimming with Lulu, just him and me, without Hubbie or Gaby. But at the end of that he acted up again. On several occasions I did creative activities with him whilst Gaby was sleeping. None of this seemed to help his behaviour improve.
Since he turned three, or possibly since his little sister arrived in June, he has been extremely disobedient. Yet he has not demonstrated any jealousy towards her; he is affectionate and protective. It is evident that the relationship between Lulu and me has changed, though.
That was when we thought, hold on, when he disobeys, he gets me to spend more time with him, to insist for the umpteenth time he do what he refuses to do, or to scold him for what he shouldn't do. To dress him because he suddenly goes limp. To help him use the toilet because otherwise he'll have an accident. To feed him because otherwise he won't eat. Even if I am angry with him, he wants that extra time with me. He wants me around him, even if it's negative. He wants me, he wants my time.
So clearly then, what is now the most effective punishment for his crimes? Ironically, I just needed to go limp and disappear, to remove myself from the situation completely, or to threaten to do so, in order for him to stop being so naughty. When Papa is around, I ask him to do what I would have done, and Lulu loses that time with me. When Papa isn't around, I use the threat of disinvolvement.
Poor Papa, at times, still needs to use the Papa Prison. His arms are a lot stronger now because of it.
For me, the "disinvolvement" is working. At least for now. The great thing is, Lulu grows so fast, he will outsmart us. So the punishment may not fit the crime come next week!
Up till last week, we were at a total loss as to what to do. We had just tried the yellow card/red card punishment system (based on rugby sin bins) in which he gets sent to his room for a yellow card and he gets a spank on the bottom for a red card. That didn't really work because his behaviour following the punishment didn't improve -- he went right back to disobeying us. Before that, we had tried negative incentives, positive incentives, the naughty bed, the naughty corner and the naughty bench. We had also tried keeping him emprisoned in our arms for two minutes as a punishment (as he is so active and hates to sit down). What hadn't we tried?
I shared the problem two weeks ago with the women's bible study group I attend, and then Hubbie and I talked about it again last week when I broke down in tears. It became clear it was with me that he was especially naughty.
It wasn't that we didn't do things together. I went swimming with Lulu, just him and me, without Hubbie or Gaby. But at the end of that he acted up again. On several occasions I did creative activities with him whilst Gaby was sleeping. None of this seemed to help his behaviour improve.
Since he turned three, or possibly since his little sister arrived in June, he has been extremely disobedient. Yet he has not demonstrated any jealousy towards her; he is affectionate and protective. It is evident that the relationship between Lulu and me has changed, though.
That was when we thought, hold on, when he disobeys, he gets me to spend more time with him, to insist for the umpteenth time he do what he refuses to do, or to scold him for what he shouldn't do. To dress him because he suddenly goes limp. To help him use the toilet because otherwise he'll have an accident. To feed him because otherwise he won't eat. Even if I am angry with him, he wants that extra time with me. He wants me around him, even if it's negative. He wants me, he wants my time.
So clearly then, what is now the most effective punishment for his crimes? Ironically, I just needed to go limp and disappear, to remove myself from the situation completely, or to threaten to do so, in order for him to stop being so naughty. When Papa is around, I ask him to do what I would have done, and Lulu loses that time with me. When Papa isn't around, I use the threat of disinvolvement.
Poor Papa, at times, still needs to use the Papa Prison. His arms are a lot stronger now because of it.
For me, the "disinvolvement" is working. At least for now. The great thing is, Lulu grows so fast, he will outsmart us. So the punishment may not fit the crime come next week!
Friday, 24 September 2010
...and back again
It has been over a year since my last blog. If you are reading this, THANK YOU for making the effort.
In a nutshell, here is what I can remember from the last year, in (nearly) chronological order:
- From Aug 2009 to May 2010, I worked in an office environment that gave me the opportunity to practice my French, to work with French people and even to make some friends
- We moved to a village just outside the city and are now in a 3-bedroom apt rather than a 1-bedroom apt
- I attended my first rugby game, and am now a fan! Hubbie goes regularly to watch matches live at the small stadium near our home.
- We had a baby girl in June (good reason for moving!)
- Lulu started school (ecole maternelle) and is enjoying it
Over the past few weeks, blog ideas have popped into my head quite effortlessly. Now all of a sudden something like stage-fright has taken hold and I can think of nothing to say. So, perhaps later today something will come to me. In the meantime I will work on putting up a new photo...
In a nutshell, here is what I can remember from the last year, in (nearly) chronological order:
- From Aug 2009 to May 2010, I worked in an office environment that gave me the opportunity to practice my French, to work with French people and even to make some friends
- We moved to a village just outside the city and are now in a 3-bedroom apt rather than a 1-bedroom apt
- I attended my first rugby game, and am now a fan! Hubbie goes regularly to watch matches live at the small stadium near our home.
- We had a baby girl in June (good reason for moving!)
- Lulu started school (ecole maternelle) and is enjoying it
Over the past few weeks, blog ideas have popped into my head quite effortlessly. Now all of a sudden something like stage-fright has taken hold and I can think of nothing to say. So, perhaps later today something will come to me. In the meantime I will work on putting up a new photo...
Friday, 24 July 2009
Employed!
In the last three weeks, there were three major job-related developments:
1)The interview I had earlier this month went well. I am to hear back from the school at the end of August; the headmistress/principal is away until then. During the interview she asked if I would also like to teach English to high schoolers. I said, "That doesn't scare me at all." Straight after, I had second thoughts.
2)The language institute that left me high and dry in January called me one evening and said, "Oh, it's us! Are you still looking for work?" (They trained me in January and then never called me back.)
3)A good friend contacted me saying there was a 6-month post opening up at her company to cover someone on maternity leave. It involves some administrative work and non-technical technical support.
This morning I signed a contract with... drum roll please... #3. (What can i say, it was the paid lunches.)
We have been a bit stretched financially since moving here, and this appears to be the breather we need. I am hoping and praying this was the right thing to do.
One concern we have is about our little boy being in daycare full-time at such a young age. Hubbie says everyone in France does it this way. It's true, there are really no stay-at-home moms in France, unlike the States or the UK. But Lulu is so tired when he comes home after 3 hours at the daycare center. I wonder if full-time daycare will make him grow old and jaded. He may end up feeling abandoned. We are trying to trust that the Lord will protect him and will help us help him adjust in every way we can.
1)The interview I had earlier this month went well. I am to hear back from the school at the end of August; the headmistress/principal is away until then. During the interview she asked if I would also like to teach English to high schoolers. I said, "That doesn't scare me at all." Straight after, I had second thoughts.
2)The language institute that left me high and dry in January called me one evening and said, "Oh, it's us! Are you still looking for work?" (They trained me in January and then never called me back.)
3)A good friend contacted me saying there was a 6-month post opening up at her company to cover someone on maternity leave. It involves some administrative work and non-technical technical support.
This morning I signed a contract with... drum roll please... #3. (What can i say, it was the paid lunches.)
We have been a bit stretched financially since moving here, and this appears to be the breather we need. I am hoping and praying this was the right thing to do.
One concern we have is about our little boy being in daycare full-time at such a young age. Hubbie says everyone in France does it this way. It's true, there are really no stay-at-home moms in France, unlike the States or the UK. But Lulu is so tired when he comes home after 3 hours at the daycare center. I wonder if full-time daycare will make him grow old and jaded. He may end up feeling abandoned. We are trying to trust that the Lord will protect him and will help us help him adjust in every way we can.
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