⪧ We left our life in New York City to make a new one in Provence ⪦

January 11, 2016

Short days.



Short days, lanky evenings. Lots of time in our house – savoring little girls. Chain of command shifts – Colette isn’t top dog when Marguerite is around. She even takes direction.

Marguerite leads the singing – Une Souris Verte (you should hear Colette’s rendition), the 12 Days of Christmas, Romy’s Baby Beluga. Sisters gazing up with admiration at her trilling – Marguerite towering above (she is a head taller than anyone her age, attenuated physique just like Xavier’s at the same age).

She acts as chief delegate. Comforting Colette, an anguished look rumpling the skin of her face, Colette proclaimed, “I don’t want to die - I really don’t want to die.” “You have many years to live, Colette! Like 80!”

Marguerite also coached Colette to simply do it when, during a major tantrum, Colette was sprawled on the floor, wailing and screaming, “I just want to be happy! I just want to be happy!”

As a city-child, Romy still can’t get used to the idea of car travel/car seats. We put her in one and it is like a crate. She takes hold of the restraint straps and tries to writhe her way out, “I wann to gell out, now!” (Romy pronunciation). Marguerite is the only who manages to sit next to her and distract her – singing little ditties, playing with her toes.



Outside of a moving vehicle, Romy is honey. Little grin teasing. Easy air.



They are sweet all together – a troupe of tootsies. Shadow puppets, 4 in a bed, the stuff of winter.

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