It was a typical winter evening in our household. The rain was gently hitting the kitchen window with a constant rhythm as I lit a candle. I was contentedly chopping veggies to make a soup for dinner, while my five-year old son, Paul, was quietly sticking stickers on his new Cars magazine. My husband, Nicolas, was working next door, in his home office. Although we didn’t interact, we felt each other’s presence and that was enough.
When I read stories to my son, we travel to imaginary places. My voice takes different tones, my body speaks a language of freedom and our hearts connect. We see colors and beautiful drawings, we escape from the daily hassles. His eyes open wide and he carefully absorbs every word. At the end, we learn lessons…and « they lived happily ever after ». Lire la suite
When I was about 10, my mother told me I was a « big girl » and I’d better read a book than play with my dolls. It was a moment of internal conflict for me – I didn’t want to EVER stop playing and at the time reading was so utterly boring. For years, I would secretly play while pretending I was reading. Lire la suite
Dear mother (of a hypersensitive child), Lire la suite
The day I met my little brother, I was completely struck by his perfectly proportioned tiny body. He was soft and smelled good. I could stare at him for hours, observing every movement he made and his quirky sounds were somehow enchanting to me. Lire la suite
We are at the playground on a sunny but breezy October afternoon. Children roaming around, sand castles rising off the ground. I hear high pitched voices, giggles and adults chatting on the side while looking after their children. Lire la suite