All mothers are potential serial killers. IMHO. Or maybe it’s just me.

Three years later, he’s my Babylove more than ever.
Sometimes I want to eat his brain, pop his eyeballs out, roar obedience out of him.
But then he smiles and makes his little cute “Come on, mom. You know I’m better than you are at emotional blackmailing” face, and I melt down.

Three year old little asshole.

Nature is amazing, it fills us with hormones and stuff. Then mothers, instead of turning into serial killers, brag about their offspring as the eighth wonder of the world.

And after all, aren’t they?

Children have this power over you in spite or because of being so fragile and small and annoying.



French media: “Oh no, French people died in Nepal!”

What about the Nepalese. 3,000 died, no?

French media: “Don’t give a shit. Oh yeah, let’s mention it down there.”


By the way, I am so annoyed sometimes. In French I have a wonderful broad and various vocabulary for insults. We have very neat ones for any situation / person you may encounter in your life, be it good or bad. But English insults fail me most of the time. I don’t know any – that makes me very polite now that I don’t live in my country anymore. My mother would be so proud. And I believe there are not that many. So frustrating.
Today at the pond with the turtles, there was this guy smoking. Then he threw his cigarette in the water and left. The American lady next to me said: “Oh! So disgusting and stupid, in front of children.” And I said: “Baltringue.”
About the guy, not the lady.


Mondays are assholes sometimes.

Really. I wish you a happy and successful start in the week.

Just a beer with my jet-lag. No, no kayak. I’ll be fine. Thanks.

Not that I ain’t happy and so forth and so on, but would someone just hit me now?

I’d like to sleep. I like the pool and the mosquitoes and Babylove flies literally instead of walking – he’s so excited. Well, not literally let’s say he jumps and bounces with every step and I do believe that if gravity did not apply he would fly higher than anyone else. Seriously.

But I’d like to sleep. After these weeks of inventorying, packing, goodbying, traveling, I am served with the expected jet-lag.

As if my body was not exhausted enough, Love decided to cancel a real life-changing event: my weekend of cocooning. Why life-changing? Because I would have resourced and refreshed and made myself ready for new adventures. Instead, we’ll start the new adventures right tomorrow with kayaking and doing other cool stuff. A lot of cool stuff. I can’t even bring myself to list them now. To bond with Singapore. Our new home.

And I can’t even sleep now.
I’d like to bond with my bed. It’s in Singapore too.
And a beer. I’d like to bond with a beer.

Funny that I crave a beer now that I am out of Germany – I even start to think in German while I am learning Mandarin.
It’s 2:20 AM now. We go kayaking in six hours.
I’ll take a beer at noon – I feel rebel-ish. Okay, and the kayak. With the jet-lag. Yes thank you.

About chocolate on the face, a broken key and a train curse.

This week has been a little troubled. Flying some 20 hours alone with a toddler is fun and challenging enough. Especially the bit when this little guy over 20 kilos decides to fall deeply asleep just before the landing of the first flight. And you look at your stupid ten-kilo hand-luggage (everybody knows that hand-luggage is never weighted) and his stupid cute Mickey Mouse backpack which is not heavy but cumbersome. You think: “That’s okay, they’ll have strollers or trolleys over there. Just need a few steps now.” But they don’t. And Doha airport gets suddenly huger and stressful. Then you remember, hey, it could be worse: you could be blocked in Frankfurt, in the 40 sqm flat of Bibi, because you forgot your passports in the train to wherever.

And that’d be pain in the ass.


Me, very proud, toying with my glass of bad wine: “Yeah I know, he looks like me… only, in white. And blond. But he has my chin and my eyes. And my curls. Yes, definitely. You see here..?”
Bibi, looking at the picture of Babylove: “Well yes, he does look like you. But this photo does not resemble him. At all. Look at all the chocolate on his face. I hope his passport pic looks more like him, or they won’t let you go…”

My heart skips a beat. BL’s passport. My passport. I reach into my bag and close my eyes. Oho.

