British Women Slouch

In my last post I mentioned how sick I get of having the virtues of supposedly perfect French women rammed down my throat by British/American writers. I was discussing this with a friend over supper last Friday, and we wondered why British women 1) buy books that show them to be worse than everyone else; 2) never have books written about them which hold them up as paragons compared to another nation's women; 3) bond with each other by comparing how bad they are as women/mothers/wives.

If you have any thoughts on this, I'd love to hear about them. To start with, I never buy those books, mainly because I live in France, see French women every day and don't need to read about someone else's fantasy based on her own insecurities, and this is what it boils down to - insecurity. British women, I believe, are deeply insecure.

Before the swinging sixties British society was structured, women knew their place (even if they didn't like it) and if you were going to bring up your children according to society's rules you knew that they had to behave in a certain way, know certain things and respect authority. When the sixties threw out much of what society was based on - rules, social norms, respect for authority, a woman's place - anything became possible.

With anything becoming possible, out went the confidence of knowing how you functioned in relation to your social group. You could decide how to bring up your child, choosing the child-centred environment that was the latest trend, but what did that mean? How did it work with regard to feeding, discipline, playing, potty training, sleeping etc.? Before, new mothers used to ask their mothers, aunts, friends, grandmothers and refer to Dr Spock when faced with a child-rearing issue. There were traditional ways of bringing up children that were easy to pass on and understood by everyone for generations.

In the brave new world, the older generation couldn't help, and mostly looked on aghast. So saw the rise of kooky child-rearing books often written by childless gurus. Mothers became slaves to the system described in the book because they were unable to get help from anywhere else, and lacked the confidence to go it alone. Common sense was thrown out as being an unreliable indicator of what to do, and mothers embraced the writings of someone they'd never met who suggested their baby should be brought up according to a one-size-fits-all method.

Grandparents saw the failings of the child-centred approach (undisciplined, rude, disrespectful kids) and criticised their daughters for getting it wrong, suggesting that the old ways were better ("in my day..."). While pooh poohing the criticism, mothers absorbed it and felt the gnaw of insecurity question their proficiency as mothers.

I wonder if mothers in the fifties compared with their friends the slovenly state of their homes, their crap cooking, their laissez-aller attitudes, or their bad mother behaviour. Modern mothers wear (some of) these behaviours as badges of honour even if they don't really believe what they're saying. In the society of no common rules parenting, boasting about your way of doing things is the way to lose all your friends. Go onto Twitter and do a search on #BadMother and you'll see what I mean about this way of bonding (and then try looking up #GoodMother).

British women don't really believe they are bad mothers, but so as to make no one feel worse about themselves, they suggest that mothering is all too much sometimes (which it is). This means that standards can be lowered without invoking group disapproval. If they're all down at the slummy mummy bottom, there's no competition to be better or to strive to be elitist. Competitive Alpha mummies are awful; terrifying (successful) women seen as traitors to their sex. Slummy mummies seek to bond, not compete to be better even though they actually want the best for their children.

I suppose it puts something of a strain on British mothers, this non-competitive competition. No wonder they feel insecure!

They feel insecure as mothers, and also as women. Insecure women slouch; they make themselves look insignificant, invisible, unattractive. Or they might feel they are sticking two fingers up at conventions of femininity because they want to rebel. But it boils down to insecurity. So does much of why women get really fat once you take away medical reasons. "I'm unattractive and unlovable. Comfort eating helps me cope with myself." or "I'm fat so I'm unattractive and unlovable so there's no point depriving myself of my comfort food". It's often wrapped up in moral justification - "Don't judge me on my looks but on my personality and intelligence (so if I am fat and dress unattractively it shouldn't matter), and pass the biscuits".

The point is, when there are no simple social norms, the result is emotional chaos and the price of freedom from social norms is insecurity because no one knows if what they are doing is really the right thing to do or the best way to be.

French society, despite the social revolution of 1968, didn't go as far in destroying social norms as the swinging sixties did in Britain. French women (except the ones right at the bottom, and peasants who don't give a toss) know that they should keep themselves attractive and sexy, keep a clean house and cook well to keep their husband. If they are/do not, they know that their entourage will not be surprised if he strays. He might do it anyway, but people will probably suggest it's her fault; that she didn't maintain standards.

They know that their children should behave in a certain way and they know how to go about trying to ensure they do (as outlined by our Pam). They may get it wrong, but it's not for want of trying. French mothers feel more secure because of the pressure to conform which is still strong in France.

They also feel more secure as women because 'how to be a woman' in France is fairly simple and centres around keeping your husband. Read Caitlin Moran's book 'How to be a Woman' to see just how complicated it is being British and female.

The way to start throwing off the need to buy 'they are better than us' books, however, is to stop slouching. You are Woman, stand up straight and Roar!

French Parenting

Yet another mother living in Paris has jumped on the bandwagon of writing a book heaping praise on French women and making British women feel shitty in comparison. The latest in a long line of this treacherous sisterhood (which includes Helena wotsit wotsit) is Pamela Druckerman who has written a book called 'French Children don't Throw Food'. All I can say about the title is that she's never visited my eldest's collège where of course throwing food was frowned upon and punished but that didn't stop it from happening.

Our Pam is an American married to a Brit and they live in the rarefied hotspot of elitist Paris where the very top end of French society hangs out. One cannot say her entourage is exactly representative of le tout France. What these women are, compared it seems to the your average Brit, is confident. French mothers are confident about everything British woman cower and feel miserable about: their size, their looks, the way they give birth, the way they bring up their children, breastfeeding, being a mother, being a wife and everything in between except being a friend to their girlfriends. British women never feel inferior about their girl-friendships.

British women needed another book telling us how to raise our kids like a hole in the head, and holding the French up as shining examples of perfection is pretty laughable. If, for example, their children are such paragons of good behaviour, why are the child psychiatrist waiting rooms filled to standing room only with desperate parents dangling on a lengthy waiting list?

If you think about it, perfect French women books are strangely at odds with the other book bandwagon, the Peter Mayle style moving to France and grappling with the forces of ye olde French peasant. How many times have we heard about the recalcitrant plumber, the wily builder, salt of the earth types, taciturn but once you've tamed the beast, your friend for life? Do these men have French mothers who sound like the sort of ones our Pam meets and greets?

