Hot visit

The hottest weekend of the year greeted the third baby-visitors of the year. Le beau-frère et la belle-soeur arrived on Friday. The visit soon took on a routine - spend the nights sweating in a hotel room with non-functioning air conditioning, spend the days cooling in the apartment and chilling with their new and unique niece. In between the eating, drinking, playing, and afternoon strolls along the river, there was just about time for a chocolate-buying visit to Les Halles on Saturday morning, a stroll through the craft market and an ice-cream on Sunday morning. All too soon Monday afternoon came round, and it was time to return to their own children, canine variety.

And then there were three once more. La petite continues to grow, grin and occasionally grizzle. Sleeping through the night also continues, with just the occasional hiccup, though coming between 5 and 6am, they aren't really hiccups to complain about.

On the field, ignoring painful events across the Channel, the French championship retains the interest. The battle of the Olympiques on Sunday produced a dramatic game. Les Gones went 2-0 up after les Marseillais were wrongly denied an opening goal, the visitors then got it back to 2-2 before a late winner sent Gerland into rare raptures and just about kept OL in the title hunt. Next round over the next two days...

Elsewhere, the French football quota storm is starting to blow itself out. Coach Blanc (ironic name) appears to have survived taking part in the alleged discussion on limiting numbers of dual nationality players. His faux-pas came when talking about the 'style' of player required in French football academies - favouring those with 'technical' qualities over those who are just 'big & strong' - subtext (rightly or wrongly inferred): big, strong and stupid. Whichever, the sports minister has just given Blanc the all clear.

On the political field, the countdown to the presidential elections next year has already started. Today is the 30th anniversary of the ascent to power of the only socialist president of the Cinquième République, one François Mitterand. And it's being given the full treatment in the media - nostalgic articles in the left-wing press, somewhat more bitter commentary in the right-wing press. Battle lines already drawn in the sand of 2012…

Summer quota

Two shocks this morning. 4.40am and the sounds of a grizzling baby woke us up. First interrupted night in over two weeks. Knew I shouldn't have tempted fate. Then, after la bienheureuse had done her duty and la petite had allowed us a whole further 45 minutes sleep, I opened the curtains and the sky outside was grey. After a month of almost unbroken sunshine and temperatures of 25C plus yesterday, perhaps it was tempting fate again to assume that summer had arrived early. Then again, maybe it has - Evelyn the weather girl remarked last week that the weather pattern in the first four months of this year is exactly the same as it was in 1976, that other long, hot summer.
 
Almost two months gone by since the family era began, time for the second visit to the baby doctor. Another measuring session (2.1cm taller, 650g heavier 3 weeks on), and more tests of motor, visual and auditory function. The old boy declared the young lady to have the development of a 4 month old. Bet he says that to all the girls. Then he jabbed her twice in the thigh. First vaccinations, first real screams of pain. Soon calmed with a cuddle. More torture by injection in four weeks.

Life beyond baby is slowly beginning to resurface. Last week I made an evening trip to Gerland to watch OL rather undeservedly overcome Montpellier to keep hopes of the title alive. Said hopes were then virtually extinguished over the weekend with defeat at Toulouse. Five games left, seven points behind Lille. Similarly hopeless position to that in which mon équipe preferée somehow found itself before the weekend. Tempted to avoid watching the big match on Sunday, in the end I decided it would be disloyal not to go to the pub. Happy decision, even if it was rather a pyrrhic victory over the evil red empire. At least it puts a spoke in their supposed coast to the title. At the moment, blue somehow seems the lesser of two evils.

Elsewhere in the footballing world, more scandal this side of la Manche with the leaking of minutes of a meeting at the Fédération Française de Football, which suggested the imposition of a 'quota' to limit the number of players of African origin in football academies. After initially denying everything, the FFF was eventually forced to admit the minutes were genuine, but claimed it was only a discussion about reducing the number players with dual nationality who, having been brought up and received their football education in France, then later opt to play for their other country of origin. Whichever, the minister of sport wasn't happy and promptly suspended the French technical director of football pending an inquiry. Just what French football needed after the World Cup fiasco...

