‘Twas the night before Christmas…

… when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!

The whole nine yards

Tuesday I woke up with my head in my ass (pardon my french), noticing the first tell-tale signs that something awful was going to happen. My head felt like a melon (again, a french expression), and my throat was swollen. Yes, dear sympathisers, there was a cold coming on. I had already written that my older sister was dragging her sickness around, and since her visit over the week-end the little one got a stuffed nose as well. My mom was already having cough problems since we saw my sister on the Monday before. I was able to hold up the fort until then, but alas, even my super-power immune system which has been trained on wet hair outside and old doubtful food cannot hold forever. Yes, I do get a tad dramatic when I’m sick. But this couldn’t have come at a worse time. Right before Christmas – where there is so much to do and to eat!

Speaking of food, have I said yet that I’m eating pretty badly over here? Not only can I scratch sport from the program for these two weeks, but I’ve also been on a strict diet of carbs and sugar at snacking intervals. I have officially had to loosen my belt by one hole, it is that bad. New years resolution number one: watch the food intake and exercise accordingly.

So that morning I did not care that the little one spent her time in front of the TV or didn’t want to eat anything. Instead, I couch potatoed with her. My mom was out in Paris to eat lunch with her guy, which also met that it was up to me to pick up my older sister when she got to the train station (she had gone back to Paris Sunday evening). Because of course it would have been to complicated to organize themselves so that they could drive back together. Do you know what this means, Internet? Do you?! It means I would have to drive – by myself – in french traffic! Oh, the horror! Plus, with a small child in the back. And not in a tank. Long story short, the legendary tardiness of my sister pulled through, allowing enough time for the others to come back before I needed to pick her up. Dropped the keys and car papers back in my moms hand – danger averted.

Behind the eight ball

Monday morning started off with another round of babysitting. I had been up the night before until about 2 a.m., watching Lost, because it was just so darn suspenseful. This meant that I was still asleep at 10 a.m., when my mom came down to wake me up because she was sick of waiting for me. She had to go do some shopping for Christmas (more food!), which meant she would be gone for about 4 hours. The little one asked me why she takes so long to go grocery shopping, and frankly I don’t know. But she still took the time after that to go visit her guy, which is where the conversation with the little one came up about why our mother sees him so often and that she’d rather it be less. In the mean time, we kept busy. At first, as it is with kids when you give them a choice, the wee one was stuck in front of the TV and didn’t want to eat breakfast. After some time I had enough and just plopped a (chocolate sundae flavored) pop tart in front of her, which she was willing to eat. Then she asked for a crêpe with Nutella. Sure, it’s not the healthiest stuff, but at least she was eating and it’s not like this was worse than anything else she normally gets.

When my mom got back, around two thirty, she thought it would be nice to go eat lunch at the little Italian place “downtown” (if you recall, this place is a hick town). Even though the french usually eat late, we were the last ones there and the kitchen was about to close. My mother knows the guy who runs the place and called before hand. She also warned me that he calls everyone “ma puce“. He also wears a hat all the time and pretends he’s a gondoliere. I absolutely loathe that (the puce thing). Not only is it belittling and therefore derogative towards women, but also: I don’t know this guy! It’s slimy and creepy and I hate it when someone I don’t know calls me pet names. People I do know, know better than to do that. It reminds me that my moms guy calls her “ma poupée“. Beurk. But everyone in there was calling each other ”bébé” and what not, so I tried to ignore it. It didn’t help, though, that as we were leaving he said I should come back Friday, when they have a dance, and he could introduce me to a friend of his. To top it off, this guy was my moms age and he thought I was 17 (are you kidding me?!). Double beurk. Since we had had a kir as an apéritif and red wine with the food, I really had to hold back to not throw something in his face. Here comes the rage again. These pitiful french men… wannabe machos with the look of a mommasboy. Argh!