When it comes to women, it seems that journalists feel perfectly entitled to lump 50% of the population into one upper social type, the perfect, slim, manicured, elegant French lady. Whatever happened to the peasant farmer's wife in her nylon pinny, aubergine-dyed masculine-cut hair and comfy old booties? She's not usually a chain-smoking coffee junkie, but a solidly built eater of good old stodgy filling nosh.

The mums I see at my sons' schools often look as haggard as any other working mum, and their kids a variety of good and badly behaved. Children might not be brought up as little emperors here (a disastrous method!) but their mothers are often overly protective, mollycoddling them and preventing them from potentially hurting themselves. One of the commonest words you hear mothers of young children cry is 'ATTENTION!'. No wonder they become risk-averse and seek the comfort of life as a fonctionnaire.

Many bourgeois parents try to force their kids into a straight-jacket of robotic mini me's, with hours of school work every night, obsessive attention to school marks, and no say in what they wear. Then you get rebellious types who break away and become successful entrepreneurs. I was despairing of how lazy my son is and the head of a huge business company told me not to worry because the laziest boys made the most creative businessmen. He himself had been a terror. I await to see the results of his wisdom... but in the meantime, my son has decided he needs to get working (phew!).

I think what the French do well is rely on common sense when bringing up their kids, and perhaps the support of mothers, sisters, aunts, and grandmothers, rather than gimmicky books by childless gurus. Why British women are so attracted to bizarre methods of childrearing rather than relying on common sense and a sensible book of essential information is a mystery. But whatever the method chosen rest assured that a mother's place is in the wrong, and our parents fuck us up whatever their nationality.

Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

Looking A Bit Peeky

Recognise anyone?

Being a parent can be a pretty exhausting business, being a single one even more so because there's no one to pick up the slack when you're banging your head against the wall with frustration.

Still, there is a difference between being exhausted and maternal burn out. Do you know anyone who's suffered from an extreme exhaustion to the point of burn out? A French book out recently, Mère épuisée by Stéphanie Allenou is the true story of a mother who got to the point where she just couldn't take it any more.

« Petit à petit, je perds toute envie : de parler, de bouger, de m'occuper de mon mari, de mes enfants, de ma maison... Le plus difficile c'est de commencer la journée. Je me réveille en proie à l'angoisse. Je n'ai pas la force d'y aller. Je ne veux plus de ces contraintes horaires, de ce bruit, de ces affrontements, de ces gestes cent fois réitérés. Je ne veux même plus voir mes enfants. Je ne veux plus rien donner : ni temps, ni mots. Je veux être seule, dans le silence... »


She has 3 children: a daughter who'll be 8 next birthday, and 6-yr old twins. It gets to the point where she feels so isolated and exhausted that she no longer functions normally, resorting to smacking the children and shouting at them more and more often. No mention of help from her husband in the write-up by 20Minutes.

The point she makes is that in modern French society, motherhood is idolised while the mother is forgotten. What she wants to be is the perfect mother, to correspond to her/society's image of the perfect mother. But what is a perfect mother? One who sacrifices her own sanity to uphold appearances? What of the emotional well-being of her children who could reflect her stress levels with ever naughtier behaviour or worse, withdraw into themselves.

I think we've all been at the point where we crave to be alone, and as kids get older, they don't need so much constant attention. If they do, there's a problem! In fact one of the advantages of divorce is that one can have weekends and holiday time alone. For me, it was almost the first time I was able to enjoy time to myself. The only other time was when I had to go up to Le Havre to collect a car and drive it back down. It was a blissful few hours.

In today's world, parents often don't live near their families. This means that they have to cope alone, there's no safety valve of granny who can come and babysit for a few hours. If you're an OCD perfectionist about parenting, I can understand it must be easy to fall into a back-breaking routine of care and attention. I've never had that problem, but I was still exhausted. Luckily I had to go back to work after maternity leave of 10 weeks, so I was able to recover some equanimity during the day.

I also believe in a certain benign neglect, to let kids get on with their stuff by themselves, staying on hand if needed, but not interfering. There's nothing worse than an needy, whining brat demanding attention every 5 minutes. But I don't think there's any recipe for the perfect mother because every child is different and you have to adapt your approach to the individual, and remember that every child is an individual and should be respected as such.

What is interesting is to ask one's children how they rate you as a mother. I wonder how many parents actually ask their children this question, fraught as it is with the potential for hearing unpalatable truths. Of course there's no point when they are too young, but once they get to a certain age, it can be revealing not only of your parenting skills but also those of other parents.

Stéphanie Allenou apparently makes a number of suggestions on how to help exhausted mothers, in the absence of a supportive entourage, including the setting up of parent-children centres. When I was in the US, there was an impressive Mothers Network that had groups all over the city of Dallas. It's true that there's nothing like that here, but I don't think the answer is local government interference. If mothers want to get together, they can set up networks by word of mouth and meet at each others' houses. The answer doesn't come from the state, it comes from networking and making groups known in the community.

It is not very French, because admitting you need help is a sign of failure, and the appearance of being perfect is all important, but maybe Stéphanie's book will galvanise mothers to action because it proves that motherhood is not sacred, but bloody hard work. We could all do with a little moral support and there's no one better to give it than another mother.

PISA in France

The OECD have published their latest PISA results in which France sits somewhere in the middle and China came out on top. A report of the French results can found here.

A quick glance through reveals some interesting assessments.
En France, la préscolarisation a un impact significatif sur la performance en compréhension de l’écrit. Les élèves qui ont déclaré avoir été préscolarisés pendant plus d’un an devancent de 100 points au moins en compréhension de l’écrit les élèves qui ont déclaré ne pas l’avoir été en France.
In France, preschool has a significant impact on the performance of written comprehension. Pupils who declared as having been in preschool for at least 1 year had a score of at least 100 more than those who hadn't. (Good news for guilt-ridden working mothers!)

Dans les pays où on redouble beaucoup (dont la France), tout comme dans les pays où les élèves sont orientés dans différents programmes à un âge précoce, l’impact du milieu socio-économique sur la performance des élèves est plus grand en général.
In countries where redoubling is common (eg France) as well as those directed into different programmes at an early age, the socio-economic milieu of the child has an important impact. (Obviously, pushy parents will be encouraging their children and doing everything possible to ensure their success - private tutors, books, parental help).