Sunshine cousins

Babies: miraculous and demanding. And when baby's aunt and nearly grown-up cousins come to visit, it leaves even less time for the trivialities of life, such as blogging. That's my excuse anyway. La soeur et les nièces arrived 8 days ago and left yesterday. In between early morning trips to the airport at either end, it was perhaps not the most exciting of trips abroad for a pair of teenagers but that wasn't really the point. The main attraction was obviously their six week-old niece and cousin respectively

Activities of various sorts were organised during the course of seven days otherwise crammed with vying with each other to feed baby, leaving the parents to deal with nappy changing, helping with the shopping, and pram-pushing on the daily afternoon walks:

Monday: a walk in the park for everybody in the warm afternoon sunshine.
Tuesday: the rest of us leave la bienheureuse at home with baby while we climb les Pentes de la Croix Rousse, walk back down through town and then have lunch on les Berges du Rhône, where mother and baby join us in the warm afternoon sunshine.
Wednesday: the breastfeeding pair are once again left behind as I lead an expedition on a two-river cruise in the warm afternoon sunshine: down the Saône past the new Confluence development, up the Rhône, and back again.
Thursday: niece number two kindly gives me the evening off cooking duties and prepares finger-licking fajitas.
Friday: back to the touristing as we hire Velo'vs and cycle down the river to Parc Gerland and back in the warm afternoon sunshine. Quite enough exercise for the week for some.
Saturday: finally time for the visitors to do their duty with a bit of gift shopping for friends and family back home. Meet up with mother and baby for a final walk along the river in the warm afternoon sunshine.

And then there were three. La petite has just spent her first night in a room of her own. And carried on the happy recent habit of sleeping through the night. Long may it continue...

Shorts

Time is short and life looking after baby is busy, so a few short stories to resume the last two short weeks:

La belle-mère came and went, her time filled with sewing, holding and feeding her petite-fille a bottle or two when she was allowed, taking lots of photos, going for walks along the river, and browsing family history and camera websites. She promises to return soon…

La petite coquinette continues to guzzle and grow. One month old already. The statutory visit to the pédiatre on Thursday produced a weight gain of 300 grams in a week and a height gain of 4cm in a month. The bluff old doctor pronounced her in perfect health, 'belle et intelligente', a future Nobel prize winner. It's official then…

The milking machine has been put into temporary retirement. A visit to the baby care centre yesterday produced a new routine to follow: back to normal breastfeeding supplemented with formula if necessary. La petite doesn't care where the milk comes from as long as it's getting into her mouth.

At the other end, nappies continue to be filled as though they were going out of fashion, though not so often with the smelly stuff in recent days. Two stories to tell there, which I'll try to keep brief out of regard for those of a delicate disposition. Marvellous piece of technology, the modern disposable nappy: leakproof and foolproof. Well, almost. The one catastrophic failure occurred when the little angel was sitting on my lap. The rear end explosion projected material (which I've seen fairly accurately described somewhere as the colour and consistency of French mustard) some distance. Result: complete change of clothing for both of us, and a quick shower for me. Ma fille smiled beatifically through the whole palaver.

Second toilet story is slightly more mundane but perhaps instructional. As babies get older, their bowels mature and movements become less frequent and regular. After three days sans caca, we were beginning to wonder if all was right. The paediatrician assured us it was completely normal, and sure enough, that evening the missing material appeared all at once. This time the nappy did its job, though it's a mystery to me quite how such a large volume was contained in such a small space. In two such small spaces in fact…

Meanwhile, the flow of presents for la petite appeared to have ceased a week ago, but has resumed near flood proportions in the last few days, including a second offering from une copine de la bienheureuse, who visited yesterday. Seems women find it hard to resist buying clothes for little girls. A very spoilt young lady now has a different outfit for every day of the coming year. Thanks to one and all.

In between the nappy changes, feeds and sleeps, I was afforded time last weekend for a first trip back to Blighty in three months. Fine trip it was too, apart from the main event. Least said about football the better, but the day in London was redeemed by a lovely curry at the Masala Zone in Upper St and a pint or two of beer. On the social side, I found le grand chef and mademoiselle beaucoup in fine form, and eager to celebrate the new arrival with champagne on our return to Cambridge. Could hardly refuse, could I?

Finally, the weather in Lyon has been positively summery in the last few days. Full sunshine and temperatures in the mid-twenties. The shorts are on to stay.

