Monday, November 24, 2014

My Business is None of Your Business

Healthcare in France is... interesting. For the most part, you receive excellent, affordable care. It's a helpful and thorough system. So thorough, in fact, that they even care about the fitness of your lady bits after giving birth.

But that's not all! Even non-health care professionals care about the state of your hoo-ha. Husband's coworkers? Check. Boss's dad? Check. Being totally weirded out by these conversations? Check.

Speaking of "check," check out the full story on BLUNTmoms, "My Business is None of Your Business."

Article on BLUNTmoms

Vicki Lesage, Author

Monday, November 17, 2014

The Biggest Preemie on the Block

When we think of preemies we think of tiny babies that fit in the palm of your hand. Not hefty 7 and a half pounders like Leo.

We also think of machines and health risks and tons of time spent in the NICU. Even if you don't have first-hand experience of what it's like to have a preemie, you probably have some notion of what it's like.

Leo in the NICU, #WorldPrematurityDay

Today, to help raise awareness for World Prematurity Day, an article of mine is being featured on BLUNTmoms. Please check out "Preemies Come in Every Size" and leave a comment or share on FB or Twitter to show your support. Thanks! (And Leo says, "Merci!")

Article on BLUNTmoms

Vicki Lesage, Author

Monday, November 10, 2014

Don't Pinch My Baby's Cheeks!

What is with strangers touching my kids? I don't mean touching touching, because that's nothing to joke about. I mean people coming up and patting my son's head with their grubby mitts, pinching my daughter's chubby cheeks, or trying to hold one of their cute, irresistible hands.

Resist, I say. You're being weird.

Don't Pinch My Baby's Cheeks!

I was checking out at the grocery store the other day, with my daughter in the baby carrier and my son pulling every pack of gum off the rack. "Leo!" I shouted, as I turned to reprimand my son. When I turned back, the cashier was holding my daughter's hand, cooing at her and telling her how cute she is. Lady, tell her something she doesn't know. Then get your germy money-touching paws off her! Also, not to be a snot but those groceries aren't going to ring themselves up. Could we do a little more grocery-ringing-up and a little less baby-hand-holding?

I turned back to make sure Leo hadn't knocked over the entire candy shelf and saw that an employee was helping him replace the products. Thanks, dude! Then he pinched Leo's cheeks and told him to be good. Ew, no thanks! I know I'm being germaphobic but yuck. I don't know the last time that store employee washed his hands, but it certainly wasn't between the time he (nicely, I admit) picked up the candy from the floor and then touched my baby boy's cheeks.

We left the grocery store and walked home (perk of living in a big city--walking home with your groceries AND two kids in tow) and passed one of the neighborhood drunks on a bench (even bigger perk of living in a big city).

"Hey there, little boy!" the drunk said, slightly slurring his words.

We were on a narrow sidewalk, so our only escape route would have been to jump in front of oncoming traffic. I tried to speed our trio along, but Leo was intrigued by this funny-talking stranger. As he slowed for a look, the guy patted Leo on the head and said, "Good boy."

What? He's not a dog! And if the drunk had witnessed the candy fiasco in the supermarket he wouldn't have called Leo a good boy, either. But the worst part was--you guessed it--the touching.

Maybe I'm just paranoid, but I don't think strangers should be touching other people's kids. How many times have I seen a sweet little cherub with cheeks good enough to eat? Yet I always refrain from actually touching the cutie-pie. And in a world full of weirdoes, I'm probably one of the least weird ones. I'm clean, friendly, and not usually drunk.

As we neared our apartment, another bold soul approached this mama bear and her cubs. This time, a kind-faced elderly lady.

"Her hat is in her eyes," she said, as she brushed my daughter's hat up off her forehead. She winked and scurried off before I could growl, "Don't touch her!"

As I watched Mrs. Nicey Pants stroll down the street I considered that perhaps her action had merited a thank you, and was glad I hadn't snapped at her. I suppose not all strangers gross me out. Just most of them.

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Life's short. Laugh more. Buy my books at Amazon.com.

Vicki Lesage, Author

Monday, November 3, 2014

My Entourage

When I first arrived in Paris, newly single and fresh out of a job, I was also fresh out of friends. For one whole week I tried meeting Frenchies and immersing myself in local culture before I took a step back and realized, "Damn, I'm way funnier in English."

I realized I needed to make some English-speaking friends, stat. So I tried a variety of different techniques, all of which I hoped didn't come across as awkward or desperate as I felt.

Friendship is like peeing your pants. Everyone can see it but only you can feel its true warmth. Thank you for being the pee in my pants.
Ignore the typo. That's what I get for stealing off the interwebs.

It worked because before long, Lonely McLonelyson had an entourage. That's not as cool as it sounds--in French entourage doesn't so much mean "groupies" as it does "group of friends, so get over yourself you egomaniac." Still.

Wanna know my secret (besides roofies and my sparkling personality)? Check out my article on The Indie Chicks!

Writer at The Indie Chicks

Vicki Lesage, Author