La France se classe parmi les pays de l’OCDE où la discipline est la moins respectée et ceci même si la plupart des élèves en France bénéficient de classes disciplinées. De plus, le climat de discipline s’est dégradé entre PISA 2000 et 2009.
France is among the OECD countries where discipline is the least respected and this, even if most pupils in France have access to disciplinary classes. Furthermore, discipline has gone down between PISA 2000 and 2009.

Les élèves français de 15 ans déclarent également plus que la moyenne des pays de l’OCDE que les enseignants les encouragent à lire.
Le plaisir de lire joue un rôle important dans la performance, et explique en France 21% de la variation dans les performances et la lecture par plaisir, même au plus une demi-heure par jour, améliore significativement la performance en France.
French pupils of 15 years old also declare more than the OECD average that teachers encourage them to read.
Reading for pleasure plays an important role in performance and explains the 21% difference in performance and reading for pleasure - even half an hour a day significantly improves performance in France. (Interesting, and scary for those who don't like reading!)

Parmi les pays de l’OCDE, c’est en Italie et en France que les élèves en savent le plus sur les stratégies efficaces de synthèse...
Among OECD countries, pupils from Italy and France know the most effective resume strategies. (A good discipline, will serve them well.)

This is bad news for my boys who hate reading but will have to knuckle down and make the effort. Despite the fact that teachers encourage them to read, there are libraries in schools and special offers within schools to bulk buy books to lower the price, my not unintelligent guys will not pick up a book by choice. Luckily they both went to the maternelle, so got a good grounding in whatever it was makes for good comprehension.

It's true that they have to decide very young which academic or non-academic path to take. When they enter lycée, they are oriented towards the Bac Pro or Bac General and once there, it's very difficult to change course. My eldest will still be 14 when he goes to lycée. This is very young, especially if the child is immature and just wants to muck about still (like mine). It seems unreasonable to penalise late-developers.

I think my eldest is finally waking up to the seriousness of the situation. I hope so; it would be a shame to fall into the wrong orientation just because he was lazy. I tell you, I'm having some hairy moments at the moment because it is right now that schools pre-register kids for lycée, based on last year's and this term's results. I'm assuming, however, that his teachers have sussed that he is bright but lazy. Aren't ados a pain in the arse? Then, just as they are at their most appalling, they have to make important decisions about their future.

That's French education for you - unreasonable, rigid, inflexible. Fab...

A Lively Exchange

As David Cameron described Sarkozy's furious berating at the EU leaders' summit on his policy of evicting illegal travellers/Roma, a not so heated, but quite lively exchange was going on at my youngest's parent's evening.

An unlikely venue in my opinion, but then I'm not one to air personal problems in public. (Ahem)

So there I was sitting in my youngest's chair so I know where he sits in class now, and the prof could also place me as his mother, although she'd already done that as we'd met to pass some cycling moments together on Tuesday.

First of all we had this complete idiot of a PEEP spokeswoman try and rally us to her cause. She did this in roughly 30 seconds by telling us there would be an open house at 8.30pm and we would be most welcome, that we could contact her on such and such a number and the website for which she gave us an email address (and not her husband's as I'd complained about her having previously!), and then tried to emotionally blackmail us for the remaining 20 seconds telling us our children needed us to participate in the life of the school blah blah blah. Tough. These parents associations - both of them - are squatted by the most boring, unimaginative, appalling, fearful, negative, bossy, controlling, thick French women on the planet. Spending 5 minutes with them ages you by 10 years, causes irrevocable wrinkles, and has you reaching for the deadly nightshade. So tough.

Next we had the English teacher, who, miraculously, is English (or Irish, she didn't say enough for me to guess precisely). She explained that she took the kids for two lots of forty minutes - not a lot - and her aim was to concentrate on getting them to feel at ease with the language.

So this French hatchet faced, thin-lipped battleaxe puts up her hand and asks what the targets are for the kids to know by the end of the year. We're talking 9-10yr olds here. So the teacher, a bit flummoxed, said they should feel more at ease with the language, and Battleaxe insists by demanding to know whether the kids should be able to construct a phrase.

At which point, the teacher asks for the name of Battleaxe's child and B refuses to give it saying that she doesn't want her child to be picked upon as a consequence. I think I gave a sharp intake of breath at this point. This was in front of a class full of parents. The teacher didn't lose her calm - she's probably seen worse; we are in France - and deducted that there must be an agenda going on here. She also realised that Battleaxe had older children (from where she was sitting) and so asked if Battleaxe didn't like her lessons.

"Non, je n'aime pas vos cours" said Battleaxe, and several bottoms shifted uneasily on chairs. She maintained that the kids learned nothing and her other children were none the wiser about English at the end of their primary schooling than they had been when they started. Other parents agreed with her.

The bit I appreciated was when the teacher said to them that 2x40mins was nothing and that what the kids needed was extra practice outside the classroom, and proceeded to give a list of all the things the parents could do to improve their child's level. Haha, that showed 'em. They were expecting a child to write sentences and have homework in grammar and such, which isn't on the curriculum and we all know how the French love to stick to curriculum, and instead they get a teacher who is trying to make kids feel comfortable about talking and telling the parents to get off their butts if they want more.

Old battleaxe had to come round in the end; thankfully she didn't stick to her guns as some excessively stupid ones do, and the evening moved on (slowly).

It was 8pm before I got home to the ravening wolves who had to be fed ASAP. Not easy to conjure up exciting food in 30 seconds when there are little leftovers, so they got ravioli. Had we not spent so much time on the teaching of English 2x40mins per week, I could have been home to cook up some fresh trout, so THANKS A BUNCH Battleaxe! Bitch.

Weekend Lessons

What I learned this weekend:

1. My youngest can swim 25m. He had to do the 25m swimming certificate so he could enjoy a day at Aqualand without armbands (la honte, maman!) with the centre aéré. You go along to a public pool, the kid goes to see a maitre nageur who tells him to get on with it. Kid jumps in the pool along with all the splashers and shriekers and makes his way to the other end by hook or by crook as long as he doesn't touch the side. After 2 years of swimming lessons (some 2-3 yrs ago), my youngest frogged it inelegantly having forgotten most of what he learned about breast stroke technique. He remembered how to stay afloat though. Certificate in the bag, price 0€.

