Having a toddler is a bit like living with Jekyll and Hyde. One minute she's cute as a button and sweetly rocking her doll, the next she's throwing the doll across the room and screaming like a banshee.
Le bebe is making leaps and bounds in increasing her vocabulary and her struggle to speak. She starts before she even gets up in the morning "mama, papa, bebe" murmers from her crib and doesn't stop until she is passed out at night, chattering "pool, kick, mama" until she is fast asleep.
She is also taking more notice of particular details, especially when it comes to Mama and Papa. "Mama buckle!" she delightedly points to the buckle on my coat. "Papa pool!" she points to his swim trunks.
Tonight, as we played on the bed, waiting for Papa to come home to do the final Goodnight Ritual, Bebe exhibited one of those precious moments of sweetness, pushing back my hair to softly rub my cheek. Oh so adorable! However then, her eyebrow furrowed, she pointed to my chin, scrunched up her face and said "away!" The command she uses for things that displease her, the remains of her dinner, her dirty diaper. Pointing to a newly formed zit on my face, she shivered in disgust, "away Mama!" Geez, I thought I had a few years before the inevitable criticism of Mama began. Aren't I supposed to get a few years of adoration first?
A little while later, I was standing in the kitchen, preparing dinner. We were still waiting for Papa. Bebe was contentedly munching on a cracker, dressed in diaper and PJ shirt (that's as far as we had gotten in the night time dressing procedure) and exploring Papa's wine cabinet asking "Papa? Bella?" "Those are for Papa," I would repeatedly reply.
Bebe sidled up to my leg, wrapping me in her version of a bear hug. What sweetness! Then she promptly pulled down my pyjama pants, announced "Eat Mama!" and took a playful bite out of my butt! I was torn between shock, laughter and the zinging pain of being bitten on the butt. I have no idea where she got that one from.
Monday 19 May 2008
Wednesday 14 May 2008
Gelato
Stopped at a cafe on route home from taking bella to music school. The dilemma is always whether to hop on the bus home, in which case she will fall asleep and I wont profit from her naptime. Or walk to the 7th, about 15 minutes away where there is a Starbucks (as explained earlier, one of the only places I can take her during lunch in the poussette) and then play in the Champs de Mars - which is incredible - a beautifully designed park just below the Eiffel Tower. Then we have to shlep home on the crowded bus.
It is suddenly summer in Paris - so warm that we leave all of the windows open during the night. So warm that closing the shutters doesnt allow enough of a breeze, so Isabelle has been waking early due to the light. When we left for Italy 2 weeks ago, we were wearing rain boots and coats. Now it's tank top and sandals weather.
Rome was a bust. We' d' been hoping to fall in love with it as we want to live in Italy fulltime, just not at our house in the country. We need some city life. I was greatly disappointed. Of course Im awed by the history, the ruins, the stories. But life there made me really miss Paris. If only we could combine the amenities of Paris with Italian culture.
What a relief to be among a friendly, child-welcoming culture. Everyone bella encounters falls over themselves at how cute she is. And once she opens her mouth and engages, shes got people wrapped around her wrist. Here in France (at least in Paris), her overtures of "hellos! Au revoir!!" Are met with blank stares and scowls. In Italy it's just part of the culture to embrace babies.
The difference in cultures is night and day. In Italy, we walk into a gelateria and, unless it is a tourist area, Bella's cone is almost always free - and about twice as much gelato as she can handle. Meanwhile, yesterday, we stopped by the Italian gelateria near us in Paris. They charged three times as much as in Italy for a tiny scoop. When I asked if we can get a tiny portion - half of a small size- for the baby, the woman replied "of course! Thats 3 euros please". " N0 i mean half of a small size - for the baby". "Yes! Just tell the scooper you only want a tiny bit. 3 euros"
So you want me to pay full price for a half portion? I sat Bella down with her gelato and spoon and waited for Clay. When Bella saw his cone, she all but climbed over my head to get to it. Apparently it was the cone she was after. So I went back in and asked for a cone. "Oh n0. Desolee. We cant do that". Do what?! Give me a cone for the full size gelato I just paid for? The scooper went inside to discuss the matter with her colleague. Apparently giving cones with a cup is a grave matter. What"s the problem? I was just in here 2 minutes ago!
They finally came up with a solution and emerged producing a jar full of tiny "taste size" cones. When I presented the cone to Bella she took one look at the tiny cone, handed it to Clay and reached for his cone. she looked at me as if to say "I may be small but Im not stupid. Think I cant tell you are trying to pass off a pint size cone on me?"
It is suddenly summer in Paris - so warm that we leave all of the windows open during the night. So warm that closing the shutters doesnt allow enough of a breeze, so Isabelle has been waking early due to the light. When we left for Italy 2 weeks ago, we were wearing rain boots and coats. Now it's tank top and sandals weather.
Rome was a bust. We' d' been hoping to fall in love with it as we want to live in Italy fulltime, just not at our house in the country. We need some city life. I was greatly disappointed. Of course Im awed by the history, the ruins, the stories. But life there made me really miss Paris. If only we could combine the amenities of Paris with Italian culture.
What a relief to be among a friendly, child-welcoming culture. Everyone bella encounters falls over themselves at how cute she is. And once she opens her mouth and engages, shes got people wrapped around her wrist. Here in France (at least in Paris), her overtures of "hellos! Au revoir!!" Are met with blank stares and scowls. In Italy it's just part of the culture to embrace babies.
The difference in cultures is night and day. In Italy, we walk into a gelateria and, unless it is a tourist area, Bella's cone is almost always free - and about twice as much gelato as she can handle. Meanwhile, yesterday, we stopped by the Italian gelateria near us in Paris. They charged three times as much as in Italy for a tiny scoop. When I asked if we can get a tiny portion - half of a small size- for the baby, the woman replied "of course! Thats 3 euros please". " N0 i mean half of a small size - for the baby". "Yes! Just tell the scooper you only want a tiny bit. 3 euros"
So you want me to pay full price for a half portion? I sat Bella down with her gelato and spoon and waited for Clay. When Bella saw his cone, she all but climbed over my head to get to it. Apparently it was the cone she was after. So I went back in and asked for a cone. "Oh n0. Desolee. We cant do that". Do what?! Give me a cone for the full size gelato I just paid for? The scooper went inside to discuss the matter with her colleague. Apparently giving cones with a cup is a grave matter. What"s the problem? I was just in here 2 minutes ago!