Bibi: “No. Nononono. Jess, no. I see it on your face. You did not dare to do a Jess again. No – Way.”
Me: “You look pale, it’s not like you. Okay let’s breathe in. Breathe out. (I close my eyes and think – I always prefer to think before getting panicked, because once I am panicked and emotional, I can’t think straight anymore. If I can’t think straight, I tend to react and do bullshit. Like what happened with the passports… before this conversation. What I did not remember at the time of the conversation, of course. So I think:) Hm. If they’re not in my handbag, they’ll be in my hand-luggage. If not, they’ll be in my suitcases in the locker at the train station. If not, they’ll be back at home, 250 km away.”
Bibi, a bit hysterical if you want my opinion: “What? Okay! Let’s go home. Now!”

Yes, you remember? Last week, my flat has been emptied and all my stuff stuffed in a container. We passed the weekend with food trouble and playing with cartons – big ups to Pinterest. Then, because the flight to Singapore took off from Frankfurt (with a stop-over in DHA), I decided to come a day earlier and spend some time with Bibi. She lives there and she’s fun. She’s from Paris too, and she wears it on her skinny pants, her shoes, her make-up and her many cigarettes a day. She came to pick up BL and me at the train station, where we left the big suitcases in a locker. Then we strolled to her place. After Babylove fell asleep, we landed at the cafe at the corner of her house. That was very convenient. Cities are very convenient I must say. I guess that’s why you pay more for a bad wine. You drink it then you go to bed. Literally. Easy.

Bibi: “So? SO? SOOO?”
Me: “No.”

We woke up Bibi’s flatmate to keep an eye on Babylove while we would be on a mission to the train station. It was already 1 AM, Wednesday. She did not complain, she loves Babylove. She went with him in Bibi’s bed. And off Bibi and I went.

Bibi: “So? SO? SOOO?”
Me: “No.”

By then, Bibi was so pale I feared she might collapse. I think I felt a bit anxious too, because I broke the key of the locker in the door. The guys sleeping around had complained because of the noise – I assume the grinding of the door opening and closing and the squeaking of our voices did not help for a beauty rest.

I called the friend back once-home who had the keys of my once-flat. 2 AM. Asked him if he could go and check. I had the vision behind my eyelids of my passports in the drawer. Showing them to the container guys, telling them absolutely not to take them. What if they had? Wow, no, that’s Bibi’s and Love’s style. Worrying before confirming that the simplest and likeliest solution is the one.

Bibi: “I can’t wait. I can’t. You’re killing me, Jess. Last time it was… what was it again? How do you think you will be able to get your passes back before noon?”
Me: “If they’re at home, I’ll A. go fetch them with the first train or B. try a DHL same day delivery.”
Bibi: “And if not? DHL does same day delivery? But what if not? If they’re not there?”
Me: “I wonder how long you need for an emergency passport… You have a consulate in Frankfurt, don’t you?”
Bibi: “Ah, why is your friend not calling back now? Now!”

The phone rings. He’s calling back. The train station security guys arrive too. They’ve seen me break the key in the locker door and heard the sleeping men on the floor complain.

Me: “So?”
Security man: “Yes miss?”
Bibi: “No, she’s on the phone. Sorry.”
Me: “Sorry.”
Bibi: “Why? The passports are not there?”
Me: “Dunno, I had to call back. It’s ringing now.”
Policeman: “Is there anything I can help you with miss? What about the locker? I think you’ll have to come back tomorrow morning…”
Me: “Yes, I understand. Too bad. I’m sorry for the mess. Thanks for checking though.”
Policeman: “That’s my job, miss. Don’t worry…”
Bibi: “I think she speaks to the friend on the phone.”
Me: “But that applies to you too of course.”

I am not sure what or how I am supposed to feel. I am sad for Babylove and Love, I really want us to be reunited. It starts to be long. And I have already made my farewells to Bavaria, and even Germany. I am already gone. But not really – I don’t have the passports. I close my eyes, and I am so sure that the passports are not in the container. I see myself putting them in the little pocket I always use for traveling papers… oh.

Me: “Last time, it was the laptop in the train. Because I fell asleep and the doors were closing and I ran out without my stuff.”
Bibi: “YES! Genau! That was horrible, but the driver found it and you got your laptop safely two days later almost at your doorstep. (She looks at me, with the light of understanding in her eyes quickly replaced by the horror implied.) Oh no.”
Me: “Hm, well. Yes. Let’s see. I’ll come back first hour of the day. There’s probably a lost-and-found basket somewhere.”