2. My youngest thinks it's a time saver and all round more efficient way of doing things to roll out the pizza dough (made courtesy of the bread machine) actually in the pizza baking trays. I'm not convinced but let him get on with it. They tasted exactly like mine...

3. That I really don't like flea markets. Musty smells, damp, rubbish, broken crap, stupid prices, no visible prices so you have to ask, and the odd thing you might consider but by that time you're so bored all you want to do is get home and have a glass of cool rosé. I went to our local one because that is what one does, to show willing, make up the numbers, and give a friend's daughter one or two bits of my own rubbish to sell (costume jewellery). She made 1€25 for me (50%). Glad I wasn't sitting in the sun for 4 hrs for that!

I dutifully went along to my youngest's footie tournament this afternoon, 4pm. The heavens opened and he had one game left to play. I was all for bringing him home. Then the heavens closed and they resumed play. Two hours later my youngest had finished playing but was waiting for the prize-giving. I'd had enough. Two hours for 30 minutes of a footie game was taking parenting beyond reasonable, so another, more devoted mother said she'd bring him home, and I left to make meatloaf for dinner. Escape!

What Parents' Meeting?

My eldest 'kind of forgot' to inform me of the parents' meeting last night until the day before which meant I couldn't organise appointments with any of his teachers. Coincidence? I think not...

However, he had to tell me because his French teacher summoned me at 17.55. If she hadn't, I really think he would have quietly not told me and deprived me of the chance to hear about his adolescent crisis.

In fact, I went earlier in the hope of seeing other teachers, and managed to see 3 others. Two of them were in despair over the freefall of his results and his indifferent attitude to working. Well, he is in 4e which is the typical year when everything falls temporarily apart. His French teacher put it down to his crise d'adolescence and told him he had 3 weeks to get over it during his school trip to Spain followed immediately by the Spring holidays, and get back ready to work.

That would be most convenient, but I think it'll take a draconian regime of deprivation to get the message through that he has to buck his ideas up. No Xbox, no computer, limited going out - the usual. I'll also be standing over him while he does his homework - fun...

It's not all bad though. Maths and science are okay which in France means you're most of the way there to a brilliant career in just about anything.

So I thought back to my black ado years. I remember that when I was in the third form, aged 13, I decided to take the year off, have a break from the grind of homework and just sail along doing the absolute minimum to keep my mother off my back.

At the end of the year my exam results were amazingly good considering how little I'd done. When I set back to work the following year my results weren't nearly as high. I've never understood that. Maybe I peaked at 13 and it was downhill all the way following my year of slothfulness. I never did discover what I wanted to do.

My brothers spent most of their school careers doing the absolute minimum too. Enough not to get noticed but certainly well below their potential. They then went on to successful careers doing what they wanted to do. Is that even possible nowadays?

My eldest has fallen below the barrier of unremarkable behaviour and been noticed so all hell has been let loose. I did try to warn him a while ago. Do enough to keep everyone happy and you get to do what you want to do (play, go out...). So we have another opportunity to discover together that actions (or non-action) have consequences. Such a useful life lesson and one which he has come across many times before. Hopefully one day he'll actually learn from it! The learning curve is still despairingly steep!

Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum!

I had to laugh the other day. I was summoned by my sons to watch the tele programme E=mc², a French popular science show on M6 which was supposed to explain adolescence to parents and how to cope with the stroppy little buggers.

My eldest thought I could do with learning a few things. HAHA, it just confirmed everything I've been doing, and supported the stuff I insist on but he objects to. As I wasn't in a laughing mood on Sunday evening, I just watched it, thought thoughts and discussed it with him the next day.

It was saying:

• ados need 9hrs sleep
• melatonin which is needed to induce sleep doesn't come into effect in ados before about 1am as opposed to 11pm in adults which is why they suffer a 2-hr time lag and need to sleep in at the weekend to make up for the lost sleep.
• they have immature brains resulting in impetuous behaviour and recklessness
• they have boundless energy
• parents should stand firm and not give in during arguments
• ados should communicate with parents more to instil trust
• ados should not be on the computer just before bed as the luminous screen inhibits melatonin.

There was a mother with 14-yr old twin girls who was insisting they came back from a night out at 11pm. I found this excellent because that is curfew time for my eldest and he's always moaning about it saying it's too early.

I also know you should pick your battles and not fight every front because that is too exhausting and ends up being counter-productive.

There's been quite a lot in the papers recently about experts debunking some of the most recent child-centred parenting theories. I thought most of them were a load of rubbish anyway so was happy to see that the new thinking confirms this.

Of course, my eldest thinks he's incredibly hard done-by but I think that's not such a bad thing because when he's eventually free he'll get to appreciate his freedom all the more. And with a bit of luck he'll want to leave home to savour its sweetness.

Unorganised Agropolis

My youngest's teacher was on strike yesterday. I'm amazed that we've got as far as January actually without trouble. I can't remember what they were striking about, but it was probably the usual.

What it meant was that I sent my son to school anyway in the morning, to fester in the obligatory set-up of adult presence at the school (no teaching was involved) and took the afternoon off so he could run about in the sun.

I also had his friend, C, as requested. After a mega lunch of ham and parsley sauce, they went to kick a ball around in the stadium and wear themselves out nicely. As the collège teachers were on strike too, there were other boys around doing exactly the same thing.

Then I went into yummy mummy mode and decided that as they were supposed to be at school, they should do something with a passing nod at education. So I took them to the Agropolis Museum to see the spice exhibition which opened that day. We went with some friends and turned up quite a merry band - 6 kids aged 4-12, 2 adults.

The place was empty when we got there just after 3.30pm and we were their first customers. No need to book then... We had to pay, natch (10Eur for 2 kids and me), and I asked for the kiddy activity booklet. Pas de chance, it wasn't ready or they hadn't received it and the inauguration was next week and they'd have it for then. I was not impressed. Imagine the Science Museum opening a special exhibition and not having everything ready for Day 1 with 800 people queueing outside to get in.