They finally came up with a solution and emerged producing a jar full of tiny "taste size" cones. When I presented the cone to Bella she took one look at the tiny cone, handed it to Clay and reached for his cone. she looked at me as if to say "I may be small but Im not stupid. Think I cant tell you are trying to pass off a pint size cone on me?"
Friday 18 April 2008
Hair Free in Paree
I had a doctor’s appointment scheduled for the end of the week. Several acquaintances told me that a visit to the doctor in France requires a full undressing, no gown and a significant dose of immodesty. No matter that I might have something as simple as having a freckle on my nose looked at, I would likely be asked to bare all.
While I have observed the attention to detail French women give to their facial and head hair, I wondered what that could mean about other bodily regions? I have already learned that the French place a high value on presentation and aesthetics.
Meandering along the streets of Paris I have noticed this attention to detailed aesthetics is evident everywhere: patisseries show off perfectly sculpted chocolates; fromageries carefully display each cheese at its intoxicating ripeness, and florists arrange even the smallest bouquet as if it were being presented to royalty.
Of course, I contemplated, a doctor wouldn't be critical about one's “presentation” in a medical exam, would they? In a culture where regular aesthetic maintenance appears mandatory, wouldn't the doctor be compelled to notice my uncoiffed specimen?
If I risked offending my boulangerie showing up in yoga pants to buy a baguette, what would the GYN's reaction be to my unmanicured nether regions?
While occasional waxing at the local nail salon was sufficient to appear "maintained" in San Francisco, in Paris I immediately noticed that women's facial hair seems scrupulously maintained. Not an errant whisker, nor the shadow of an unplucked brow. Were these women all meticulously plucking their brows in the middle of the night? I scrutinized women on the street and lounging in cafes. Even in the crisp fall sunlight I rarely saw an unwanted hair that dared show itself.
If their eyebrows were so meticulously sculpted, what could one guess
regarding the standards for body hair in general?
Clearly I was in need of professional help. Luckily, across the rue is a small salon dedicated to the removal of unwanted hair from all bodily regions. It took me a couple of trips and a consult with my dictionary to ascertain what hair I wanted removed exactly from my body.
Bolstered with my new vocabulary for "brows" and "bikini" I ventured
forth and soon found myself lying, spread-eagle on the treatment
table. As every woman knows, a bikini wax is a wholly unpleasant and uncomfortably painful process. If we expected men to get waxed,
estheticians would be out of business. I am certain that the bikini wax
will be viewed as a primitive torture device by future beings in centuries to come.
The saving grace is that it is usually swift and short, even if excruciating. In San Francisco I'd pop into my local nail salon for a quick wax - ten minutes in and out, hair free. The Parisian esthetician takes her work no less seriously than the
Boulanger or the Poissoniere. While the baker is careful to bake each baguette with the care and attention his family has boasted for generations, the Poissioniere takes pride in selecting the freshest fish for his customers and giving explicit instructions on how to cook it. Forty seconds on each side, no more and no less.
Likewise, the aesthetician takes pride in her work as an art, as I was soon to find out. Wax and rip, wax and rip. I was accustomed to a few applications of hot wax followed by a few excruciating rips, and then pants back on and out the door. In Paris, after the initial painful rips, I was ready to call it a day, when the aesthetician took my left leg, raised it over my head and proceeded from an entirely different angle. Clearly she meant business. I have not often been in such an intimate position with anyone. I didn't even know her name.
After several different contortions reminiscent of an Iyengar yoga class, she seemed to be winding down. I looked at my watch. I'd already been there for half an hour! I watched with relief as she turned away towards the side table, only to observe, with horror, that she was returning with a minute set of tweezers and a ruler. She carefully measured and plucked, certain to maintain a symmetric, even line.
Fifteen torturous minutes later she handed me a mirror. I was supposed to inspect this? She was beaming with pride, showing off her artistic creation. Unsure of the proper response I murmured that it looked like. a very nice job. She pointed out the symmetry of my new hairline and asked something in French which I interpreted as an inquiry as to whether I wanted her to continue. Erring on the side of conservatism, I politely declined, assuring her that yes, it was a fine piece of work and perhaps next time she would be given more artistic license.
A few days later, I arrived at the doctor’s office for my appointment, primped, coiffed and coutured. After an in-depth consult and a review of my medical history, the doctor advised that we should wait and schedule the actual exam for the following month. What?! I nodded mutely, filled with dread, not of a return to the doctor but of the excruciating preparation I would have to endure.
I’ve now bought a monthly pass to the Salon. Just like a discount pass for the movies, if I am a frequent customer I get a discount. If I must spend this much effort for a doctor’s appointment, imagine what will be required to prepare for a weekend at the beach?
While I have observed the attention to detail French women give to their facial and head hair, I wondered what that could mean about other bodily regions? I have already learned that the French place a high value on presentation and aesthetics.
Meandering along the streets of Paris I have noticed this attention to detailed aesthetics is evident everywhere: patisseries show off perfectly sculpted chocolates; fromageries carefully display each cheese at its intoxicating ripeness, and florists arrange even the smallest bouquet as if it were being presented to royalty.
Of course, I contemplated, a doctor wouldn't be critical about one's “presentation” in a medical exam, would they? In a culture where regular aesthetic maintenance appears mandatory, wouldn't the doctor be compelled to notice my uncoiffed specimen?
If I risked offending my boulangerie showing up in yoga pants to buy a baguette, what would the GYN's reaction be to my unmanicured nether regions?