Milking it

And so the learning curve continues. Another appointment and weigh-in with the nice lady at the child care centre showed stable weight - not ideal in a 2 week old baby. So a new regime was instituted. Automatic milking machine hired, installed and duly put into action - a quite fascinating process, which may not be much fun for the milk provider but provides a certain amount of titillation for her husband. Thereafter, breast feeds supplemented with expressed milk and formula as required. Two days of pumping later, weight up by a hundred grams, and a further hundred at today's weighing. Back at birth weight. Marvellous.

Meanwhile, la nouvelle grand-mère arrived on Wednesday to meet her first grandchild. The family threesome set off for the airport to meet her, and got as far as the garage round the corner. Failure to freewheel and a grinding noise at first led me to suspect an old problem, seized brakes, but with passersby pointing at the front offside wheel, it eventually dawned that we had a flat tyre. It being lunchtime our friendly local garage was closed, but fortunately I only had a couple of minutes to demonstrate my total lack of competence in tyre changing (which I put down to inexperience - first puncture in 30 years of motoring) before la bienheureuse spotted someone in the garage. Of course, asking French workmen for help in their lunch break is often a risky exercise, but a sweet smile convinced the nice mechanic to change the wheel for us.

Dodgy spare thus installed in a matter of minutes rather than the hour it would have otherwise taken we set off and arrived at the airport only about half an hour late, to introduce la belle-mère to her petite-fille. One way introduction, as la petite slept through the whole adventure. However, she woke up later and immediately ignored the stranger in favour of a good suckle. As well she should, but they've got to know each other since. Amidst the full time job of feeding, nappy changing, bottle washing, pumping, cooking and shopping, sightseeing for la belle-mère this week has been restricted to strolls along the river with the pram in the glorious sunshine we had during the first few days of her visit. Spring is here even if it's raining now…

Family home

Two weeks, a lifetime. Our first few days as a threesome went fairly well, though la petite hadn't read the book about newborns not being able to stay awake longer then ninety minutes or sleep less than sixteen hours a day. Stress levels rose somewhat during the latter half of the week - feeding & sleeping pattern became a bit more random. Like all enfants, la petite coquinette seems to like playing up during the evening, just when her parents are dying on their feet. Then the weighing at the local centre on Friday suggested negligible weight gain since leaving hospital. Could all be due to differently calibrated scales, but questions still chase themselves round a parent's head: is she getting enough milk, is she sucking properly, is she getting enough sleep? etc, etc. Such are the preoccupations of debutant parents. Judging by the quantity of pee and poo production, there can't be much wrong with the feeding technique. On verra…

Today patterns have been rather more regular, so maybe we're getting there. The star of the show even slept through the lunchtime visit of a pair of amies de la bienheureuse. More gifts to add to the avalanche.

Life beyond the little girl wonderland seems somehow less tangible, but goes on. I went out on a chilly Saturday evening to watch les Gones fiddle away on a 1-0 lead, against the 10 men of championship rivals Rennes for the last 20 minutes, and duly concede a last minute equaliser. The punters were not happy. Much like my mood six hours earlier while attempting to watch a dodgy stream and look after baby at the same time. Still, a draw after being 2-0 down didn't seem quite as bad as it might in other circumstances.

And in the wider world yet, local elections took place in France yesterday, resulting in a strong showing for le Front National. Mainly due to mid-term discontent with the government, and the second round next week should put them in their place, but inquietant all the same...

Patient routine

Five days in hospital for the new mother and daughter, five days of climbing up and down les Pentes de la Croix Rousse for the new father. My routine was fairly fixed. Get up, have breakfast, brisk half hour uphill walk in glorious sunshine to the hospital, rest of day getting to know the new arrival, walk back home again in the evening (minor deviation from routine on Tuesday, with an evening in the pub to watch the brave boys in yellow beaten by the Barca ball-hogs. Least said about that the better). The routine for mes deux bien-aimées was more varied, with la petite calling the shots; her and sundry midwives, students, baby care auxiliaries and doctors. Principal aim of the week: both parties learning l'allaitement. The path to complete mastery was far from smooth, and rather painful at times for the food source. But, with the help of a kindly auxiliary specialising in nursing, the pair of them got it more or less sussed by the end of a week of largely sleepless nights.