Sitting in the taxi in Singapore, I had to tell the whole story to Love, and Gabi, a friend who came to meet us during her stop-over between Mexico and Jakarta.

How I spent the night sleeping not that well. How I went to the counter the morning to apologize for the broken locker key. How a nice gentleman talking to the nice locker room lady recognized me in two seconds – he works for DB Bahn and was just on a break talking to his girlfriend, but what a coincidence:

DB Bahn man: “Are you Jessica? I recognize your hair. You have a blond curly little one? You’re going to Singapore? Yeah, my colleague in the train, you know, the controller. You talked yesterday, and the little one said that you were traveling. Yes, he was sick, she told me, and you left the train in haste. Traveling alone with all your things, that’s crazy! Anyway, she saw your pocket where you had put your train tickets and your passports, but you were already off. So on the way back this morning, she brought them at the center. Yes, I got them. You’re lucky, I was just about to leave as you can see hahaha! I just take the lady here to lunch and cinema. The day is beautiful, why not? Come with me I’ll give you your things. Bon voyage, you say that in French, don’t you?”

See? See? Never act or react with haste and anxiety. It makes you do stupid things, like forget important papers in the train. Or laptops. I think I hugged the guy. I think I used my lifetime luck the past 30 years. Now it’s over. Or maybe not. Let’s hope not, they have the subway in Singapore.

In the taxi from the airport to the hotel, Babylove was awake. He was watching the tall buildings of the city, asking with his little voice the same question over and over: “Papa, are we in Singapore? Are we together?”

Babylove in Singapore airport

About broccoli, dollhouses and roasted babies.

I can’t tell you what my home looked like when I was 12. I can’t even tell you my favorite childhood meal – I don’t think I had one. I genuinely love food. Except broccoli and sheep brain. And guts. That’s disgusting and turns me green and dizzy, and green does not suit me well. I avoid wearing green on my clothes too. And seriously, who likes guts? Lever, okay. With wine in the oven and some spring onions. But guts? Seriously? Look me in the eyes… that’s what I thought.

I can’t tell you yet what my very soon to be home looks like either. Two days left in Germany and Babylove and I fly there. With a little luck and a freshly rested pilot, we’ll make it safely to Singapore. Then we’ll build something with love and… blablah. That’s not my voice, sorry, I jut had a phone call with a Taiwanese friend and he attacked me with cuteness lasers. Now I see everything marshmallow and pink. Horrible. Anyway, what was I saying? Yes, I was saying – then we’ll build something, but not literally of course. I expect Singapore to have enough vacant houses and flats for us to find one suitable. Although, I may give a shot at crafting – I stumbled upon a nice dollhouse made of carton yesterday night (I have so many cartons here since the guys of the container came around to take our belongings). I literally burp ideas now. I have sometimes no control over my brain, I swear. And I need to write stuff and to tell things in the dictaphone. Love bought it for me – not that he grew tired of my epiphanies, but probably of the bruises on his arm every time I grab him when I burp.

But you can guess what my home no more looks like now. You can even guess what we’re eating everyday since I have neither pans nor pots to cook. Not even a microwave. The oven is there though. I sometimes daydream of putting Babylove in and roast him. I am quite sure he would taste good (I’m his mother, I give him proper food and proper physical exercise) and I am very certain that he would stop complaining about our diet of the past days. Okay, salads and seeds may not be his favorite childhood meal…

Now that I come to think of it – and BL’s screams sounding much like my younger brothers’ used to -, I sort of remember that roasted babies was mine.


About summer, Utopia and a bunny. Oh, and mothers, too.

I dunno how Utopia is supposed to look like.

The sun is bright, I can’t see much. I close my eyes. It’s all fade colors and white light around me. Summer is coming.

The slow wind warms up my face. I smile. Birds and butterflies dance around me. I know because I see their shadows on my eyelids. I sit in the little garden behind the square cafe. The silent cafe cat shows up, slides around my legs. Stops. I feel her looking up at me, expecting. My eyes are still closed and I feel lazy. Probably lazier than a lazy cat.