While occasional waxing at the local nail salon was sufficient to appear "maintained" in San Francisco, in Paris I immediately noticed that women's facial hair seems scrupulously maintained. Not an errant whisker, nor the shadow of an unplucked brow. Were these women all meticulously plucking their brows in the middle of the night? I scrutinized women on the street and lounging in cafes. Even in the crisp fall sunlight I rarely saw an unwanted hair that dared show itself.
If their eyebrows were so meticulously sculpted, what could one guess
regarding the standards for body hair in general?
Clearly I was in need of professional help. Luckily, across the rue is a small salon dedicated to the removal of unwanted hair from all bodily regions. It took me a couple of trips and a consult with my dictionary to ascertain what hair I wanted removed exactly from my body.
Bolstered with my new vocabulary for "brows" and "bikini" I ventured
forth and soon found myself lying, spread-eagle on the treatment
table. As every woman knows, a bikini wax is a wholly unpleasant and uncomfortably painful process. If we expected men to get waxed,
estheticians would be out of business. I am certain that the bikini wax
will be viewed as a primitive torture device by future beings in centuries to come.
The saving grace is that it is usually swift and short, even if excruciating. In San Francisco I'd pop into my local nail salon for a quick wax - ten minutes in and out, hair free. The Parisian esthetician takes her work no less seriously than the
Boulanger or the Poissoniere. While the baker is careful to bake each baguette with the care and attention his family has boasted for generations, the Poissioniere takes pride in selecting the freshest fish for his customers and giving explicit instructions on how to cook it. Forty seconds on each side, no more and no less.
Likewise, the aesthetician takes pride in her work as an art, as I was soon to find out. Wax and rip, wax and rip. I was accustomed to a few applications of hot wax followed by a few excruciating rips, and then pants back on and out the door. In Paris, after the initial painful rips, I was ready to call it a day, when the aesthetician took my left leg, raised it over my head and proceeded from an entirely different angle. Clearly she meant business. I have not often been in such an intimate position with anyone. I didn't even know her name.
After several different contortions reminiscent of an Iyengar yoga class, she seemed to be winding down. I looked at my watch. I'd already been there for half an hour! I watched with relief as she turned away towards the side table, only to observe, with horror, that she was returning with a minute set of tweezers and a ruler. She carefully measured and plucked, certain to maintain a symmetric, even line.
Fifteen torturous minutes later she handed me a mirror. I was supposed to inspect this? She was beaming with pride, showing off her artistic creation. Unsure of the proper response I murmured that it looked like. a very nice job. She pointed out the symmetry of my new hairline and asked something in French which I interpreted as an inquiry as to whether I wanted her to continue. Erring on the side of conservatism, I politely declined, assuring her that yes, it was a fine piece of work and perhaps next time she would be given more artistic license.
A few days later, I arrived at the doctor’s office for my appointment, primped, coiffed and coutured. After an in-depth consult and a review of my medical history, the doctor advised that we should wait and schedule the actual exam for the following month. What?! I nodded mutely, filled with dread, not of a return to the doctor but of the excruciating preparation I would have to endure.
I’ve now bought a monthly pass to the Salon. Just like a discount pass for the movies, if I am a frequent customer I get a discount. If I must spend this much effort for a doctor’s appointment, imagine what will be required to prepare for a weekend at the beach?
French Trains
Last week we did a mad dash to Italy to sign for our loan, check on renovations and try and get a jump on furnishing the place. I realize we were doing the exact same thing a year ago! A year ago this week, this is what was going on:
We bought a "family discount" card for the train - recommended by the SNCF (French train) office. The ticket office told us that Isabelle entitles us all to a discount. We get 25-50 percent off of our two tickets and Isabelle gets a seat for free! It turns out that it is cheaper for the three of us to travel first class on the family card than to travel second class at the normal rates.
The card only works in France. We park our car in Oulx, just on the Italian side of the Frejus tunnel. We decided on Oulx because Clay is terrified of driving through tunnels (but somehow feels better going through on board a train?) and also because the tunnel toll is something like 30 euros. We might as well stay on the train.
So what we've done is buy our ticket to the furthest stop in France (just before the tunnel) via the family card, and then plan to buy a ticket just for the one stop through the tunnel to Oulx, Italy.
Last week, we happily boarded the train and found our three comfy seats in first class, feeling quite posh and cozy I was nursing Isabelle when the conductor (actually conductress,) came by to ask for our tickets. I showed her our tickets accompanied by our "enfant discount" card.
She shook her head at me, “No Madame. (This is not the right card”
Huh? “C’est la carte d’enfant.”
“(French – No it is not. This is the frequent riders card”
She looked at me in that way the French have mastered over centuries. There is a certain sense of “je ne sais quoi”, absolute “rightness” that the French have embraced. It is part of their cultural identity. Whether you are in line at the boulangerie, or a passenger on a train, the customer is never right. Especially if the customer is not French.
She looked down her nose at me as I readjusted the blanket I was using to try and give Isabelle some privacy while nursing. Bella kept throwing it off in disdain, preferring to have a good open view of the scene while she is slurping her lunch.
“(French) This card entitles you to the points. So that you can buy what you would like in the SNCF shop”?
Some ridiculous scheme wherein one acquires points for the train ride which one can redeem for goods from the SNCF (France trains) store. Why anyone would ever want to buy something from the French transport system, I've no idea, but the upshot was that we were not carrying the correct card.
“(French) this is not the correct card. You must have the other paper. Didn’t they give you the document when you bought the card?”
Apparently what we were required to show was proof that we had purchased the card. No matter that having the stupid points card should be proof enough - how could we have the points card without having purchased the discount card? But what we needed to show was the paper receipt from the purchase of the card, with the date of purchase and child's age clearly stated.
We tried to argue logically: how could we possibly have this dumb points card if we hadn't purchased the actual card? We explained that this was the first time we had used it, that when we bought the card (requiring a long wait at the train office) they told us that once we received the plastic, wallet friendly card (the points card), we should carry and show that. We had left the receipt and accompanying cumbersome (non wallet friendly) paperwork at home because we had no idea we had to bring and show that.
