Hopscotch and Charades

The French have a soft spot for dogs. Miniature, furry fluff-balls. Dogs are not only permitted, but applauded, as they sashay, Bambi-like into hotel foyers. Our K9 counterparts, also make up an impressive percentage of restaurant clientele - after our first few surprises, we no longer choke on our mussels when a dog barks mid-mouthful.

Dogs in France are special. Their shit doesn’t stink... and therefore is rarely cleaned from the pavement. To avoid getting messy, I designed my own sidewalk style. It’s a combination of rap, hopscotch, and long jump. Australians are obsessed with cleaning up dog poo, so we have bag ties on our dog’s lead, but there they stay. I have never needed to use them. Our dog does her business in our backyard. That’s a husband job.

When did we become so irritated by dog poo? It wasn’t so long ago you could walk your dog worry-free. It made it’s mess, you raised your eyebrows, looked away, frowned, and kept walking. Yes, it was awkward, and we got over it. They were simple days when dogs were dogs and root-perms were cool. Then the sports labels brought us white leather trainers, and before you knew it, poo bags were obligatory on dog walks. Shiny footware for a sterile new world. Nowadays, failure to pick up your poop in NSW sets you back $275.00.

Don’t get me wrong, when it comes to rules I’m all for them, especially in the same sentence as child rearing. Any laziness on our behalf at home, can be reinforced at a good school - especially a good strict Catholic education. Luckily, the closest school to our house in France is a Catholic school. Sure we’re Jewish, but at least they’re only getting brainwashed in a foreign language.

On day one at the school gate, our children were happy and confident. My teenage social clumsiness enveloped me, along with the terror of meeting new people. School parents are a frightening mob anywhere in the world.

The children were made to feel comfortable by a couple of kids they had already met. I casually stood in the playground and overheard two mums catching up. They hadn’t seen each other over the Summer break. One had a bouncing new baby, and the other mum complimented her on how trim and fabulous she looked. I was welcomed into the conversation at this point. When asked how she had managed to lose her baby weight so quickly, the new mum answered, “Boire, vomir, boire, vomir, boire, vomir.” To save you googling it: Drink, vomit, drink, vomit etc. This was the first mum I met. “Enchanté” (pleased to meet you), I said.

She had, after all, made a brave statement. In her defense, she had invented a unique, post-birth diet technique. She looked good too. What’s more she had completely smashed the pinata of my social fears, and sugary comfort spilled all over me. Now feeling completely at ease, I knew we had chosen the right school.

With school comes germs. When our children diagnosed themselves with worms, I went to the pharmacy. Not being fluent in medical French, (but having become very good at charades) my first move was to point to my tummy, make circular movements and grimace. I braced myself for the pharmacist’s answer, which was “Vomir?” Well I knew that word already. “No”. Still refusing to scratch my backside at the front of a queue of well-dressed french ladies, my next move was drawing air squiggles and clutching at my belly. Finally I performed The Worm - a full-body worm wiggle, and she hit the jackpot - “Para-seet?” Oui, oui!! Lucky it wasn’t haemmorrhoids.