The sound of silence...

I'd forgotten how much I love this sound...

Okay, so it's not technically silent here in the back garden. I can hear the sounds of the weekly village market taking place on the market square, the village bells are ringing 10 o'clock and every 5 minutes or so I can hear a skinny tractor with its empty trailer bobbing along the road behind it headed to the vines for another load of grapes.

I can hear the breeze shuffling through the crisp leaves of the chestnut tree and the far away sound of the recycling truck making its way through the village, followed by the sound of numerous wine bottles being tipped into the back of it.

But still, this special kind of silence I am appreciating right now, this is a silence that comes only once a year, on the day that for the first time in 2 months the little ladies are somewhere else, out of my earshot, tucked up nicely in their new classrooms, back at school.

I'm drinking a coffee, although a glass of champagne would feel appropriate, too. God bless la rentrée!

We've had a great summer. It's been a hot one, and for the first time in the 10 years we have been living here, I feel like we've fully exploited the fact that we live in a Mediterranean country.

Our days were spent alternating between the beach and the pool, and the nights between local fêtes, barbeques and parties. We've gone through several bottles of sunscreen and rosé, several pairs of water wings, at least 100 metres of sausages, and all of our swimsuits are almost threadbare.

I've taken a good break from blogging and feel as refreshed and engergized as a mother of two small children during summer vacation can possibly feel. I'm looking forward to our village waking up from its 2 month siesta and to coming here to share more about life in France.

For the moment, though, I'm going to keep myself busy by sitting very still and enjoying my special kind of silence.

Putting baby in a corner...

The following note was pasted into both my little ladies' cahiers de liasion (the notebook used to communicate between the teachers and the parents) yesterday at school:

Madame, Monsieur,
Un enseignant a été agressé verbalement par un parent dans l'enceinte de l'école. Cette attitude inadmissible face à un fonctionnaire attaché à son école et à sa mission de service public est fermement condamnée par l'ensemble de l'équipe éducative.
Nous soutenons notre collègue et nous rappelons que toute agression verbale ou physique est punie par la loi.

Basically, it says that a teacher was verbally abused by one of the parents at the school, and they are reminding us that this sort of behaviour, verbal or physical abuse, it punishable by law.

As it was the Duke that picked the ladies up from school, I didn't have a chance to hear from the other mothers outside the school gates what the story was. I don't know which teacher it was, nor which parent. But oh la la, what a village drama it must be.

I'm pretty new at this 'mother of school age children' thing, and I'm sure there may come a time when something happens at school that may propel me to have words with the teacher. (Actually, the littlest lady's teacher did accidentally slam her little fingers in the door the other day, resulting in purple fingers and the certainty of a loss of fingernails, but still, accidents happen....)

However, I just can't imagine feeling heated enough to verbally attack one of the teachers. I'm desperately trying to imagine a hypothetical example. Had the teacher punished the child in some way (unjustly in the eyes of the parent)? Was the child given a bad grade? Did the teacher step over the line with a 'Yo mama...' joke? Did the teacher not pay little kevy wevy enough attention?

I'm sure I'll get the full details tomorrow at dance class; lord knows it must be all everyone around here is talking about.

For an expat living in France, I know that the education system here is considered a little more strict than in the US or England. I've heard stories from English parents who say they don't approve of the discipline or consequential punishment that is dealt out to kids who don't behave in class.

Maybe it's the hard-ass in me, or maybe it's because I was once a teacher, but I think one of the problems with English and American educational institutions these days is that there isn't enough discipline. Respect for authority and your elders seems to have gotten lost somewhere in that great big politically correct Bermuda triangle.

Not that I'm condoning verbal or physical abuse, by either teacher or parent. I'm just wondering where the line is drawn between discipline in the classroom and looking after your child's best interests.

***********update*****************

Okay, so it was a father who started shouting at his son's male teacher. Apparently the boy had been picking fights with other students and was disciplined by the teacher. I guess the father didn't like his son being disciplined, so he picked a fight with the teacher. I wonder where the boy could have learned such behavior....

Good old-fashion home cooking....

Back to school with no tears, but amidst the usual chaos of not knowing which class or which teacher, or whether or not friends would be in the same room. I'm sure there is an easier way to organize la rentrée, but everyone else seems fine with how it goes, so who am I, the foreigner, to complain?