“(French) Perhaps this card is not valid. It may be old and expired. I need the receipt to verify”
We pointed to Isabelle, and her passport, and argued that since she was only 7 months old we could not possibly have an expired card (over a year old).
“(French) perhaps this card is from another child”
Oh please. I was losing patience. Did she really think that I had either the time or energy to go through these shenanigans? That I would go to that much effort to try and cheat the system so that we could ride the train at the family discount? Yes, that is what she thought. Because the French are experts at cheating the system. The French see it as a coup, a success, if you can manage to cheat the system in any little way.
“(French) Madame, je suis tres desolee. C’est notre premiere fois a utiliser cette carte.” I look at her imploringly, Isabelle still sucking away with interest, the drama unfolding for her personal entertainment. Look, we are clearly new at this (being parents, traveling the French rails with a family card) and we are obviously foreigners, clueless to this intricate system. The train office misinformed us, we left the paperwork at home, what are we to do?
“(in French) You must pay the different in cost. The difference between the discounted rate and the cost for a2 first class tickets bought today” She looks at me straight faced and expectantly. “That comes to….400 euros”
Double to cost of our original tickets. Are you kidding me? I’ve got a baby on the boob and I have explained that we don’t know what we are doing.
She looked at us blankly. “Of course not I am not joking” (Oh right. I forgot that the French have zero sense of humor) “. You must pay the difference now - or we will have the police escort you off the train”. I have a baby on the boob and you are going to KICK us off the train? “When you return to Paris, take your documents and ticket to the train office, explain and they will refund your money”.
OK, not only did we have to wait in line, in person, with the baby, to purchase the tickets in the first place, but now I have to go wait in line again, with the baby, to get a refund? In order to use the family discount card, you must go to a train office and wait in line to buy your tickets in person, rather than buying them on the internet. So, ultimately, the people with children are the ones who have to schlep to the office, take a number and wait in an irritating line (like the post office, the train ticket office seems to always have a line. I have gone to both at all hours of the day and there always seems to be an exceedingly long line).
We tried in vain to argue reasonably, even enlisting the help of the couple across from us who overheard (who in the car couldn’t overhear this argument?). The conductor brought over her “manager”, who, after a quick look at our tickets and card, not missing Isabelle slurping away on me, looked at us deadpan and stated that if we did not pay the difference immediately the police would escort us off of the train.
We finally had no choice but to pay up. Clay first tried his French ATM card which (thankfully) didn't work. Mine didn't work. Now I was furious because we had already agreed to pay the damn thing, bringing the cost of our train tickets now up to $500, and their damn machine clearly wasn't working!!! It finally accepted our Am Ex card. At least now the funds wouldn’t be debited out of our account. We could argue an AmEx charge
After that hullabaloo, we realized our train was terminating in Modane. We had a very slim chance of catching a connecting train to Oulx. If we were lucky, we'd have a 10-minute gap and be able to catch the only other train.
Unsurprisingly, our train was delayed and we missed the only connection by 10 minutes. Dragging our luggage, stroller and Isabelle, we considered our options. Which were slim. The next (and only) bus would leave in 4 hours, at 4pm. We would have to wait. However that bus wasn't going as far as Oulx. It would stop one town short, in Bardinnechio, where we would have to find a cab to take us to out car in Oulx.
I was so frustrated. Here we had bought the damn discount card, which meant we were put on the wrong part of the train, the part that wasn't going all the way to our destination, and because of the stupid card, we were now paying double to be stranded part way!
We called our Italian friend whose son lives in Bardenecchio, 10 minutes from our car park. Being the saintly family that they are John told us he would be there in a couple of hours to pick us up and drive us through the tunnel to Oulx where our car was parked. We settled in for a particularly bad pizza (as Clay commented "haven't they ever just driven through the tunnel to Italy and tried REAL pizza?") and waited for John.
Bella spent her time riding the suitcases (her new game): she stands on the suitcase and holds onto the extended handle, sort of "surfing".
John arrived at 3pm, complete with car seat in his SUV and loaded us up. What an angel. We finally arrived at our car at 4pm.
And you will never guess what we did then.
Drove to Ikea.
We had to. We are under deadline to furnish this house and, seeing as how Isabelle hates the car, the prospect of spending Sunday driving back to go to Ikea sounded even more hellish than spending Saturday night there.
I was apprehensive about Bella's tolerance for home furnishing shopping (seeing as I have none) at all, let alone after the long day we had already had, but I didn't count on the fact that to her Ikea is a giant playland. Especially in Italy.
Open spaces full of mattresses to crawl on, sofas to climb on, and new people to interact with.
What to me is a nightmare of crowds (yes, Sat night it was packed with crowds like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade), to Isabelle is a plethora of new faces to socialize with.
If you've got to go to Ikea (my idea of hell), go in Italy. Italians are so warm and welcoming, especially to children, and Ikea is no exception.
I've always been baffled by what seems a tedious system of ordering furniture there. The little note cards and pencils, the waiting in line for some helpless person to assist you. Someone who is supposed to input your order into the computer, but whom you are never able to find. Then waiting in another long line to pay just so you can navigate some maze through another building where you have to go find your purchases in the depths of a warehouse. By now you just want to leave even though you've paid for everything, forget it, just get out. Save yourself! Run!
Because otherwise you now have to determine how you're going to get all of those "bargain buys" into the trunk of your car. A trunk that's already filled with suitcases.
The Italian staff couldn't have been more friendly, chatting with us about colors and sizes and suggesting that we. Have everything delivered. Delivered? Everything?
With Isabelle in the stroller, we had somehow been barely managing to maneuver three industrial sized carts filled with linens, pillows and bed coverings for 5 beds, towels, kitchenware and other household crap, just barely avoiding knocking over small children on our way to the checkout line.
Yes! Please deliver! We've been traveling since 5am, our baby is still in her PJs (now exhausted after her gymnastics marathon trying out every bed in the mattress section) and we've got another hour to drive tonight.
We paid up, took our lengthy list of items, trusting in faith that they will show up at our house sometime before our first guests arrive in June, and thankfully left. Bella fell asleep as soon as we started the engine. Despite my newfound appreciation for Ikea, I'll order online next time.
