Prince Charming

30 juin 2010 dimanche

I haven’t a clue why every nearly girl under the age of 9 dreams of becoming Cinderella—being Cinderalla must have been hard work, damn it. Sure, she got the guy, the castle, the fairy godmother, the carriage, the glass slippers . . . but forget not the rags that Cinderella shed in donning her glorious ball gown. Why is it that so many young girls can completely forget the fact that Cinderella lived in a forsaken attic for a large portion of her childhood, talking to mice? I haven’t a clue.

I had a Cinderella moment earlier today, while climbing over the bumper of my “new” Suzuki Samurai so I could clean bird poop off of the hood. After working a 9 hour day (9h00–18h00) with my 6 lovelies (Alban, Virgil, Constance, Gauthier, Rodrique, and Montaine), I set about cleaning my car while it was still light outside, and the kids were watching Alvin and the Chipmunks (in French) after dinner. Today was my third day of work with the Delannoys, and it was comparable to Monday and Tuesday. No strangling today and less fights over Uno rules, but Montaine would not eat her yogurt this morning, and although she yawned and rubbed her eyes while I was giving her a little stroller promenade in the garden, she absolutely refused to take a nap before lunch. The result was lots of tears and bloodcurdling baby screams. Other than one threatened revoked dessert (due to Rodrigue’s rampant silverware throwing at dinner), it was a normal day.

So after the dishes were cleared and the kids were contentedly installed in the library, I set off with a bucket and soap and rags to tackle my Jeep, which has been sitting in a barn under a pigeon nest collecting straw and leaves and newspapers and bird poop and spider webs for approximately a year. The task was daunting, and I can’t yet claim that it’s finished. Bird poop has been scrubbed away, seats and dashboard and glove compartment and windows have been wiped down thoroughly, and old newspapers and grocery lists have been disposed of, but the floor remains covered with a fine carpeting of dried leaves, too crumbled to pick up by hand.

I have named her (yes, my Jeep is female) “Courgette”—a fancy sounding French word that actually means zucchini, after her peculiar vegetable color. Courgette is my proof that life for Cinderella certainly wouldn’t have it’s fairy tale appeal if she hadn’t had a fairy godmother to turn her pumpkins into a carriage and her mice into horses and coachmen. While clambering over my Jeep to reach into the deepest, dustiest crevices behind the spare tire, I made friends with the cat (Anakin, named after the Star Wars character, of course) and the dog (Tara, who likes to jump in the pool, then run into the laundry room), the donkey, and the horse, as they all watched me labor. I understand why Cinderella cherished her mice—while the adults were in the courtyard enjoying red wine and cheese on the patio couch by the pool with family friends, animals can be welcome company. You can talk to them in any language, and they won’t mock nor respond, except perhaps with a loving whinny, or a curious meow.

But here I am again, making fairy tales out of everyday life. I suppose that’s what I need to do, when Rodrigue won’t eat chicken, and Gauthier won’t touch green beans, and Constance complains over mashed potatoes. I have to remind myself of the chance I’ve been given to be here in France, spending my summer chasing down blown away pool noodles and wet children with towels. Hell, my room is certainly no attic, and have you SEEN my canopied bed? Granted, the canopy is actually a mosquito net to prevent midnight mutinies by those goddamned bloodthirsty beasties, but I can pretend otherwise. Courgette, in all of her vegetable hued glory, will by my Corvette. And my Prince Charming is 9 years old—Gauthier, who came to the rescue with a vacuum cleaner.