petite anglaise

The journey to the airport had been stressful enough, but apparently the gods were not smiling on me last Saturday.

Tadpole, Lover and I were heading to England to visit my best friend and her family. I had been looking forward to this trip for months, my enthusiasm only slightly dampened by the fact that I had woken up that morning only to find that I had almost entirely lost my voice. When I opened my mouth, either a whisper or a squawk came forth. Thankfully, even if I did sound like a cross between Frank Butcher and Dot Cotton, I wasn’t in any pain. But it was hardly an ideal state of affairs, neither for catching up with a friend over a few beers, nor for keeping a willful two year old in check.

First, the bus which would ferry us to Gare du Nord was a long time coming. Second, the ticket vending machines at the station were all either out of order, or preceded by lengthy queues of tourists, many of whom didn’t seem to be able to get them to function, or who went through the whole transaction, only to find that their foreign credit card would not be accepted. Last, but not least, the airport bound RER train which we leapt into just as the doors slammed closed turned out to be a slow train, stopping at every single suburban town between Paris and Charles de Gaulle airport. I started to fear that we wouldn’t be going anywhere, wondering how I would break the news to my friend.

I had an epiphany on that train: on balance, a € 40 taxi fare is a small price to pay for the preservation of my sanity. Austerity budget or no.

We finally checked in just in the nick of time, cleared customs and joined the queue for the baggage scanners and metal detectors.

Now, I know that the people scanning luggage have an important job to do. What I don’t understand is why the French security staff are so much more difficult and unpleasant to deal with than their English counterparts.

I have not-so-fond memories of setting off the metal detector in France while heavily pregnant and being asked to remove my shoes.

“My shoes? I can’t even reach my shoes! It’s my belt buckle which set it off, can’t I just take the belt off?” I said, smiling persuasively. When it became apparent that I was now expected to remove both: “I don’t suppose you have a chair I could sit on?”

“Non.”

Not even a, “Non, je suis désolée Madame”. Just “no”.

Luckily, Mr Frog was on hand to perform the unzipping of the boots, whilst I leaned against a wall, indignantly.

When travelling with a small child and a pushchair, I have encountered similar unhelpfulness on French soil. In England, a member of staff pushes Tadpole through the detector, still wearing her coat and securely strapped in. My permission is sought to search the buggy, and someone half heartedly rummages around, while Tadpole chatters away, turning on the charm.

In France, on the other hand, a slightly less helpful policy is in operation. Tadpole must be released from the pushchair, her coat removed, and the pushchair folded and fed through the scanner along with my bag and coat. On those occasions where I have travelled alone with her, this has been horribly problematic. When Tadpole was too young to walk, I had to enlist the help of a surly and reluctant looking member of staff to hold my baby while I folded the pushchair. Since she learned how to walk (and indeed run), the challenge has always been to stop her absconding. Two hands is never enough.

Sure enough, on Saturday we got the works. No smiles, no help. Tadpole trotted gaily through the metal detector on her own, ahead of me, as instructed. No beep. Mummy and Lover went through immediately after her, and both beeped. I was asked to remove my belt (but thankfully not my trainers) and with a weary “ah là là “, I retraced my steps and went through again. Without beeping, this time. Assuming that a member of staff had been keeping an eye on my daughter.

I looked around.

BLIND PANIC.

WHERE WAS MY CHILD?

Tadpole’s life flashed before my eyes as a block of ice slid down my spine. I tried to call her name, but only managed a pathetic squeak. My eyes scanned the busy terminal building, not really processing what I saw, too panicked to be of any use to me. This was every mother’s worst nightmare. What had I done? How could I have taken my eyes off her, even for a second?

“Oh my god, where is my daughter?” I yelled. Unfortunately, the words came out as a stage whisper. Not even one head was turned.

Lover, who is considerably taller and more level-headed than I, scanned the building and pointed to tiny figure, receding into the distance, far away in the duty free shop.

That’s my daughter. Whenever she sees a window of opportunity, she takes it. And disappears. The lure of the gaudy colours in the brightly lit shop? Of cigarettes and alcohol? Who knows what goes through her tiny little head.

We bellowed her name (or rather Lover did, while I bleated) and Tadpole turned and started running towards me. He fetched our belongings as I dropped to my knees and held her close to me in a vice like grip.

As we made our way over to the gate, tears rolled down my cheeks. Just for a second, I had glimpsed what life without Tadpole would be like.

And it was indescribably bleak.

Tadpole and I get a simultaneous attack of the giggles, strands of spaghetti drooping perilously from our mouths, some sticking to our chins. I like the French phrase for this a lot: un fou rire. Mad laughter.

Catching Tadpole’s eye, I have to suppress a sudden, overwhelming urge to sweep her out of the high chair and into my arms, raining kisses down on her reluctant, curly head. Being a mother sometimes means experiencing such ferocious urges; they literally take my breath away.

Unfortunately Tadpole is not a very demonstratively affectionate child, and doesn’t take kindly to being grabbed and forcibly hugged. It is wiser to wait until she comes to me of her own accord. Especially this close to bedtime, when my toddler appears to suffer from some form of schizophrenia. One minute all is well with the world, the next she is crying theatrical tears and not even she really knows the reason why.

A few minutes later, she zooms into the kitchen on her plastic car, an unbuttered piece of scone in her hand.

“What you doing mummy?” she asks with a frown, craning her neck to look up at the worktop, where I have been caught in the act, liberally spreading butter, raspberry jam and crème fraîche onto my piece of scone with the back of a teaspoon, while waiting for the kettle to boil.

“Mummy’s putting some jam on her scone,” I reply, waving it under her nose, knowing full well that Tadpole will add this to her list of falsely composed compound nouns: strap-on, shoes-on, socks-on, jam-on.

And no, I’m not sure why I talk in the third person to Tadpole either.

“I want jam-on on my scone” she says, eyeing the jar.

“You want some jam?” I repeat, knowing full well that she doesn’t really. She refused to have anything on it the day before, and didn’t even deign to taste mine.

“Jam-on!”

Wearily: “OK, give it to me, and I’ll put some on for you,”

“No!”

Petulantly: “Well don’t have any then!”

“Jam-on!”

I am getting a bit cross. It is 8.00 pm. I have been at work all day. I arrived home with Tadpole at 7.00pm and the preservation of my sanity depends on her being in bed in half an hour. Clearly she has just crossed that invisible line and gone over to the dark side where logic no longer applies and high pitched screaming can erupt at any moment, without due cause or prior warning.

I snatch the scone from her grasp and dab some jam on it, offering it back to her with a triumphant “There!”

“NNNOOOOOOOO!” she screams.

The neighbours probably think I am torturing Tico the dolly.

She makes as if to drop the scone face down on the kitchen floor, so I grab it, scrape off the jam, hold it out to her again.

“NNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

The neighbours probably think I am torturing Tadpole. I wonder idly what the equivalent of Childline is in France.

Something inside me snaps. It’s official: Mummy has now crossed over to the dark side to join her daughter.

I eat the scone.

The screaming starts in earnest.

Only eight months until she turns three. I think I may need medication if I’m to make it that far.