Starbucks
March 21, 2008
Sitting in Starbucks. Which was a major decision in itself. As I worked through triceps, biceps and attempted to battle the post-pregnancy ponch that has taken up residence where somewhat flat abs once existed, I struggled through the Culture Physique class at the gym. I was relieved that Karim, the one lively instructor who seems to have a sense of humor, was teaching today. That means it will be a good day. The 9:15am class is the first class of the day and I was the youngest by about 30 years. Even so, I found some of the exercises challenging which just goes to show how far my body has receded since pregnancy. Isabelle is now 19 months old and my stomach remains soft and protruding. My butt and thighs, never a source of pride since they have always been on the round, stout side, are surely the fleshiest they have ever been. Too bad I wasn’t born during the Romantic period. I would fit right in with all of those Ruben paintings of fleshy, round women. Or at least back in the 50’s when wide hips and small waists were considered attractive, a size 10 being average rather than “large”. In Paris it is so much worse since the average woman seems to be a size 2.
As I srugggled through class my mind kept drifting towards post-gym plans and which café to head to. I would have 90 minutes left to work on my writing. This time is precious for so many reason: my time to write, also time to use the internet, catch up on the news in French and English and round myself out as a cultured person (ha, did you actually believe that last bit?) Truth is I always intend to read the news, preferably in French in order to improve my linguistic skills and my knowledge of current events in one fell swoop.
As I crunched through abdominal exercises, indulging in the fantasy that my stomach is as flat as it appears when I am lying, stretched out, on the floor, I debated between my two favorite options: Felicie, a Parisian café around the corner and Starbucks. Felicie is a lovely Parisian café and, like all others, one that I cant easily frequent with Isabelle. For one thing, Felicie has free wifi, which starbucks does not. So going to feliecie allows continutaiont of the fantasty that I will read the news, probably in French, or engage in other intellectually stimulating internet based activities. I refuse to pay for starbucks wifi so choosing to go here, means that I am committed to writing. Just writing. Which is what I long to do but also terrifies me. I mean, who is going to read this? I want so much for this to go out to someone. To be heard, to connect. When I was pregnant (And now as a mother of a young child) I craved connection with others in a similar situation, I wanted so much to hear someone else’s story. So that is why I write. To share my story with others. I know that there are mothers out there who also crave conncection. No my stories aren’t earth shattering. In many ways I have done what so many other moms have and are…raising a young baby, balancing a life as mother, wife, friend. Working to establish and continute to develop a career. Struggling to search for, create and maintain an identity. Which identitiy is that? Mother? Friend? Professional? Wife? Struggling between the public and personal personas (which at this point have melded together so much that I am wearing gym shoes in a café – NOT done in paris – and since isabelle adopted my purse for play, I have adopted her diaper bag as my gym/computer bag/purse. The desire (Which at this point has become pure fantasty) to appear secure, stylish and sexy. Couldn’t be farther from the truth as I sit here in an ancient (yet clean!) grey sweater, gym shoes and jeans, rebellious stomach pouring out over my waist. Last bikini wax? Cant even remember. Manicure/pedicure? Maybe last summer? Hair is washed, and managed to cover grey with at-home kit. Came out two shades too dark but at least no more greay. Face is washed, sans makeup and haven’t applied moisturizer in as long as I can remember.
Cafes are too small to navigate the poussette through and Parisians in general aren’t amenable to friendly toddlers curiously exploring the establishment. Isabelle is not one to sit on a tiny wicker chair and have “TEA”. And I have foun dthat local patrons don’t enjoy having a 19 month old come up and direct them to “eat eat” or enquire about their “TEA? Tea?” In Italy this is expected and Isabelle is a welcome guest. In France not so much.
I am embarrassed to even mention Satrabucks to myself much less to you. When our local Starbucks opeoend around the corner, shortly after we first moved to France, I was filled with disdain. I had not left the USA and moved to Paris to hang out at an American chain! I would walk by and glance in amazement at the lines of people, presumably French since our neighborhood is not a tourist area, waiting to order their Frappuchino, Mochachiino or vanilla latte. In a city known for its plethora of beautiful cafes why would anyone frequent Starbucks? I was horrified.
Once I got pregnant, Starbucks became my favorite haunt and only option for a café. The no smoking law would not go into affect in restarutants for another year, and aside from the concern about harm to my unborn baby, the faintest scent of cigarette smoke made me nauseous. When we returned to Paris with 3 month old Isabelle, Starbucks became the central meeting place for the anglo moms in my area. Regular meetings are even scheduled here on Thursday mornings! Isabelle has spent so much time in this Starbucks (here as well as on visits to the USA) that I think she feels it is her living room (we moms have certainly used it that way. She knows all of the barristas. She has never had an easy time going down for a nap in bed, especially when I try and put her in bed but she falls asleep easily in the poussette. I have spent months walking her to sleep, then slipping into starbucks for a coffee while she naps. Once I caught onto her schedule, I would bring a book and now I bring my laptop. Once she’s asleep, I can count on her being out for the first 45 minutes. At the 45-60 minute mark, she must slip into a lighter sleep state because she almost always rustles herself awake at that point. If I stroll her around at the precise moment, she will fall back asleep. Attentive strolling at the right moments can ensure another hour to an hour and half sleep. Once I caught on, I began bringing my laptop and using her naptime for work.
I have never had the experience of a baby who naps regularly in her cot, allowing me time to work, rest or clean up. I wonder whether this is due to the fact that I enjoy being out and actually enjoy working in a café while she sleeps, or whether she is just hard wired to not sleep well in her bed during the day. She does seem to get more rest in the car or poussette during the day. My mom argues that if she doesn’t learn to sleep in her bed she will be dependent on the rocking motion of the poussette to put her to sleep. Now that she is 19 months I can actually glimpose the end of this period. Just as breastfeeding passed, I notice how quickly she is growing up and nap time will soon be a thing of the past. Since she has no problem going to bed at night, I have decided that it doesn’t matter whether she naps in her crib or in the poussette. As long as she gets rest (otherwise I have to deal with an irritable baby for the day) and I get a break. Struggling to get her to nap in bed has completely zapped my energy. Days of restraining a screaming writhing child who is in hysterics at the thought of taking a nap in her bed.
