Shocking Everyone at the Pool with Our Phoques.

The haiku of blog posts in honour of this month’s Raising Multilingual Kids Carnival. The Carnival will be out around the 24th. Sign up at the link above to get it while it’s hot!

Edvar Munch's The Scream

Edvar Munch’s The Scream via Wikipedia

There were times I thought I couldn’t possibly embarrass myself linguistically more than accidentally telling my boyfriend’s mother that I was muy embarazada or ‘very pregnant’. Her genuine excitement put her in my good books forever. Anyone who can set aside religion to embrace an accidental baby is my kind of gal. And now she takes everything I say in Spanish with a grain of salt.

Embarrassment-babies aside, I did manage to take my verbal gaffs to a whole new level — this time involving my kids to boot!

Here’s how we became total social pariahs at the pool. Was it my penchant for topless sunbathing? Nope. I packed those babies away after they decided to go South for the winter and never return home.

It was the little seal toy Pea and Plum were given in Singapore by their swim teacher as a parting gift. It’s also a toy Pacifique wouldn’t leave the house without, a toy she loves to cradle and calls: Phoque-y which is pronounced FUCK-Y.

Picture a lovely crystal blue pool, sun shining, kids splashing happily. And then imagine an argument break out between two sisters over a toy:

“Give me back my FUCKY!”

“No it’s my turn for FUCKY!”

Blah blah blah Fuck, blabla bla fucky. One ends in tears, the other holds the prized possession.

“Oh my sweet little fucky. I love you little fuck. Isn’t he cute?”

Un phoque in French is –as you’ve probably guessed by now –a seal.

And that lovely happy scene I painted? It turned to an expat poolside version of Munch’s Scream. Me? I was left nervously laughing and mumbling about the joys of multilingual parenting whilst packing the pool toys, cradling my boobs, and glancing around for a guard to call me a tuk-tuk home.

What painfully awkward moment would you like to share? I promise, it’s feels good to let it out. And yes you should trust the woman who vlogged about diarrhea and car journeys.

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This month’s Carnival is hosted by The European Mama. She is a rock star on so many levels, I don’t know where to start. Not to mention the incredible Annabelle from PiriPiri Lexicon who revived the Carnival. If I didn’t like and admire these women so much, I’d cower in a corner, yellow with envy at their unbelievable productivity and kindness. Please check out all their hard work showcasing a bunch of great entries!

Multicultural Kids Blog Telephone Travel VLog!

Via flickr.com ajc1

Via flickr.com ajc1

Hello Everyone!

Once again I find I am pushing myself to the edge of my comfort zone. In fact, I think I’ve pretty much jumped off the cliff, free-fall, no parachute.

The wonderful bloggers from the Raising Multicultural Kids Blogging group have decided to take a page out of Blunt Moms and to our own little traveling telephone round.

This is a great group and you will learn lots of interesting things about traveling with kids. I apologies in advance for the uhms, and you knows. It was late, I was tired, and mostly mortified at outing my story. (And my friend had kindly warned me about avoiding YKs and Likes so my video is inevitably peppered with them -sigh.)

My question, “What is your most memorable travel experience that was completely unplanned?” came from Amanda atMaroc Mama and I am asking Bronwyn from Journeys of the Fabulist (how fabulous is that name!) “What’s the biggest mistake you’ve made traveling with your kids?”

Please make your way around the circle. I promise most bloggers will be more succinct than mine. I apologise for hiding in the shadows but you really don’t want to see that much of me that late at night. Oh and one last warning, you may wish to visit the loo before.

#MKB Multicultural Kids Blog traveling video Log telephone circle. from Cordelia Newlin de Rojas on Vimeo.

While I work on my redesign, will you vote for me?

I’ve been very quiet lately, despite a buzzing hive of ideas pricking my brain each night.

I haven’t written as I am in the process of re-designing my blog to make it easier to find the type of content you like. This will also allow me to feel freer to post more widely about stuff. I may even be a bit more risqué, we shall see…

In the mean time, I am hoping I can persuade a few of you to click on the top button – yup that one on the right. Voting ends the 17th. So basically today. Easy right? I am only asking you once and on the last day to avoid you the pain of procrastination and regret when you forget to vote.

Thank you!

Cordelia ( CONTEST LINK, in case you missed the button.)

 

 

Kids, Food, & How to Kill a Chicken, Improvised.

Poultry chart via etsy

My kids, overall, are good eaters. I won’t go into my philosophy in detail just that I take a French-mother/Man Who Ate Everything approach to feeding them. It seems to be working for us –despite the occasional protests.

One thing I have always tried to do is make sure my girls know where their food comes from. I do not want to find myself, burger in hand, facing my kid around 12 suddenly stricken with a look of horror saying:

Wait you mean burgers and cows are the same thing? So what was the animal we ate last night?

Me: Well we had venison so you could say we ate Bambi, well probably her mother.

Living in Thailand has made this pretty easy. Granted, we have not passed Daisy the cow on our way to ballet class, but we have waved hello to many other edible friends. I knew I was succeeding  with my mission when upon seeing new animals, SweetPea would point to the creature going by and ask first:

What is that

followed closely with

Can we eat it?

Both girls love chicken but for SweetPea, it’s an obsession. She will choose chicken over any other food including sweets and cake any day so chicken features pretty regularly on our menu.

While eating chicken for dinner the other night:

P: Maman why can’t I see the chicken’s blood?
Me: Well they remove it before they sell us the chicken.
P: How do they remove it?
Me: They cut the chicken’s head off and hang him upside down.
(At this point I know that chickens get heads cut off and pigs are bled so I am just trying to piece this together)
P: Like this? (Showing me with her dragon piggy bank conveniently located next to her).
I nod in agreement.
P: Maman can I please do that next time we have chicken for dinner? And how do we catch a chicken?
Me, quiet worrying about a Dexter in our house.
P: And I want the chicken blood.
Me, thinking it is time to redirect this conversation: Well how about some boudin noir which is blood sausage?

Close call.

The next day, I worried as we head out of the house. There’s been a trio of scrawny birds hanging out by the front of our mobaan –a cluster of houses, like a little village. I didn’t want SweetPea getting any ideas. Fortunately the chickens were so scrawny. They were like the Kate Moss of chickens: breast-less, always in black, and in need a good meal and long night of sleep. I figured she wouldn’t find them appetizing enough to want to make the kill.

Right, I must brush up on my art of butchering skills. Til the next time readers.