Disposable Bonds
Tales of light-hearted jesting and rosy-cheeked children. This essay is one of many in my Paris series...(well, ish)
I must preface this essay by stating that all names have been changed prior to publication.
Relationships with children are unusual. Maybe I’m safer saying ‘friendships’ rather than ‘relationships’, as by this, I mean, bonds formed with kids who are only in your life for a short period of time, which is essentially all children that aren’t family members. Even approaching this subject feels slightly taboo as I don’t want to come across creepy and like I’m overly-analysing my friendships with people a third of my age. Nevertheless, moving back from Paris and experiencing a heavy week of goodbyes got me thinking about the exchanges one has with somebody whom they may never see again. It goes something like, “Honestly, I’ll be back in a couple of months” and “You’ve got to come and visit me in England some time. I know a great little pub that you’d love!” Followed by a heartfelt embrace before you go your separate ways, both knowing that will probably be the last time you’ll ever see each other.
When I said my goodbyes to my host parents, though it was sad, and surprisingly tearful on their part, I knew we’d stay in contact and that I’d receive pictures whenever they were on an extravagant trip away. However, saying goodbye to the children was unsatisfactory and as emotional as waving off your village postman after he’s delivered your daily dose of pizza coupons and window cleaning advertisements. We’d just driven back from Normandy and it was approaching eleven in the evening. Gabriel and Mathilde were hanging off their parents in a half-asleep state when it was time to say our au revoirs. So, our grand departure ended up being a gentle pat on their hunched over backs, followed by a limp wave. Though the way it unfolded was due to their tiredness, I felt it would have been the same experience if it was earlier on in the day. Kids are unable to comprehend that somebody may be an intense part of their lives for a certain period of time, but one day, that person may be gone forever. The following day, I went for dinner with my host parents – Gabriel and Mathilde had gone to their grandparents’. Whilst waiting for Marcel to arrive, Camille received a facetime from Mathilde. During the video call, Mathilde wanted to say hello to me and to show me her grandmother’s cat. The casual nature of the exchange and the abrupt request to talk to her mum again, just confirmed her lack of emotion behind our parting.
I was revisited by this thought following a recent stint I undertook at a kid’s activity camp. Living in Paris and working as an au pair meant I returned with little money and endless hours of free time. I’d worked at this particular camp in the month prior to my move and knew it would be a quick and effective way to earn some cash. My first time around, a few kids had left a lasting impression on me. There were two five-year-olds, we’ll call them Jack and Reece, both of whom had cheeky, gravelly voices, and sounded like they’d been on the Marlboro Reds since the age of one; it later became clear that they had acquired these voices from chattering and cackling with whomever they came into contact with their entire lives. The pair quickly warmed to me and would repeatedly call me semi-affectionate nicknames – often with “poo” or “bum” in them. It was charming, and I felt blessed to have been the recipient of their jesting. In the same class, there was an Nordic-looking child called Samuel who, though shy at first, later revealed a similarly croaky voice and a desire to cling onto me alongside his fellow classmates. However, Samuel was sweeter and more sensitive, and we communicated predominantly through a secret handshake. As a result of these seemingly strong bonds formed, I assumed that when I’d return to the camp, these connections would be as lively as they once were.
It was a strange and slightly unsettling feeling cycling to work for my first shift since life as an au pair. I’d experienced an intense and emotionally turbulent life in another country, however, once I’d slipped back into that bright red t-shirt and black sports shorts, I felt like no time had passed. It was as though I was regressing; returning to this all-too-familiar role felt like my year in Paris was written-off and I was entering back into a life of ‘odd jobs’. I returned to a few familiar faces within my team of activity leaders, each of us summarising our year in a single sentence, and then proceeding to talk solely of the work and the kids for the following three weeks. The first session of the day was a fire drill, meaning the whole camp had to evacuate the building and congregate onto the field; I knew this would be a great opportunity to spot any camp returners amongst the children. As we all stood in our poorly formed lines, I searched the crowds for a familiar tuft of white-blonde hair, and listened out for any smoky laughs. It was there when I spotted Jack, just as small and red-cheeked as I’d remembered. The following day, whilst undertaking one of my daily duties of running the kids to their classrooms in the morning, I was handed Jack’s bag followed by his squishy little hand. I started chattering away about how he was in my class last year and how I had brown hair so was possibly less recognisable – which had become evident when I’d given my former colleagues some friendly greetings and was met with a hand shake and a reintroduction. Moments later, I turned to him and, overenthusiastically, asked “Do you remember me?!” He cautiously croaked, “Yes.” In hindsight, I believe this to be a lie in an attempt to shut me up.
