Mysterious Cousin

It would appear that language barriers do not deter child’s play. In a similar way to infants playing side-by-side, kids will play freely with one another despite not understanding a word the other says.

My children’s ten-year-old cousin flew solo from France for the first time last week. In the lead-up to his much-anticipated visit, I’d taught them some basic French words, which they’d been practising.

This was the first time the twins were meeting their mysterious French cousin and Master Eight was too young to remember their last encounter when he was one. All he had to go on was a photo on his wall and several of the two of them together in his album.

Finally the day arrived when they would meet. Master Eight, who’d already claimed him as his friend, raced into his nana’s house in search of his long-lost cousin before I’d even parked the car. Apparently they bumped into each other down the hall.

“Bonjour,” Master Eight declared boldly.

“Bonjour,” replied the blond-haired, blue-eyed garcon. And with that they were firm friends. They were already walking off together by the time I made it inside.

That evening, I noticed their adjacent play was, at times, much the same as when they last met, nearly eight years earlier, except this time with a lot of hand gestures and body language.

Apart from the ipad, hide ‘n seek proved a hit – who needs to speak the same language to hide and seek? – and at one point I heard Master Ten teaching Master Eight how to count in French.

So well did they hit it off that Master Eight stayed for a sleepover. I guess at least there wouldn’t have been much talking late into the night!

They continued teaching each other their language and when it got too hard, asked my brother, fluent in French, to translate. According to Master Eight, his French cousin needed to practise his ‘r’s’ and according to Master Ten, his English-speaking cousin needed to practise his (guttural-sounding) ‘kkkkrrrrrr’s’.

As for my own bilingual skills, it turns out it’s not only the Parisians who have no time for someone with broken French, as I discovered many years ago while buying a crepe off the side of the boulevard and delightedly putting my five-years French training to the test. Even my ten-year-old nephew rolled his eyes at my try-hardy attempts, which can only have got rustier over time.

The first day he came to my house, for some familiarity, I showed him the photo in Master Eight’s room of himself several years earlier with his dog.

“Voici, c’est tu avec ton chien,” I said pointing at the picture and this making sense in my head.

He looked before looking back at me questionably.

“Chien? Dog?” Had I got that word right? “Woof,” I attempted.

He flashed an ill-supressed grin, clearly deciding his aunty Jodi was a tad nutty, and quickly left the room.

Undeterred and determined to put my five year’s study to use, I steadfastly refused to give up. The next day we walked the loop walkway. The kids, who’d scootered ahead, know they have certain points along the way where they have to stop and wait for the adults.

“Continues tout droit, et arretes a la chat,” I instructed.

He shot me a baffled look but followed his cousins nonetheless, whom I’d already told to continue on ahead and stop at the seat.

“Was that the word for chair?” I asked my brother when he caught up. “I couldn’t remember the word for seat so I said ‘chat’ for ‘chair’.”

“Um, you told him to stop at the cat.”

No wonder the poor boy looked confused.

Culturally, he eventually adjusted to wearing bare feet – something unheard of where he comes from, didn’t quite get the hang of hugging in greeting as opposed kissing cheeks, nor the concept of a mince and cheese pie, although the pastry was familiar, and was delighted to see his first kiwi.

Both the meal and bed times also came as a cultural shock. One weekend, during a sleep-over at my house, after struggling to eat an early dinner by French standards, I tried putting the two older boys to bed at 9pm.

“Dans le lit,” (in the bed) was all I could think of to say, when he was still hovering over his mattress on the floor of Master Eight’s room.

“Pourquoi?” he asked.

“A cause de il est neuf heures,” I replied, stating the time to be nine o’ clock.

The only word I understood from his response was ‘dix’ for ten so I took it he was telling me his bedtime was ten o’clock.

I looked at him disbelievingly and, once again, indicated towards the clock and his bed.

“I think I had a little argument with your son about his bedtime,” I said to my brother later.

“Yeah, he told me aunty Jodi doesn’t believe him that his bed time is 10 o’clock on weekends,” he grinned.

I’m not sure if he ended up thinking his aunty Jodi was mean or nutty or both but I must have made some sense for, by the end of his trip, he was seeking me out when his father wasn’t around to translate, much to my pleasure. And, when it came to saying goodbye at the end of his holiday, after kissing me on the cheek, my affable French nephew tolerated a hug.