All this is to explain that I have developed quite a relationship with my local starbucks. It has been a constant during Isabelle’s development and mine. The one café I could retreat to during that freezing cold winter when I was pregnant. The place I could sit comfortably and breast feed Isabelle. The banquettes she climbed on when she began crawling and roaming, stairs she climbed once she started walking, the barristas provided a constant source of amusement by playing with her, Isabelle sitting on the counter wathching the coffees being made. She now points to any espresso maker and says “latte”. For some children, the dishwasher is an assumed part of the kitchen, for Isabelle it is an espresso machine.
Sitting in Starbucks. Which was a major decision in itself. As I worked through triceps, biceps and attempted to battle the post-pregnancy ponch that has taken up residence where somewhat flat abs once existed, I struggled through the Culture Physique class at the gym. I was relieved that Karim, the one lively instructor who seems to have a sense of humor, was teaching today. That means it will be a good day. The 9:15am class is the first class of the day and I was the youngest by about 30 years. Even so, I found some of the exercises challenging which just goes to show how far my body has receded since pregnancy. Isabelle is now 19 months old and my stomach remains soft and protruding. My butt and thighs, never a source of pride since they have always been on the round, stout side, are surely the fleshiest they have ever been. Too bad I wasn’t born during the Romantic period. I would fit right in with all of those Ruben paintings of fleshy, round women. Or at least back in the 50’s when wide hips and small waists were considered attractive, a size 10 being average rather than “large”. In Paris it is so much worse since the average woman seems to be a size 2.
As I srugggled through class my mind kept drifting towards post-gym plans and which café to head to. I would have 90 minutes left to work on my writing. This time is precious for so many reason: my time to write, also time to use the internet, catch up on the news in French and English and round myself out as a cultured person (ha, did you actually believe that last bit?) Truth is I always intend to read the news, preferably in French in order to improve my linguistic skills and my knowledge of current events in one fell swoop.
As I crunched through abdominal exercises, indulging in the fantasy that my stomach is as flat as it appears when I am lying, stretched out, on the floor, I debated between my two favorite options: Felicie, a Parisian café around the corner and Starbucks. Felicie is a lovely Parisian café and, like all others, one that I cant easily frequent with Isabelle. For one thing, Felicie has free wifi, which starbucks does not. So going to feliecie allows continutaiont of the fantasty that I will read the news, probably in French, or engage in other intellectually stimulating internet based activities. I refuse to pay for starbucks wifi so choosing to go here, means that I am committed to writing. Just writing. Which is what I long to do but also terrifies me. I mean, who is going to read this? I want so much for this to go out to someone. To be heard, to connect. When I was pregnant (And now as a mother of a young child) I craved connection with others in a similar situation, I wanted so much to hear someone else’s story. So that is why I write. To share my story with others. I know that there are mothers out there who also crave conncection. No my stories aren’t earth shattering. In many ways I have done what so many other moms have and are…raising a young baby, balancing a life as mother, wife, friend. Working to establish and continute to develop a career. Struggling to search for, create and maintain an identity. Which identitiy is that? Mother? Friend? Professional? Wife? Struggling between the public and personal personas (which at this point have melded together so much that I am wearing gym shoes in a café – NOT done in paris – and since isabelle adopted my purse for play, I have adopted her diaper bag as my gym/computer bag/purse. The desire (Which at this point has become pure fantasty) to appear secure, stylish and sexy. Couldn’t be farther from the truth as I sit here in an ancient (yet clean!) grey sweater, gym shoes and jeans, rebellious stomach pouring out over my waist. Last bikini wax? Cant even remember. Manicure/pedicure? Maybe last summer? Hair is washed, and managed to cover grey with at-home kit. Came out two shades too dark but at least no more greay. Face is washed, sans makeup and haven’t applied moisturizer in as long as I can remember.
Cafes are too small to navigate the poussette through and Parisians in general aren’t amenable to friendly toddlers curiously exploring the establishment. Isabelle is not one to sit on a tiny wicker chair and have “TEA”. And I have foun dthat local patrons don’t enjoy having a 19 month old come up and direct them to “eat eat” or enquire about their “TEA? Tea?” In Italy this is expected and Isabelle is a welcome guest. In France not so much.
I am embarrassed to even mention Satrabucks to myself much less to you. When our local Starbucks opeoend around the corner, shortly after we first moved to France, I was filled with disdain. I had not left the USA and moved to Paris to hang out at an American chain! I would walk by and glance in amazement at the lines of people, presumably French since our neighborhood is not a tourist area, waiting to order their Frappuchino, Mochachiino or vanilla latte. In a city known for its plethora of beautiful cafes why would anyone frequent Starbucks? I was horrified.
Once I got pregnant, Starbucks became my favorite haunt and only option for a café. The no smoking law would not go into affect in restarutants for another year, and aside from the concern about harm to my unborn baby, the faintest scent of cigarette smoke made me nauseous. When we returned to Paris with 3 month old Isabelle, Starbucks became the central meeting place for the anglo moms in my area. Regular meetings are even scheduled here on Thursday mornings! Isabelle has spent so much time in this Starbucks (here as well as on visits to the USA) that I think she feels it is her living room (we moms have certainly used it that way. She knows all of the barristas. She has never had an easy time going down for a nap in bed, especially when I try and put her in bed but she falls asleep easily in the poussette. I have spent months walking her to sleep, then slipping into starbucks for a coffee while she naps. Once I caught onto her schedule, I would bring a book and now I bring my laptop. Once she’s asleep, I can count on her being out for the first 45 minutes. At the 45-60 minute mark, she must slip into a lighter sleep state because she almost always rustles herself awake at that point. If I stroll her around at the precise moment, she will fall back asleep. Attentive strolling at the right moments can ensure another hour to an hour and half sleep. Once I caught on, I began bringing my laptop and using her naptime for work.