As the days progressed, he gradually warmed up to me, and I retook my place as his human punching bag. He’d pretend to shoot at me, then he’d call me “evil girl”, and eventually he familiarised himself with me enough to swing from my every limb each time I’d walk past. Many staff members would look at me with pitiful glares as I’d jokingly try and hide from Jack and his friends, and to show my appreciation of their condolences I’d roll my eyes and huff back at them, pretending that I wasn’t enjoying all the attention. If it were any other child – which it occasionally was – I'd abruptly tell them to stop and storm away in a theatrically exasperated manner. I could grin and bear the pain with Jack, as he was winsome and sweet, and I knew in the moments when I’d be teaching him how to catch or he’d be telling me about his family camping trip, that those prior tiny punches were out of a boyish affection.
During my second week at camp, I noticed another familiar face. As I walked past a younger years’ class one morning, I saw a blonde bowl-cut in my periphery. It was, of course, Samuel. He was stood in the doorway of his class, the remnants of tears crisping up on his rosy-cheeks, and was chanting something under his breath. As I approached him, I heard he was saying “Home...home...home...” Many activity leaders attempted to settle the child, nevertheless, he continually refused to enter the classroom. After I’d regained the trust and affection of Jack and Reece, I was pretty confident I could win over this homesick child too, so, I brashly walked up to the door, and crouched down to his level. I reminded him that he was also in my class the previous year, and that we even had a secret handshake. “Home...home...home...” he replied. After a couple more attempts at rejogging his memory, I tired of hearing his monosyllabic song and walked away. As the day progressed, I later saw him walking hand in hand with a colleague of mine, smiling and skipping to keep the pace. I had to accept defeat and that our bond from the year before had been completely forgotten, thus reaffirming my fears about Mathilde and Gabriel forgetting me.
Following this encounter, I’m now certain that when I eventually return to Paris, and presumably meet with my now ex-host family, I’ll be forcing the kids to remember the relationship we once shared. How I lay with them until they fell asleep; how I’d set off to pick them up from school an hour early, just so I could search for the perfect ‘pain aux olives’ for their afternoon snack; or how I’d willingly rub their calves after a strenuous two-hour rock-climbing session. Another difficulty I’ll have to face with these children is the language-barrier. When we were alone, we’d formed a hybrid language of English and French; this way of communicating was rarely shown to their parents, as they’d optimistically presumed that we’d get by on English alone – this failed as there’s only so many times you can shout “Wait!” at two sprightly, stampeding French kids and be ignored, before “Attente!” becomes necessary.
As my time at the camp drew to a close, I found myself for the third and final time, watching the end-of-week talent show with Jack and his friends. He was playfully pulling my arm and babbling away at me in his distinctive whispery, husky voice. He then uttered “We’re going to attack you again next year” with an excitable expression on his precious, little face. I admitted to him that I might not be here next year as my family were moving out of Cambridge. He looked stunned and confused. I then lied to him, and also to myself, and said maybe I’ll come back just for the week to return as an activity leader. Though the thought of never seeing a handful of these kids again saddens me, I know I can’t return to a city simply to see a bunch of children. It’s bleak and rather depressing that it would be considered peculiar and possibly creepy if I were to return. I suppose these fleeting relationships fall into the same category as holiday friends or maybe even those best-friends-for-the-night that you meet in a club toilet at three in the morning. So, I suppose these bonds are disposable, though it doesn’t mean they’re any less real.