As it was, the kids had no structure to the visit. I had never been there before so had no idea what to expect. We started off in the African food section where they wandered around not reading the panels of information, not finding anything to climb on, touch, play with, and rapidly lost interest. They perked up a bit at a video which showed some Pygmys of Northern Congo cook some larvae, extract wild honey from up a tree and dig for tubers, then found the larvae in a jar in glass case and made suitably revolted noises.

Replete with African info, they went to the Mediterranean section, as yet unfinished. They banged some bags containing herbs to guess what the smell was - the fun was in the banging, not the smelling - and wandered around looking vaguely at the rest. When my friend and I tried to engage them in some information, their attention span lasted a massive 10 seconds before they wandered off.

I felt frustrated that what could have been quite interesting with the proper support - a structured booklet to fill in - turned into a bit of a waste of time. I did learn, however, that the ancient Egyptians gave workers a clove of garlic a day to keep them healthy enough for their building projects.

Conclusion - disappointing but with some potential. Maybe that sort of place is best left to school visits when they pull out all the educational stops.

13 and bored

"I'm bored" declared my eldest this morning. Welcome to the club, I thought as I mopped the floor.
"What can I do?" he said.
"Nothing I suggest" I replied, "no teen ever does what their parents suggest on principle."
Sure enough, my ideas of reading, piano, guitar, tidying the garden and cycling fell on deaf ears, or rather, incredulous dismissive ones.

I asked him to think of the advantages and disadvantages of playing on the XBox and to present his case of why he should be allowed to play on it as much as he liked. His best argument was that 'it passed the time'. Even I could do better than that! As I disagreed with his ideal of 4hrs per weekend day and 2hrs per week day, he now has to find an interest, and preferably a cheap one, or find a way to finance an expensive one.

Result, he's sulking.

I suggested he start a blog - "13 and bored, what can I do?" to elicit ideas from other kids about what they do outside the realm of electronic games. As I said to him, no one's going to be impressed that he's a whizz on Assassin's Creed II when he goes for an interview somewhere, whether university or a job. Or, when asked why he does mountain biking, that 'my mum forced me'...

Motivation is somewhat lacking.

Reluctant Reader

This is the time of year for the first parents' evenings. One gathers in the classroom, maybe even sitting in one's child's chair, and listens to the teacher describing the programme for the year.

Every year, my fear is that there'll be a parent who starts asking questions and then can't shut up. For some reason, they feel obliged to respond to the teacher's answer, and then to the teacher's response to his/her response and so on. I've been close to banging my head on the desk with frustration before now. Instead I, and others, start making signs of impatience such as fidgeting, sighing, looking at one's watch, coughing and scraping the chair.

Happily, this year both meetings were over pretty quickly. Frankly, there's not that much to be said because if you want to know the programme you can just google it, so there's little point the teacher going into much detail. What is important to know is how often books have to be signed, whether there's going to be a school trip, how to get help if needed and whether the kids have started the year well. One hour max. Any more and it's because you've got parents with verbal diarrhea who can't shut up.

The meeting for my eldest finished after 40 minutes. I was most impressed. Obviously his form teacher is an efficient, organised woman who says what she has to say with a minimum of fuss so she can get home too. Great stuff. I asked her if there was a reading list of 'suitable' books kids of 13 should be reading for pleasure as well as being part of their literary education. She said she didn't have one but was sure the school librarian would, and I just have to send her a note.

I asked this question last year too and got nowhere. I'll be interested to see whether such a list is forthcoming this year. While UK newspapers are full of information on essential books and kids' classics, the French don't seem to do this. I wonder if it's a way the elite have of keeping the plebs down. If you need to ask, you're already a loser... I'm foreign though, so that doesn't count.

I was looking for some books for my eldest today on Amazon. It's his birthday soon and the idea is to get him some books as well as stuff he wants... So here is the list, including suggestions by my TWDB as well as those by Amazon.fr:

The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas

Dune, tomes 1&2 by Frank Herbert

L'or et la boue by Christophe Lambert

Un tirailleur en enfer by Yves Pinguilly (this one and the one above are stories about WWI)

La chartreuse de Parme by Stendhal (his chef d'oeuvre)

Viper au poing by Hervé Bazin, a largely autobiographical account of his traumatic childhood at the hands of his odious, cruel mother.

So there's a bit of everything there - family, war, fantasy, ripping yarn, love, history, philosophy. Quite a fab collection actually, and even though it's all in French, I might even read some of it myself.

Has anyone got any suggestions for French books that would appeal to a reluctant 13yr-old reader without being condescending, overtly pc or pandering to the 'right on' crowd? Let me know, answers on a postcard...

La Rentree de Moncherimoncoeurs

All noses are back to the grindstone now the boys are back at school, and for the moment, no one has gone on strike.

It may not last, however, as the teachers' unions are revving up to make a Big Fuss about declining numbers of teachers and rising numbers of pupils per class. My youngest, in CE2, has two teachers this year - one doing Mondays and Tuesdays, the other doing Thursdays and Fridays. Hopefully neither will go on strike...

Also revving up to make big fusses, apparently, are parents. It's the pushy parent syndrome, French style. An article in Le Figaro tells some fab stories of parents who will not accept their darlings can do any wrong, and even if they do, it's up to the school to clear up as it's our taxes which finance their jobs... The little darlings are referred collectively as 'Moncherimoncoeur'. One such was forever breaking up the school toilets and the mother was summoned, whereupon she said that if MCMC breaks the toilets 1000 times, it's up to the administration and teachers to fix them 1001 times.

Another wrote in to say that 'We have worked. MCMC knows his lesson off by heart, it's out of the question that he copy it out again. We think that this harassment should stop immediately.'

Other parents believe that teachers should be more involved in bringing up the kids, to make up for, I suppose, the lack of parenting they get at home. So, on the one hand, parents have over-exaggerated demands on teachers whilst being totally laxist, parentally, themselves, and it's the lawyers who are the worst behaved.

It's all Lionel Jospin's fault - how nice to have a scapegoat! In 1987 he brought in a new set of regulations to schools which put kids at the centre of education and accorded parents the role of 'Parent d'élève' which made them an integral part of the whole education community.

This, in hindsight, was a disaster, and Sarko has promised to abolish it, but it's probably too late. Pushy parents have got the bit between their teeth and it's unlikely they'll let go now. In some respects, this can be good, because there are some terrible teachers. If they had carte blanche to do as they liked, the situation would be no better and probably much worse (for the kids they taught).