I perceive a voice from afar. This is Babylove. I could recognize his loud little voice even a 1,000 km away. I almost never exaggerate. I swear.

He’s playing with the other kids in the fight-pit. Fighting with the other kids in the playground. Screaming, crying. Silence. Someone’s dead. Laughs. Okay. Resuscitated. I don’t want to go there. The other mothers will again attack me with avid questions which are no questions after all.

“How is he doing? It must be hard? All this moving? It’s not so good for a child this age? How do you feel? Oh you will work almost right away? Shouldn’t you take the time to accommodate? Are you sure he’s okay? He will miss Germany, won’t he? It’s so safe and green here, but of course you’ve thought of all of this already? Do you have a kindergarten? How many are on your list? Will he go to an international one? He might turn into a posh hahaha! Yes no? The local ones are very strict, aren’t they? Ah you want to try anyway? Good for you, good for you, but… with his temper?.. Ahaha, children adapt way faster than we do. Are you sure? Do you have a flat? Isn’t way smaller there? More people indeed… Polluted? And the food? And the culture? And, and, and…”

I am a bit scared of other mothers. And I don’t have the answer. Or the right answer. “I will see” is not a German answer. But I’m French, hence. I like some mothers, they’ve traveled and have no answer either. They’re unsure and try. If it does not work, they try something else. I like some mothers who did not travel much, but aren’t asking questions which are no questions. Only questions of curiosity.

A small warm hand touches my arm. A bit greasy too. “Maman, I want water.” I don’t open my eyes yet, I ask him for the magical word. “Abracadabra” he says. This child is way too much like me. I don’t like it at all. Sometimes. I inner laugh. Okay.

I open my eyes and the sun is bright, I can’t see much. It’s all fade colors and white light before me. And washed green metal. And a weird bunny. Everything becomes yellow.


I reach for the glass of sparkling water with the pink straw. Babylove puts his greasy sandy hands around mine, pushes on his toes, and starts drinking. With my other hand, I caress his soft golden curls. He’s not a bunny, he’s a cheetah.

By the way, you should watch this video. The whole mini-series even. And let me know what you think. Maybe.

Wednesday-ly (see, it’s here) yours,

#13 “Give it some time” and love and a flight ticket.

Love: “Hello sweetheart. How was your day?”

Babylove: “…”

Love: “Hey, I’m there. Look at the camera. Papa wants to see your face. Take off Nuggy from your mouth. I don’t hear what you’re saying.”

Babylove: “…hm… Nuggy stays. You’re not there.”

Love: “I’m here. Now. Look at me. How was your day at the kita? It was almost your last day. Tomorrow you have a little party? Do you still play with Miqui and Joni? And Fioni? Have you seen Eva this weekend?”

Babylove: “…”

Love: “Maman told me that you saw a real cave bear! Wow! Were you with Eva? Did she walk alone or was she carried? Maman said that you walked as long as possible and then you were very very tired! What a strong boy! But it’s okay, Maman needs to get stronger!”

Babylove: “…”

Love: “Come on, schatzi, give me a smile! Look, Papa eats a dragon fruit. Do you want a dragon fruit too? We can share! What did Maman cook for you? Show me?”

Babylove: “…”

Love: “Gimme a hug! Papa wants a bisou! I will be sad if you let me go to sleep without kissing me good night.”

Babylove: “You’re not there. It’s too difficult to hug you.”

Love: “Ah at last! You can send me a butterfly kiss and I’ll receive it. Are you happy to come to Singapore? Only ten days and you are there with me! You will take a flight, then hop! I’ll be there. Papa is happy to see you very soon!”

Babylove: “When is soon? Tomorrow?”

Love: “…”

Me: “Not tomorrow but only ten big sleeps and poof! Singapore here we are!”

Babylove: “Maman? Can I take Joni and Eva?”

Love: “They’ll come to visit us very soon.”

Babylove: “When is soon? Maman?”

Love: “Hello! Papa is here. I will go to bed now. Do you want to give me a kiss?”

Babylove: “Tschuessi Papa.”

And off he went.