School's Back

If you were wondering why a mass exodus of parents was outside school gates sans children and grinning like Cheshire Cats this week, it’s because school’s back. Just in case you hadn’t figured it out.
“Who’s excited for ‘getting rid of the kids’ day!!! Love you really girls xx,” read a Facebook message from one over-the-holidays mum earlier that morning.
She was quick to get a lot of ‘likes’ from fellow over-it stay-at-home parents who had, no doubt, also posted their own pleasure in retrieving their sanity.
As a working mum, this year was a little different for me. I hadn’t been driven round the bend from squabbling, bored children and had, instead, suffered mother’s guilt, dropping the kids off at a school holiday programme each day. The guilt was needless - they had a ball and the two weeks I did have off was quality family time.
Despite the fact I was feeling a little regretful that the holidays were over and some of the plans I’d had, involving spending more one-on-one time with the kids, never eventuated, the excitement was contagious.
It was like Christmas within those school gates. Kids were buzzing round, reconnecting with long lost pals whom they hadn’t seen for six weeks. There were new class rooms to explore, teachers to meet, stories to exchange and Miss Six wanted to show off her pierced ears to her friends.
I left Master Eight fast-pacing it across the grounds to catch up with a mate he’d spotted, and went to settle the twins into their room, promising to be back to come into his class. It didn’t take long for any shyness to thaw out. Soon they were playing ‘spot the friend’ through their new class room window, before they could no longer contain their excitement and took off outside.
I took my leave and went back to Master Eight’s class, where he wasn’t anywhere to be found. Never mind, I introduced myself to his teacher before going on a search which incorporated the circumference of the school.
It was reunions all round for both parents and children. While searching for Master Eight, the twins saw me and sped over with their accumulating posse. Then Miss Six spied her BFF making her way across the field and hid behind my legs. After all that talk about finally seeing her and showing off her earrings and she was too shy to acknowledge her!
Just then Master Eight, having reunited with his gang, was spotted hiding behind a playground structure. It turns out they’d been following me during my search and having a great laugh at my confusion.
I dragged him back to his new room to show me before offering a clearly disinterested Master Eight a goodbye kiss and cuddle. They ran away and, now a surplus to requirements, I left the raucous behind.
Content that my lot were happy behind me and thinking about the peace and quiet and about-to-be spotless house ahead, I found myself exchanging grins with the parents waltzing in with their skipping school children. In fact, such was the contagiousness of the mood, we just stopped short of a high-five.

Matriarch

The little boy and girl sat on the sill of my mother’s childhood home for many years – their story ingrained - rendering them part of the family furniture.
They were originally spotted in a shop window by a beautiful 16-year-old, strolling along the streets of Blenheim with her fiancé during the second World War.
She stopped to admire them. Her fiancé took note and, later, secretly returned to the shop and purchased them for her.
Two years later he was killed when his plane went down over Kapiti Island.
Although later marrying a wonderful man, she treasured those porcelain ornaments and, after moving to Whangarei, passed down the story to her subsequent children, their children and her grand-children’s offspring.
One house move later and the youthful figurines now take pride of place in the bedroom. On a recent visit, I overheard my nana telling the story to my daughter, after she had found her admiring them, much like I used to. I stood outside the door and listened as she regaled her captivated six-year-old audience.
It was a special moment.
But although her beloved figurines have been captured in eternal youth, this week my ‘dear old nan’ turned 90.
To mark the occasion, last weekend we held a party in the theme of her favourite colour purple. All the family came from across the globe – including first cousins in their late teens who I had never met. There was live music, professional catering, a full bar for the young ones, both moving and hilarious speeches accompanied with champagne - all in beautiful outdoor surroundings.
Unfortunately you don’t reach the age of 90 without losing many dear friends along the way and nana’s once vast circle was reduced to one large table. Despite some with ailments and grievances of their own, they all turned out in their finest and it was truly grand to witness their easy comradeship and banter across the table, like old times.
It takes someone pretty special to bring that many people together and my nana, the matriarch, was the reason.
The story of the porcelain boy and girl’s origins has been passed down through the generations and while experiencing many triumphs and tribulations since she first laid eyes on them, my nan still remains that same beautiful, graceful lady.