Many teachers are not motivated, are not interested in developing lessons with new technologies or changing any of their habits. If it aint broke... But it does mean that kids can go through 4yrs of collège in the 21st century and barely flick a finger over a keyboard. They don't even learn to type!

It is heartening, though, that there are other teachers who believe in education and motivation to learn. They strive for excellence and spread their expertise as widely as possible on the internet. One such is Dr Raynal at Toulouse University who has set up a super website specialising in SVT lessons (science). Especially good are the lessons for 3e. He also has a series of links to websites for other subjects. Thankfully, it only takes a few on the internet, for a maximum to benefit.

We live in a fabulously democratic age.

Pushy Mummy

There's a woman who rings me up from time to time about sending her son to the same school as my eldest.

She's one of those types who, as soon as she starts talking, you want to slap her. Her son is in the same class as the daughter of a friend, which is how she got my number, and apparently he's a disruptive little pest.

Of course, he's an angel to his mother and as far as she's concerned, the school has let him down and she wants to send him private. Thankfully he's in the year below my son, so he won't be buggering up his lessons.

She first rang me to find out how to apply for the school, saying that her son did sailing with someone who could 'piston' her with the director. Why she needed to talk to me, if she had such illustrious contacts, I'm not sure... I just told her to write and ask for a form, fill it in before the deadline, and send it off. Contacts, I said, are not necessary.

Eton, it is not.

Then she called me to suggest we could carpool. I was evasive because I could see myself being the sole provider as she has 'such a busy and important job' that it takes her away from her 'mansion' often to Paris. In fact, I fully intend to send my son to school on his bike as often as possible, and definitely when he starts late, so that may scupper carpooling quite effectively. I do so care about polluting the planet and keeping my darling fit and healthy...

Today she called asking for my son's maths lessons. Her kid is in 6e and mine is a year ahead in 5e. Her kid has problems with maths, so the logical solution for her is to take the next year's course and force feed it to him during the summer. I asked her how she could expect him to understand lessons ahead in 5e if he hadn't yet grasped the maths from 6e. I was told rather snippily that it was one way of looking at things...

No wonder the kid is a nightmare...

So I told her that a) my son may have chucked everything already; b) even if he hasn't, having his lessons may not be much help (without the book) as he is not exactly Mr Meticulous... I really don't see the point, but she says she wants to see the methodology of the prof, but then maybe there'll be a different prof.

And it's well-known that teachers HATE pushy parents pre-empting them by going over lessons beforehand, using god knows what technique which then has to be unlearnt and relearnt properly.

I'm getting my son to go over this year's work on the CNED site of summer lessons. I suggested she might do the same but no, she want's my son's scrappy bits of photocopied A4 notes.

Nuts, the woman is nuts.

Alfie it ain't

Alfie Pattern, the kid who thought he'd fathered a child at 12 has found out that he is not the dad. No surprise there.

No surprise either to learn that Chantelle had not been telling the truth when she said she was a virgin and that Alfie was her only boyfriend. Unfortunately for her, five other boys came forward and said they had slept with her in her bedroom at night with her mother's knowledge.

It was somewhat surprising then that Chantelle's mum also said that Chantelle was a virgin when she bedded Alfie. The concept of truth is obviously hazy in that family.

So who is the proud father? Another kid of 15, Tyler Barker. He'd suspected it might be him apparently as he'd kept track of when he and Chantelle had slept together. Surprisingly, he did consider the idea of birth control, but assumed Chantelle would take the morning-after pill. There's nothing like experience to teach you bitter lessons. He now regrets he ever met her.

I'm sure they can all take heart in the knowledge that they've all become celebrities, however. This is something which some people seem to strive for despite having no creative talent. These days you don't need talent, you just need to be infamous. I'm sure Alfie has a great future ahead of him appearing on reality shows of varying crassness.

Chantelle is less fortunate. She's now known for being the National Slut which makes her very upset, but hey, you can't have everything, can you? I'm sure The Sun is keeping her in condoms and nappies nicely, so a little infamy is nothing compared to all the attention and national celebrity, is there?

And I expect that Maisie will grow up just like her mother, as Chantelle is like hers. RDV in 15yr's time...

Fac off!

There is a widely-held belief in France that teachers ill educate other peoples' children so as to reduce the competition with their own.

You might guffaw at such a notion, but I've heard it said on more than one occasion by more than one person, and also read it in Le Figaro in the remarks to various articles on education. Who believes this? The professional classes, to start with.

This weekend I've been hearing some of the horrors of the education system both private and public. One parent was telling me how her 13yr old daughter's private school science teacher doesn't teach, he assigns a subject to a small group of students who then have to present to the class. It sounds very modern and with it, does it not? The only problem is, the kids understand nothing. You need a minimum of teaching before you can grasp the essentials enough to widen your knowledge of a subject. Let alone be responsible for teaching your peers.

The English teacher's lessons are so full of complicated grammatical content with arrows and lines and colours everywhere, that at the end of three years the kids are all terrified of the subject and have yet to open their mouths to say anything.

Certain teachers tell their pupils not to ask their parents to help them with maths homework because they won't understand the latest methods and will just end up confusing them. That gem came from a public school.

So parents are shunted aside in the education of their children, and teachers make such a bad job of it themselves that it's not surprising Michel Godet, in his Figaro article, declares that there are "no more good students at university". University is chosen by students as a last resort if they cannot get into a preparatory class for the grandes écoles, or selective higher education such as schools of engineering or commerce, or the IUT (technology institutes).

If you're at the fac, unless it's for a professional qualification such as law or medicine, you're a loser. Naturally, it's the students from the lower social strata that suffer the most. The proportion of richer students is half that of poor students yet there are ten times more of them in selective higher education.

Teachers know what's needed to access the best in education; other parents have to network to find out because there's no guarantee that your child's teacher has his best interests at heart.

There's no concept of the 'rounded child' in French education even though they might give lip service to the idea. According to the kids themselves, teachers come in, do their classes and go home. They don't care about the kids, are not interested in kids with problems, and just want a room of silent robots who, whether they work or not makes no difference.

For a child to get anywhere in France, he either has to have pushy parents, or an incredibly strong idea of what he wants to do and the motivation to do it. Otherwise he'll end up at any one of the losers' facs studying for a useless diploma that is of no interest to employers.

