Tidal wave: Good

I have been meaning to add that Lucien was born on October 28th, at 9.53 am. He weighed just over 4 kilos*, and measured 51 cm. My international sources inform me that 4 kilos is the equivalent of 9 pounds, which is a decent bundle of baby by anyone's standards...

Lucien emerged on a Monday morning, allowing French Husband and I to spend a very pleasant Sunday night in the clinic, with a private room and a few bearable contractions, under the watchful eye of a rather sexy midwife named Kevin.
When you are already the parents of two young children, such a pleasant evening is akin to a romantic date, believe me. We even ordered in pizza.

For the past 15 days, this sweet little boy has proved to be as calm and easygoing as one would hope/expect/need a third child to be.
His days and nights are milky, sleepy and serene, he observes his parents, his brothers and the ceiling (often the ceiling) with curiosity and bemusement.

Unfortunately, the camera battery has just run out, and the baby has just woken up. These kind of events tend to happen spontaneously as soon as a mother dares to: 1/ Switch on her computer, or 2/ Open a book. Which may help explain why I have rarely switched on the computer since October 28th, or indeed got beyond chapter 3 of The Red House (Mark Haddon).

Consequently, this post is "to be continued".

*Which is funny, because not one of the medical staff who had prodded, monitored or examined me in the preceding month would believe me when I voiced concern that he would be a big baby. One midwife even scoffed "ha, well if he's a big baby, I don't know where you're hiding him!"

Er, somewhere under my ribcage, Madame, if anyone would care to listen...

Caution to the wind: stormy with a sunny spell

Last night I find myself unexpectedly part of a "girls' night" at Audrey's house.
I say unexpectedly, because, you know, I should have been at the clinic by now, or the baby should have been out or walking or breaking his first tooth or...

Anyway.
We have a good laugh and I indulge in my first session of binge eating in 9 months.
The other girls are reckless on my behalf.
When I ask demurely for an orange juice, someone thrusts a glass of red wine into my hand.
"Drink it!" she orders.
Um, I'm not sure, won't the baby.... ? Will it damage....?
"Drink it!" she orders gleefully. "That boy should be here by now, it's his own fault!"

It's girl power at its most high-pitched.
Predictably, the boy baby does not elect to make an appearance.

Brewing and brooding: Poor

After another night of "will he / won't he?", French Husband frowns at me across the breakfast table.

Last night, I was just lying awake and something was really bothering me, he says.

Mmm? I ask, perking up slightly.

Yeah, I was thinking about that bottle of beer you brought me back from Ile de Ré. It's organic, right? Right. But then how come the same local brewery makes both organic and non-organic beer? I mean, what's the difference?
(he's becoming quite animated now)
Do you see what I mean? I mean, do they just make both types of beer in the same brewery, then chuck a few chemicals in the non-organic version? I don't get it. I just don't get it.

I stare at him as he frowns into the depths of his coffee cup. My mind - for once - is a total and utter blank.

After a few seconds of confused silence, our eyes meet.

I think we're both just really ready for this baby to arrive, I say.

He nods.

Beached whale alert: Moderate to Poor

Let's have a last photo as a family of four! French Husband enthuses.
Ha! Here's another last photo then. I think we've been taking last photos for about six days now.
I want to stop because I don't like the size of that bump anymore: it's scaring me.
My pride at being the humble bearer of new life is rapidly giving way to a selfish fantasy of slimness. I think I'm ready to be the bearer of new life proudly pushing a smart pram and wearing snug-fitting jeans.
Does that make me shallow?

Fantasies aside, please note the degree of attention that French Husband is paying to the bedtime story.
His earnestness is to be admired! Pretty soon he'll know all there is to know about the solar system!

Fashionably late: Moderate to Poor

Emmanuel is fed up of waiting for the baby to arrive.
He tells me this dispairingly, as though he is being personally inconvienced by the situation.

I understand. Nine months must seem like a very long time when you're only four. It's long enough when you're thirty-five.