I'm sure I'll have plenty of new and quite possibly awkward experiences again this year, which will be the 4th year of the 'French village school experience', but I can say that it does feel a little bit more comfortable as the years go on. The little ladies are happy which is of course the most important bit.

What does make me happy each and every year returning to school is a glimpse of the cantine lunch menu. Considering my girls ate their weight in pb and j sandwiches for lunch this summer, it's nice to know they'll be back onto a proper French diet at school. Here's the menu for this week:

lundi-
carottes rapées aux germes de blé

omelette aux fines herbes

petits pois provençaux

emmenthal

bras de venus

mardi-
salade du terroir
saute de boeuf aux carottes
gratin de choux fleur
cantal
compote pomme/passion

jeudi-
friand au fromage
cuisse de poulet grillée
haricots verts à la provençale
yaourt nature
confiture de framboise

vendredi-
betteraves rouges en salade
cabillaud poche beurre noisette
boulgour à la grecque
vache qui rit
pêche au sirop

It's really only the vache qui rit that gives it away as a school menu, don't you think?

Postcard from the edge...

Currently recovering from an intense week of summer 'fun' with the little ladies and the last of the summer visitors.

La rentrée is on Tuesday.

That may be when you see me next....

L'âne et le chèvre...

I helped out in the littlest lady's petite section class the other day when they went on an excursion to see the donkey and the goat that live in the center of the village.
Who knew that a 5-minute walk with 26 3-4 year olds could take 25 minutes? Our calm village road became a treacherous obstacle course for the children as they tried to remember to stay in line, hold their partner's hand, and stay on the sidewalk.
Meanwhile, I tried to remember the names of the kids in the class to shout out at the appropriate times, 'Faustine, watch where you're going!', 'Quentin, no pushing!', 'Leopold, take Solange's hand!', etc. My memories of learning command tenses in French class came back quite easily, except I didn't have to use the commands I'd been taught back then by a cynical French teacher, like 'Laissez-moi tranquil!' and 'Ne me touchez pas!'.
I couldn't help but think how different this excursion would have been had we'd been in the States. Permission slips would have had to have been signed and the venue vetted beforehand. I'm sure the donkey and the goat would have had to have had their police records checked too.
The chaos at the actual site was a lawsuit waiting to happen. The goat broke free quite early on, and proceeded to run around the group of children being chased by the owner's dog. I seemed to be the only one imagining the goat spiking up one of the children with its little horns. Everyone else seemed oblivious to the inherent danger of the donkey stampeding the little gaggle of pre-schoolers.
As the goat, named Noisette, charged around under the olive trees, the kids took turns feeding stale baguette ends to Nanette, the donkey. While the children waited for their turn, they discovered a rickety plastic slide in the garden and took turns throwing themselves down it, sometimes 2 at a time.
At the point where I was weighing up which was the most dangerous activity between the charging goat, the kicking donkey, and the swaying tower of plastic pleasure, Leopold announced he had to go pee pee, and was taken off to a corner of the garden to do his thing by one of the teachers. They teach them young to pee on the side of the road here.
We made it back to school just before the end of the morning session, and as I watched the kids rush into the arms of their unsuspecting parents, full of tales of Noisette and Nanette, I couldn't help thinking that this was all part of the reason I love raising my children here. They are loved and cherished by society, but not swathed in bubble wrap. And while this makes for some anxious moments, I do appreciate the way they are allowed to behave as children, without too many rules and restrictions. They'll have plenty of those to deal with later in life...

It's Saturday morning......

and the kids are in school until 11.20. As of next year, Saturday school will be finished in primary schools in France. The idea of no school on Wednesday and school on Saturday morning may seem alien to those of you who don't live in France. And even to those of us who do.

Apparently the school on Saturday thing comes from a time when Thursdays were given over to all religious study, so they used the 3 hours on Saturday morning to catch up with the rest of the stuff. Sounds fair, right? Gotta love a country that was dictated to by religion. Surely that sort of thing doesn't happen anymore here in the 21st century? Uh hum.....

I'm a little torn between enjoying a few hours alone with the Duke on Saturday mornings and being able to sleep past 7.30 for more than one day a week. The French are calling it operation 'ravioli', or ravis au lit (delighted in bed). Nice.

So until then, I'm going to enjoy my Saturday morning visits to Beziers market with the Duke, where we buy Fresh pasta and everything else we need for the weekend, sit down for a coffee, and just generally pretend we have nothing better to do, at least until 11.20.