The pen hasn't danced it's way across the paper in a long long temps.

I've been living off a filled to the brim notebook for several weeks now, scribbling in the small, obscure empty spaces. French notes, prayers, grammar lessons, and doodles. Every now and then a strange EMMA or ELIOTT written backwards, upside down, or across an entire page of important grammer rules.

Pictures of unicorns or bateaus.

A comparison of German grading standards for high school compared to U.S. high school grading standards.

A map of Spain, with scribbles of the sea, the mountains and towns, a scrawled list of things I must visit. I list of festivals and a drawing of an orange tree.

Some notes on Italian language.

But there is no space, no time for awareness of the self. It's lost.

The sandcastles we build after school and the songs I sing in the park with an old man's guitar, lost in time only to old men and my heart - Emma and Eliott.

Most things lost in time, except in the presence of 5 year olds.

None of the au pairs really love their children. I didn't want to love these children. It's hard not to. Not because they are children, but because they are Emma and Eliott. Because, when I go to the library with Eliott tries so hard to be cool and says funny things while the librarian reads us a story - when Emma slips her hand in mine every time we pass from L'Imperial to the Plage d'Albligny because she is scared, because something bad happened there months ago.

The way Emma and Eliott stare at me in amazement as I talk and laugh with complete strangers. They think I'm crazy. They started doing it too. We're a strange team, but we're getting known around town, the twins and their American au pair that doesn't speak French.

On the bus ride to the library, I was chatting up all of the little kids, and the other chaperones stared in amazement at how talkative this quiet, not-French speaking girl actually speaks. The whole bus, chatting up about futball and Epagny and Spain. Surprise.

How Emma's hair smells when she falls asleep.

I can't believe they ask for another story. I read them one. Another. I read them another. Another. I read another. Another. Another. Another until they fall asleep, one snuggled on each side.

I don't pronounce any of the words correctly,  how. How and why do they sit there and listen.

I tried to read to the other kids in the library. They snickered - but it is funny. It is funny how awful my accent is. French is the worst language to read. Sometimes I forget how different I am because of how accepting Emma and Eliott are.

Sometimes I forget to think and reflect about these things.

But no one knows. No one knows how good these children are. Severine has kept them in front of the television since 7:30 this morning. I came in to wish them a happy 5 1/2 year anniversary, and they didn't respond. They're zombies again.

I like to see them alive.

At dinner last night, Eliott finished before me and Emma and so I asked him to tell us a story while we finished. He told a story about a small boy who loved slacklining and grew up to be an au pair named Jacob. This Jacob was kind and gentle and invited a little boy, his sister, and their nou nou to go slacklining with him by the lake on a Wednesday morning.

Hah.

Emma stares into everyone's souls. The fact that she holds my hand is a blessing, a great honour.

Learning French has taken the place of writing. I have an unlogical fear that writing in English is unthreading all of the French. I've just got to do both. That's all.

I love sitting in class with the people from every continent. I love it even more when Jacob is there.

I love when I accidentally say "Mais! Quoi?!? Mais Comment?!? Bah, alors."
"Vas-y, Lauren. Que est-ce qu'y a?"
"Non. Tant pis."
"Bah - Vas-y."

Gabriel - the man is God wrapped in flesh. Always leaving space and time and productivity only for us to find our voices. He's filled to the brim with the secret things.


Ungo. Birthday party, drinking lots of wine, baking lots of cakes, barbequing by ze lake, and walkign to the train station.

One week in Paris, two in Corsica.

Au revoir, internet.