I'm doing my best, I tell him. I must be the most active nearly-9-months-pregnant woman you've ever had the good luck to bump into. There are not many of us out fast-walking first thing in the morning, I can assure you.
Yesterday I even had a few admirers as I pounded up and down the steps at the park.

I've also been practising the "visualisation process" learned with my midwife. In case you've never had cause to dabble in this practise, it basically involves closing your eyes and concentrating really hard on the image of your cervix opening.
(yes, feel free to mock).
Unfortunately, the baby doesn't seem to be having the same vision.

Maybe he just really wants to be a Scorpio?

The cast(aways) 3

French Husband, whose dignity I shall try to preserve as much as possible. Though every parent knows that it is impossible to remain entirely dignified over a long period of time.

Me. English woman with French nationality. Caught between cultures but happy with the way it's all working out. Tries never to compromise on the big stuff. Usually, an extremely active individual who works, cycles, mothers, reads, socialises and keeps up-to-date with the wider world. For the past two weeks, has mostly just lounged around drinking alcohol-free beer and waiting for baby to arrive.
(it's my last pregnancy! I deserve it!).

The cast(aways) 2

Emmanuel, alias Superman, now aged 4. A solid bundle of energy and laughter. The French say "il a du caractère", which is an elegant way of saying "he never shuts up".

Emmanuel strides through life confidently and pretty much fearlessly (dogs aside). Convinced of his superhero abilities, he assumes everything will work out just fine. I try to teach him that one cannot get through life on charm alone... but so far he seems to be disproving that theory with brio.

A more loving, affectionate, cuddly boy would be difficult to find. His bear hugs can lift the sullenest of moods. He is a joy to have around... as several admirers have already discovered.

The cast(aways)

Ilann, now 6 years old. Asker of questions, thinker of thoughts, artist and creator. His hands are rarely devoid of a paintbrush, crayon or felt-tip pen.

Living proof that it is possible to thrive and even become exceedingly intelligent on a diet based largely on baked beans, Ilann is a calm, quiet, thoughtful, affectionate boy who is prone to the odd bout of frustration and anger. But who isn't?

A boy after my own heart, he strives for perfection, understanding and a sense of control over life in general. I try to provide the hugs when things don't work out as planned.

Quietly confident and surprisingly stubborn, we have no doubt that Ilann will go far. I try not to smile when he declares "I don't eat meat! And I don't eat food with chemicals!" Ah, my lovely boy.

Setting sail: Good

A couple of years ago I stopped writing Petit Coin de Parapluie: a blog that recorded the most publishable moments of my life with two small boys. It was time to move on. So life moved on, as it does - the boys grew up and now they are 6 and 4 and only about 1000 times more energetic that the above photo suggests. Then something strange happened. Thinking back (the details are vague to me now), there must have been a brief period of around 3 weeks when French Husband and I felt we were finally on top of things. You know, had emerged from the tunnel, and all other appropriate clichés. We were definitely shifting into a calmer phase: the outlook was promising.

So, at some point during that enchanted 3-week phase, we had the bright idea to produce another baby. And the upshot is that Boy no. 3 (because, of course, it's a boy: the story just wouldn't be so amusing otherwise, would it?) is due any day now.

What made me ressurect the blog? Well, in an ironic reversal of the calm phase that led to the crazy decision to produce another boy, the startling chain of minor yet annoying misfortunes that have befallen us of late has led me to the following crossroads: either write about it... or phone a therapist.
So I'm giving the blog a go.

Just so you're not left wondering about the misfortunes (other than the imminent arrival of Boy no. 3 which - really - we are honestly and truthfully excited about): French Husband became an invalid for 3 weeks after a freak accident involving a bike... the car broke down, got fixed, then was dented by an anonymous bad driver who left a fake phone number on the windscreen... the front door was smashed by a 1-metre tall Superman who believed he could fly through glass. Incidentally, we believe he was encouraged to believe this by his slightly malicious older brother.
All of this within weeks of my due date.
Like I said, nothing too serious.
But enough to convince me that Boy no. 3 deserved his own blog diary.
I'm sure he'll thank me someday.