La bienheureuse recovered well from the operation, la petite coquinette's glugging technique was good enough to start putting on weight again, and on Saturday both were given the all-clear to go home. Via a stop at the pharmacy to collect sundry prescriptions, and another stop at hospital administration to collect birth certificate and livre de famille, la petite famille were finally fully reunited at home sweet home early on Saturday afternoon. From here on in, we were on our own…

New life

A lot can happen in a week. A new life begins and two other lives are transformed. Notre fille finally made her appearance at 7 minutes before 7 in the evening on the 7th of March, and kept us in suspense right until the end. A day earlier, la bienheureuse reached 10 days past her due date, which meant packing a bag and heading for the hospital. More tests and monitoring followed before she was shown to her shared room. After a largely sleepless night (room mate apparently won the snoring contest) the big event was set in motion early the following morning. By early afternoon contractions were strong enough for her to be taken up to the birth rooms on the 3rd floor. While I waited anxiously, an epidural was installed, and then we waited together. Finally, in the early evening the midwife deemed it time to push. Half an hour of hard labour later la petite coquinette was still being shy so the doctor was called. The doctor and about ten other assorted medical staff. An attempt at mechanical extraction (with me once more ejected - procedure deemed too upsetting) failed, so a cesarean it was.

Ma bien-aimée was wheeled away and I was consigned to another anxious wait, fortunately short. Barely ten minutes later I was called to set eyes on notre petite merveille for the first time. And I got to cuddle her while sa mère was stitched back together again. But at last, la bienheureuse got to hold sa fille for the first time. And treat her to a first tétée. Finally, they were both wheeled away to their room and I staggered home, emotionally and physically exhausted at the end of a long but ultimately miraculous day.

No action

Excitement about having a TV crew in the street outside proved ill-founded. Having reserved the parking both sides of the street the length of the block for the whole day, three large vans full of equipment eventually turned up in the afternoon. Technicians got out and then sat in the back smoking and watching the world go by for the next three hours. Eventually a flurry of activity: equipment unloaded and carted off. Less then an hour later everything was packed up and the vans were gone. Seems any filming that took place was in the street around the corner. Much ado about nothing.

Excitement about the new arrival continues unrequited. Five days past due date and still counting. Another checkup at the hospital this afternoon. Everything in perfect order, even the blood pressure of maman, with la petite treating the monitoring machine to one of her gymnastic specials.

Something that was resolved last week was the mystery of the missing parcel. Three visits to the nearest branch of the post office failed to throw up any trace or clue of how to find it. Last throw of the dice: try another branch further away. Nice lady there scans the bar code on the slip left by the postman and immediately tells us the parcel is at another branch, even further away. Why the fonctionnaires at the first branch couldn't have done the same, only they know. Faith in La Poste partially restored. Grumble.

And while I'm at it, another grumble. This morning I felt like a man missing all of his brain rather than just the more useful part: our internet connection went down. First time in a couple of years it has to be said, but the problem was that the phone is on the same cable connection, which meant using a mobile to call the hot line. After nearly half an hour of expensive waiting, the call was eventually answered. The man on the other end diagnosed the problem as either a faulty modem, or a problem with the network in the building. Then came the good news: the first time a technician could come round to sort it out was next Tuesday.

A week without internet, unthinkable! Fortunately, you've guessed it, the connection reappeared half an hour later. Faith in Numericable partially restored.

Still waiting

The suspense continues. Still no sign of the long awaited arrival, still no trophy with red and white ribbons. Last Friday was due date: another appointment with our now familiar friends the mid-wives at the hospital. Mother's blood tests and pressure: fine; baby's heart and activity: perfect; signs of abdominal contractions: nil. Another appointment arranged for this morning. Quick visit this time, only checks for the mother's BP and baby's heart. All still fine, contractions still conspicuous by their absence. Another checkup in two days.

Yesterday evening another wait continued less happily. Another trip to the pub, another disappointing finish to a final. Sigh…

More waiting in the street outside this afternoon. Filming for a French TV cop series is taking place. Or will take place sometime today. The lorries and technicians turned up in the middle of the afternoon. Three hours later they are all sitting around smoking and waiting. I know how they feel.

In the wider world, the foreign minister known as MAM finally paid for a series of Tunisian indiscretions with her job. Michèle Aliot-Marie 'was resigned', as they say here. Monsieur le Prèsident finally decided the woman who took her holidays in a country in the middle of a popular revolution and accepted free flights from an associate of the soon-to-be toppled dictator had to go, and replaced her with a man who was convicted of misusing public funds seven years ago.