IN THE TANTRUMS
A sleepy French fishing village. White wine on little tables, armfuls of baguettes moving slowly down the cobbled lanes, a bicycle turning.
Oh, and Baxter screaming like I’d just cut off his toe, like he’d witnessed a bloody massacre.
Yes, Baxter chose rural France for a turn to the tantrum. France, where parenting has apparently found its paragon. And rural France, which must be about the quietest, calmest place we’ve been on our trip, with a high concentration of elderly people prone to withering Gallic stares.
More details? We were carting our bags from a ferry to our hotel, trying to save 10 Euros on a taxi. Baxter spied a shop with a bucket of windmills out the front. He spun them once, he spun them twice, he spun them 20 times. I suggested it was time to go. He demurred. I said I’d count to three. He continued to spin. I tried to pick him up, but got tangled under the combined weight of three bags and a 20kg boy. He wriggled free and began screaming like I was some sort of predator, rather than his kind and loving father.
The street turned its collective head and stared at us. Er, pardon?… more here