Or become a teacher...

Poor Alfie

In the story of young parents Chantelle and Alfie, I cannot be the only one who is harbouring a nasty suspicion that Chantelle's mother, Mrs Steadman, has been manipulating her daughter and Alfie Pattern from the start.

Chantelle is 15 and Alfie 13, and he is supposed to be the father of her daughter, Maisie who was conceived when Alfie was only 12.

What makes my flesh creep is that Mrs Steadman knew her daughter was having sex with other boys, even supposedly catching her at it, although she denies this hotly. Despite the fact that her daughter was sexually active, Alfie was allowed to stay over regularly at her house, sleeping in Chantelle's room, and even keeping a school uniform there.

Chantelle, who, tragically, must be gaining the reputation as the biggest slut in England, had sex with Alfie too, inevitably I suppose, although they don't know for sure that Alfie is the father.

So, if Chantelle's mum knew that her daughter was sexually active, and encouraged Alfie to sleep with her, it could only be because she wanted everyone to think that the baby was fathered by the youngest boy. She would know that this would result in huge publicity, and, by consequence, huge amounts of money.

The whole business makes me think of Shannon Matthews and her evil mother who had her 'kidnapped' for financial gain. Mrs Matthews got eight years in jail.

Chantelle's mum seems to have actively encouraged her daughter's pregnancy and then spread the rumour that Alfie must be the father despite the fact that he was only 12 when they had sex. Doesn't it seem fishy? Six other boys have come forward as potential fathers to the baby, all older than Alfie and all saying they had sex with Chantelle around about the time the baby was conceived.

Alfie will be opening the DNA paternity test in front of the cameras. Poor kid. How exploitative can you get? Is this what modern parenting has sunk to? His parents should be protecting him, not throwing him to the lions! Formerly, kids from deprived families were sent out to work and went down the mines, up chimneys and into the mills. We thought we had moved on from those terrible times. Now though, they are kidnapped or practically prostituted and then exploited for publicity and huge financial gain.

One wonders how many other hard-faced weasel old bats are plotting the use of their children in some sordid tale to be used and abused by the tabloids in exchange for celebrity status and loads of dosh. Mrs Matthews is serving time. If Mrs Steadman is guilty of deliberately lying about Alfie's paternity for financial gain, I hope she also goes down for fraud. They would have a lot to chat about in prison, she and Mrs M...

Perfect Wednesday

Yesterday the weather offered one of those paradisical days of warmth, resplendent sun and blue blue sky. October as only the south can do.

Yesterday was a Wednesday, a day when most are at work, and if they're not, they're mothers ferrying their darlings about from one activity to the next and running errands in-between. I was one of those mothers. I thus sat in stuffy rooms, waiting; sat in my car, driving; and when all that was finished I had a mountain of ironing that had been lying about reproachfully on the sofa for at least a week...

My TWDB on the other hand was not running errands, or at work, or sitting in stuffy rooms. He took one look at the weather in the morning and knew that he just simply couldn't go to work. It would be a crime not to take advantage of such glorious weather. His motorbike was calling a siren's song of adventure, solitude and far-flung places.

I thus got a text message round about lunch time telling me he was in Les Saintes Maries de la Mer smack bang in the middle of the Camargue. He was following a canal, along a road that had petered out to a path. He was totally alone except for a bunch of flamingoes; the silence was sweet and he wished I was there. I did too.

The Camargue is a magical place of silence, mystery and beauty. I have been there both on safari in a jeep, and on one of those bateau mouche type boats. The safari was more fun because it was just us and the guide, and he took us off-road into the heart of the wetlands. The boat smelt of diesel, and there were 20-odd other tourists which spoiled the whole sensation of isolation and adventure. It was just a boat trip down a canal.

Refreshed by his experiences, my TWDB rode back via Aigues Mortes, which you can enter by bike, but not by car. It's a walled town, smaller than Carcassonne, but still impressive with fabulous ramparts that boys especially love running along. There he grabbed a sarnie and made his way back home.

Then he called me to ask if I was busy. I was. I had to go to the Mairie to make applications for id cards for the boys, and collect them from footie. That was a shame, he said, as he was just out again and heading for the Pic St Loup.

Wednesday afternoons are not 'off', they just involve unpaid work. While my TWDB was zooming about on country lanes zigging and zagging, breathing in the smells of the garrigue, fresh air and fun, I was chained to the ironing board and a hot oven.

Sometimes it's hard to be a woman, especially if you're a mother. Fortunately, it brings much joy too. Otherwise, I'm sure I'd resign!

A Witch By Any Other Name...

I think my youngest's teacher is a witch. Not one with black pointy hat and a toadstool growing on the end of her nose, but a witch all the same.

Last night I went to the parents' evening for his class. I had tried to go last Tuesday because he had assured me that that was when it was, and as he's usually right about such things, I believed him. Unfortunately, that was the time he got it wrong... I turned up wondering why I was the only parent around to find the teacher sitting at a desk, bespectacled, marking books. Upon seeing me, she looked up over her glasses in one of those frigid French women of a certain age ways and asked frostily if she could help.

I asked about the parents' meeting and instead of just answering with a 'no, it's next week' she went all snippy on me and said she assumed I hadn't read the 'cahier de liaison'. Well, obviously not - I don't spend my days waiting until my youngest gets home whereupon I can leap on his school-bag and fish out his cahier. This apparently makes me a bad, uncaring mother in her eyes. Like us parents have got nothing better to do with our time (like go out to work to earn the crust that pays for the rented roof over our heads and puts fresh food on the table) than be obliged to read the damned cahier Every Evening!

That was the day I declared officially that I disliked my youngest's teacher.

Yesterday I confirmed my official declaration. She was trying to do the 'caring teacher' act, greeting parents as they arrived with a handshake that enfolded you in a vice-like grip just daring you to challenge her as Boss. She was smiling, but the smile didn't reach her eyes, and she reminded me very strongly of a reptile.

She's one of those small mighty French women. Must be 55 if she's a day, with a voice that cuts glass, short 'big' hair, speaking the most impeccable French you've ever heard. All the parents were suddenly on their best regressive behaviour making every effort to speak grammatically correctly so they wouldn't get a smack...