I have never had the experience of a baby who naps regularly in her cot, allowing me time to work, rest or clean up. I wonder whether this is due to the fact that I enjoy being out and actually enjoy working in a café while she sleeps, or whether she is just hard wired to not sleep well in her bed during the day. She does seem to get more rest in the car or poussette during the day. My mom argues that if she doesn’t learn to sleep in her bed she will be dependent on the rocking motion of the poussette to put her to sleep. Now that she is 19 months I can actually glimpose the end of this period. Just as breastfeeding passed, I notice how quickly she is growing up and nap time will soon be a thing of the past. Since she has no problem going to bed at night, I have decided that it doesn’t matter whether she naps in her crib or in the poussette. As long as she gets rest (otherwise I have to deal with an irritable baby for the day) and I get a break. Struggling to get her to nap in bed has completely zapped my energy. Days of restraining a screaming writhing child who is in hysterics at the thought of taking a nap in her bed.
All this is to explain that I have developed quite a relationship with my local starbucks. It has been a constant during Isabelle’s development and mine. The one café I could retreat to during that freezing cold winter when I was pregnant. The place I could sit comfortably and breast feed Isabelle. The banquettes she climbed on when she began crawling and roaming, stairs she climbed once she started walking, the barristas provided a constant source of amusement by playing with her, Isabelle sitting on the counter wathching the coffees being made. She now points to any espresso maker and says “latte”. For some children, the dishwasher is an assumed part of the kitchen, for Isabelle it is an espresso machine.
Expectations and Limitations
Talking with a client today got me thinking about expectations and limitations. What we expect for and from ourselves and the ways in which we limit ourselves.
She was sharing her enthusiasm for a job she is pursuing after one of our sessions. She had clearly been excited about the prospect of this position, I could hear it in her voice. But she was preventing herself from pursuing it because of all the reasons why she "couldnt" or "shouldnt" make it work (as a new mom with a young baby).
As we talked it became clear that she was very excited about going back to work, and this gig in particular. But she couldn’t even allow herself to find out more about the position because of her own ideas regarding what she should and shouldn’t expect from her family in terms of childcare help.
I pointed out that she might not be ready to apply for the job. She was in the "information gathering" phase. Might she allow herself to contact the job just to get more information, without the pressure of applying for it, much less deciding how she would make it work with her childcare needs.
By re-framing her task as gathering information rather than selling herself to any interviewer, she was able to let go of her own restraints and make the phone call. It is a small company without a receptionist and the second in command answered the phone. Since my client did not see herself as "applying and interviewing", only asking questions, she was able to relax and engage in an honest conversation, allowing her curiosity and enthusiasm to propel her.
The job contact found her engaging and more qualified than she might have let on had she felt she was "interviewing" and has asked her to submit a CV, since she seems like a good match for the position. My client was able to ask questions and gather the information she needed to discern whether this is a good fit for her.
We often impose limitations on ourselves that keep us from moving forward. Usually these are restraints that other people see clearly as unnecessary, yet we are invested in keeping ourselves reigned in. Fear of failure, rejection, and a whole lot of "supposed tos" factor in.
One exercise to explore this is to start noticing:
What are your expectations of yourself?
Where is your energy/excitement?
What limitations do you impose on yourself?
Start noticing what your own expectations of yourself are and what are the ways in which you limit yourself. You will be surprised at what happens.
She was sharing her enthusiasm for a job she is pursuing after one of our sessions. She had clearly been excited about the prospect of this position, I could hear it in her voice. But she was preventing herself from pursuing it because of all the reasons why she "couldnt" or "shouldnt" make it work (as a new mom with a young baby).
As we talked it became clear that she was very excited about going back to work, and this gig in particular. But she couldn’t even allow herself to find out more about the position because of her own ideas regarding what she should and shouldn’t expect from her family in terms of childcare help.
I pointed out that she might not be ready to apply for the job. She was in the "information gathering" phase. Might she allow herself to contact the job just to get more information, without the pressure of applying for it, much less deciding how she would make it work with her childcare needs.
By re-framing her task as gathering information rather than selling herself to any interviewer, she was able to let go of her own restraints and make the phone call. It is a small company without a receptionist and the second in command answered the phone. Since my client did not see herself as "applying and interviewing", only asking questions, she was able to relax and engage in an honest conversation, allowing her curiosity and enthusiasm to propel her.
The job contact found her engaging and more qualified than she might have let on had she felt she was "interviewing" and has asked her to submit a CV, since she seems like a good match for the position. My client was able to ask questions and gather the information she needed to discern whether this is a good fit for her.
We often impose limitations on ourselves that keep us from moving forward. Usually these are restraints that other people see clearly as unnecessary, yet we are invested in keeping ourselves reigned in. Fear of failure, rejection, and a whole lot of "supposed tos" factor in.
One exercise to explore this is to start noticing:
What are your expectations of yourself?
Where is your energy/excitement?
What limitations do you impose on yourself?
Start noticing what your own expectations of yourself are and what are the ways in which you limit yourself. You will be surprised at what happens.
Saturday 5 April 2008
Domesticated Mama
I just received an email from one of the playgroup listserves I'm on. It's a request to share "toddler recipes" to spice up the little ones' menus. I barely had time to read it, much less respond. Since then, there have been countless responses from mothers sharing their 3 course menus for their children. Recipes for sauteed fishes, vegetable casseroles and fruit compote desserts. Homemade soups, sauces, tartes.
My definition of "cooking", especially for Bebe, is transforming meat from an unsafe raw state to one in which it is cooked so that it is safe to eat. For vegetables, it means softening enough so that she will eat it. "Cooking" for Bebe involves throwing a sausage in a pan, boiling a pot of pasta or scrambling an egg. To me that constitutes a "cooked" meal. I don't even prepare three course meals for myself and my husband (he, on the other hand, is a complete foodie and composes a menu in the morning, shops for the required ingredients and serves it with proper plates and utensils).
