Apparently imaginary frogs are OK

So you remember the whole my-kids-will-not-be-believing-in-Santa thing? Well, I'm a hypocrite. The whole time I was destroying Téo's sweet fantasies about a benevolent distributor of presents, I was doing nothing to curb another belief: the frog in his throat.

Yes, Téo believes there is a frog living in his throat.

It all started when mum was here. She often has to clear her throat in the morning, and Téo was curious. She said she had a frog in her throat. He became fascinated.

Since then, every time time he coughs he says it's because of the frog.

Plus he's been opening his mouth wide, showing off the frog to everyone who'll look. Of course, everyone he shows plays along, exclaiming over said frog.

And what have I done? Smiled indulgently and said nothing. Because it is pretty funny.

Last week he went further, saying his throat hurt because le fwog bited me.

I admit that at this point, I felt a few qualms. Before the frog came along, he was able to tell me that his throat hurt because of germs, but that his body was going to kill the germs. He knew some biology. I was proud. I was less proud that he was now attributing the soreness to an imaginary amphibian. I tried to correct him, but no mummy, it's because of le fwog.

And since then? Well, I've let it go. It's cute. It's harmless. And I do like quizzing him about where the frog is when it's not in his throat. You know, le fwog managed to escape! It saw my mouz open, and it hopped out, and den it saw le mouz of grand-maman open, and it hopped into her swoat! Fancy dat!

So then, apparently I feel that letting children believe in popular myths is BAD, but letting them believe in independent and alternative untruths is absolutely FINE AND DANDY.

From my CD collection you'd never guess I'm such an elitist snob.

Getting out of the house

Every now and again I come across a comment saying you are a lazy evil selfish callous cold-hearted monster if you put your kids in childcare. Well, the actual words may be more like kids should stay at home with a parent, but the subtext is clear.

I'm not going to get on any soap box justifying my decision to work, nor my childcare choices. But such comments always make me snort a little.

For the last couple of months, Téo has been begging to go to a garderie (childcare centre). BEGGING. As in Pleeeeaaasssseeee mummy can I go to the garderie? I want to go to the garderie! Please can I go? Please?

We found a garderie at Saas Fe (which meant C and I got in a lot more skiing than we had expected. Yey!) On our way there the first morning, Téo skipped along excitedly telling me all about what he was going to tell his carers. He and Lukan made a beeline for the toys as soon as they arrived, barely even looking up to say goodbye when I left. The next day we decided not to go skiing and to keep the kids with us. Téo sulked. I want to go to le garderie. You are not interesting. (Although, after riding in cable cars, eating chips in a revolving restaurant and going inside a glacier, he did concede that the day hadn't been so bad after all.) The following two mornings they were both happy to be left at the garderie.

We finally got Téo one and a half days a week at a garderie across the valley. When I told him, he squealed in delight. He started last week, and counts the days until the next time he goes.

It's very hard for me to believe he should stay home with me all the time.

Téo I am

So the post I wrote about my own name reminded me of an exchange I had with Téo just before he turned 3, after he yelped for me to come and turn off the TV:

- I'm coming little man
- Ma* not "little man", ma "Téo"
- I'm coming Téo
- Ma not "coming Téo"
- I didn’t call you "coming Téo", I said "I’m coming, comma, Téo"
- Ma not "comma Téo"

* Ma was his word for I, me, je & moi

And what do you think of my newly downloaded photo polaroid converter? The original may be true to life, but I think I like the 70s hue better!

Disintegrating ice

The snow that fell on December 31 lasted for nearly three weeks. Driveways, hedges, fields, gardens, roofs, all remained covered in many centimetres of snow. (This is unusual at this altitude these days.)

Until yesterday, when it warmed up and started to drizzle.

All day today, since early morning, we've heard sporadic loud rumbles and clatterings as the accumulated snow and ice slides down the roof then crashes on the driveway.

It's fairly impressive.

New video!

Would I smell as sweet?

Have you ever thought how odd it is that, in general, we so strongly identify with our names? Names we did not choose for ourselves?

I can't imagine myself as anyone other than Emma D***** - so much so that I absolutely could not change my name once married. Emma M***** would just not be me. Even though really, having my father's family name is just as arbitrary as having C's father's.

It's not even as though my name is unique. I came across the first not-me Emma D***** at age 15. On Facebook there are 212 others. There must be thousands of us out there. But in my mind, I am Emma D*****.

Which makes a well-known writer for a major news publication with my name a bit of a bugbear.

People are always disappointed to find out I am not her.

In the first week at my former job, I had a phone call from a senior person in India, eager to talk to THE Emma D*****. He abruptly hung up when I said I wasn't her. Once my friends called me, all excited about an article they saw by Emma D*****. That phone call didn't last long either.

Today someone once again confused me for her. This time it made me smile, as the other Emma D***** had contacted their boss, a CEO of a major company, about an article for the major news publication, while I was after a biography. Not quite the same league. But still, having to say no, I am not her yet again grates on me.

I'm not jealous of her, I don't have any feeling for her at all, really - after all, I don't even know her. So why do I hate being asked if I am her? Maybe because the fact that she is a famous writer and I am not seems to somehow reflect badly on me? Maybe because I want recognition for my own writing at her level - like all the opinion pieces published in major news publications that I wrote in other people's names?

It all boils down to the name. I feel I am competing with her, simply because we are writers with the same name. Ridiculous, but there you have it.

And a small part me can't help but hope that maybe, just once, she has been confused for me.

Hi there

You know when you need to email someone, a friend you haven't emailed for ages, and the longer you take to email, the harder it is to do because you feel you need to write a long letter instead of a short note to make up for the fact that you haven't written for so long, but there is nothing really newsworthy to fill that long letter?

That is how I feel right now with this blog.

So to sidestep all that awkwardness, I will instead ponder just what it is about old ladies that leads them to make stupid comments about my kids. This is prompted by one such old lady in the supermarket today, who asked if Téo and Lukan were twins.

It's true that a chubby toddler can look disconcertingly big compared to a leaner older sibling, but still. Twins?

Three years ago an old lady in the park asked the same question about Téo - and an African girl. At least in that instance the two children were the same general size and shape. But nevertheless I'm thinking the old ladies need better glasses.

Now, back to that awkwardness. Well actually, back to never say never... at the end of December I opined to friends on how I didn't really see the point of Facebook and Twitter and does everyone really need to know every thought that enters my head and anyway where do people find the time for all this updating and following of thoughts? But, ahem, as some of you may have noticed, I have been a little bit active on Facebook lately. BUT this is only beause I have nothing very interesting to blog about. So, ah, if nothing is happening over here, and you are wondering what's up, then maybe there'll be something over there. Next thing you know, I'll be tweeting too.