She lacked human warmth which is why I made the association with reptiles I suppose. To impart all that she had to tell us, she read from reams of paper - the academic cursus, extra activities like sport, English and music (they'll be doing frisbee in sport at some point!), the rules and regulations, and all the things she wants to do to ensure our little darlings end the year well.

I found it very jarring, this contrast between what she read and the sincerity with which she read it. I decided to ask a question, whether my youngest could leave the school and come home by himself at the end of the day. We live 3 minutes from the school, with no major road to cross, and at the weekend, he's going down there all the time.

I detected a sharp intake of breath and she gave me the 'bad parent' look again. All I wanted to know was whether she was obliged to physically hand my son to me, or his brother or another person. There was a ruffle of disapproval amongst the other parents - what sort of a mother was I who could ask such a question. Didn't I know the Risks?

Well, the answer was 'no', she didn't have to hand him over (as they do in the class below), but she suggested that it was probably a good idea to have my son picked up. I do pick him up, or send my eldest, but at some point, he's going to be able to come home by himself, and I just wanted to know what the rules were. So now I know. There are no rules. Just moral blackmail.

Often at these meetings you get parents who just can't shut up. They ask a question, it gets answered, then they feel they have to justify why they asked it, or they repeat themselves, then that gets answered too, and they go on. It drives me nuts. There were one or two candidates for not shutting up last night, but they managed to restrain themselves. After 30minutes we were done, and I rushed out, rushed home, and put the kettle on.

Then I checked the cahier de liason...

Battle Stations

Last night I felt I'd spent a weekend being wrung out and forced through an emotional mangle. As I sipped life-restoring nectar, on my TWDB's advice (as he couldn't be there to proffer it to my trembling lips) - a delectable rosé from Château Puech Haut, I pondered the likelihood of surviving the next 10 years without ending up a gibbering wreck - years when my eldest and then youngest will be teenagers.

After winning Saturday's battle with said eldest over enjoyable, healthy activities, the weekend war continued with a suggestion that we go and see the Courbet exhibition that I hadn't managed to see previously. Why yesterday in particular? Well, it was the first Sunday in the month and would therefore be FREE - no mean consideration.

My TWDB was out of town, so we went with pal B whose idea it had been anyway. On hearing this, my eldest's hands were thrown up in horror and despair, Gallic utterances along the lines of 'oh no/it's gonna be so boring/I don't want to go/let me stay at home' etc. came out in a wail accompanied by a fine line in sulky grimaces and black looks. Frankly, anyone would think I'd suggested he go and see 'Angelina Ballerina' at the cinema instead of a renowned exhibition of paintings by one of the leading French painters of the 19th century which included the world famous 'L'Origine du Monde'.

He didn't actually have any say in the matter, despite saying a lot, and grumpily went and sat in the car. His younger brother was saving his devilry for later, lulling me into a false sense of security by happily taking charge of the sandwiches from the back seat.

"Let's go over lunch time when there'll be fewer people" had said pal B... along with enough people to send the queue round the block. An hour later we got in, the boys having spent much of that in the playground opposite which managed to wind my youngest up into a state of excitement which he proceeded to expend inside the museum. To my despair.

I'm not a great one for portraits, which was one of Courbet's means of earning his living so there were lots, but I did like his mise en scene where he painted himself doing something or being someone. There he was in despair tearing his hair out with a wild look on his face, or he'd be sitting at a table eyeing the world cynically as he leaned against the wall smoking a pipe, or he'd pretend to be a cellist, or a wounded man, and so on.

What with his self-portraits and his depictions of women in states of undress including 'Sleep (Le Sommeil)' showing two naked women sleeping together, he comes across as rather a jolly fellow.

The boys were most fascinated by two paintings showing a country scene of a pond by a cave painted on two successive years. They saw that they were the same and then naughtily suggested that they might be a 'Spot the Difference' pair. My youngest stopped tormenting my eldest and slipping through gaps in walls while he searched for 'les sept differences'.

As we got to the end, chronologically, my eldest declared his relief that Courbet was dead so we could go home, which we did, via a drinkie sitting outside on the Place de la Comedie. On arrival home, my eldest sprinted off to see his friends and that was the end of him until 7.30pm. I was quite relieved really...

Weekend war results: Battle 1 won by me. Battle 2 won by me. War won by my eldest.

Damn!

Coddle Them Not

An article in the Telegraph today suggests that a gradual backlash is brewing against the 'all must have prizes' culture. Thank goodness, I say. I think it says more about the people who brought about the idea that no little darling should be thwarted than about the merits of the idea itself.

Can't you just imagine all those frustrated little losers who have grown up vowing revenge on coming last now bossing everyone into believing that children should never be allowed to lose?

I was not a loser at school but never felt I was unduly mistreated when I didn't come first in something, which was often. Dealing with frustration is an important lesson and it's best to learn it young. The shock will come in the big nasty adult world where you don't get a medal for turning up on time or sitting a full ten minutes in your seat without getting up or throwing your pencil at your neighbour.

Neither am I at my kids' beck and call. We do things together, but I also leave them to their own devices and ignore them when I'm busy with something else. Yesterday I spent much of the day in bed as I was feeling poorly. Did they whine and moan that they were bored? No, they just got on doing exactly what they wanted and I didn't care what it was as long as it was quiet. However, I do make it a mission to ensure they know all about frustration. The better they can deal with it now, the more they'll understand that it's not the end of the world if they don't get their own way later.

The mollycoddling method of child rearing is perverse in its concept. If you consider that rearing a child is all about preparing it for adulthood, what worse method is there than constantly telling him or her that she is the greatest thing since sliced bread and no one is allowed to think otherwise. How could this possibly be a brilliant idea? I'm all for helping a child believe in himself, having confidence and being brave, but you won't do that by synthetic methods such as always praising, certificates for holding a knife right, or uncompetitive sports. They know something is not right and hopefully despise it as much as any right-minded person.

You'll get adults in years to come describing how they survived their mollycoddled childhoods just like kids did in those years when corporal punishment was the norm.

I'm consoled by the fact that a mother's place is in the wrong, so whatever we do, they'll undoubtedly throw it back at us in years to come, so while I'm at it, a good dose of benign neglect will save my sanity and hopefully not ruin theirs.