I boil water in a pot, throw pasta in it, add some butter, or pesto from a jar (albeit from an Italian specialty shop my husband swears by), all while Bebe is perched on the counter insisting on "helping".
Friday 21 March 2008
Petite Americani
I just finished reading "petite anglaise". I bought it at WH Smith in Paris on a rare day when Bebe had 4 consecutive hours of babysitting. I had planned on visiting the L'Orangerie, perhaps taking a walk in the Tuilleries, maybe even some intellectual stimulation by reading a newspaper - in French to improve my linguistic skills.
Instead, I spent 3 hours parked at a table in Angelina (touristy, I know but it felt indulgent and it is practically next door to WH Smith), reading "Petite Anglaise" (www.petiteanglaise.com). Being an anglo mom in Paris, I was desperate to hear of someone else's experience.
For weeks, I was looking forward to attending her reading. I made sure Hubbie would be home in time to babysit. When the moment of departure came, I was just zonked. Sprawling out on the sofa seemed much more appealing than 2 metro rides to get to the reading.
As I tell every other mom, raising a baby (especially a toddler) takes every ounce of energy and it's ok to take any opportunity to just flop.
Thursday 20 March 2008
Spa sanity
Yesterday Hubbie took Bebe for the day to give me a break. I couldn't wait to get out of there and was trying to hold back frustration when, at 9:30 am he was working on his computer and I was waiting to get ready and go. But then I felt guilty too because his work is bringing home the bacon. Not only am I not bringing home much bacon but Im not frying it up either. And feeling guilty that he works all the time - and was, in fact, working on editing photos for the current book. I even suggested that he take some time to work and I leave for my day out later. Gritting my teeth even as I suggested it. Because the mornings are the hardest for me. From 7am until lunchtime is the longest stretch. Probably because it isn't always broken up by playground or other activity, since it's been cold. And I'm just waking up.
I am not a morning person, while Bebe bounds out of bed and is raring to go. Showering always feels like a tremendous obstacle since Bebe can't stand me being out of her grasp - behind the shower door (even though she can see me), participating in an activity that she can't be part of. Bringing her into the shower isn't a great alternative, since she doesn't like the water showering over her, preferring baths. She wants me to carry her which is challenging enough on dry land (given her increasing size) but impossible in the shower, on the slippery floor, cradling a slippery babe.
Once I am through the shower, I feel like I've accomplished a major task. I wish I was one of those women who didn't feel the need to shower, or is satisfied with an evening wash. But a shower in the morning is for me like coffee is for most people. Absolutely essential to getting through the day.
Sometimes, I have delayed my shower to after my pre-lunch workout at the gym. Taking care of a baby really makes you appreciate the tiniest moments of peace. Showering in the open group shower at the gym, where the water flow requires constant pushing of the button to restart it, has become pure luxury. Showering 1) alone 2) without anyone whining, or worse, crying in hysteria for me to finish 3) under a sufficient supply of hot water . Showering in our apartment, with Bebe screaming as if she is under torture and banging on the shower door, I do my best to soap and rinse as quickly as possible, partly because of Bebe's impatience and partly because of the short supply of hot water (Definitely not enough for two showers and laundry, which I now wash on cold).
Going to the bathroom: 1) alone 2) without the door wide open to our apartment has become an unknown luxury, one that I never thought to appreciate before Bebe. I had heard mothers talk about it. Especially my mother (I now understand why she is so immodest about bathroom etiquette, something that has always embarrassed me).
Our WC is located between the door to the apartment and the kitchen. The other day, I was in the toilet, door wide open as Bebe ran in and out to "check on" me, and I realized that Hubbie was expected to return home momentarily with dinner guests. I had a half moment of panic at the vision of Hubbie opening the door, ushering in our guests to see me sitting on the toilet right in front of them.
I booked a massage at Les Bains de Marais, since I could then use the sauna, hammam as well and the price is about half that of a hotel spa. What I was most drawn to, after steaming, sauning and getting rubbed down was the "salon de repose", a dimly lit room filled with cushioned chaises, for lying down on and resting. Prior to baby I had always disregarded those rooms. who wants to go to a spa and lied down in a dark room? The point of going (not that I have ever done much of that) is to partake of the treatments, do some physical exercise and use the steam room. I can lie down at home, why do I want to do that in a spa? But that was before I had a busy little moppet enter my life, one whom requires my constant attention, interaction and caretaking, one who sleeps (until recently) on a schedule which allows for no more than 4 hours of shut eye at a time. Fine for her, she can sleep in the pram, at the supermarket, on the bus. Whenever she is tired, she can just fall asleep. Not like mama who must scurry around accomplishing all those things that used to take up a full day, in the broken moments when baby is asleep.
Why didn't anyone tell me about these sleep rooms a year ago, when I actually fainted from sleep-deprivation? had I realized, I would have gone directly to the spa, instead of dawdling in the Jewish museum out of a sense of obligation to "take in some culture" and possibly learn something other than the latest Dora the Explorer song. I knew that taking care of a baby would be exhausting but I never fully appreciated that the first 15 months I would be so sleep deprived and my back would ache so much that standing up is difficult. That said, why wasn't I clued in to the benefits of massage and a dedicated sleep room?
I had arrived at the spa in time to have a massage, steam and allow for a good 90 minutes of nap time. honestly, had I known about this previously, I would have scheduled weekly sessions there just to lie down in that room and sleep for hours.
Lying down on a cushion (that was not sagging with bars and coils poking through as our new sofabed is). I have been sleeping on the sofabed in the sejour. Bebe has become an increasingly noisy sleeper, not only tossing and turning but crying out in distress throughout the night. She seems to be completely asleep because when I run to check on her, in response to her cries, she is sound asleep, arms splayed out horizontally across her crib. Recently, I slept in our room for one night. Neither Hubbie nor I signed on for sleeping in separate rooms when we moved back to our one bedroom apartment. (Although secretly I have enjoyed having my own space, especially on most days when Bebe is attached to me from the moment she wakes until she sleeps). It was the worst night I have had. I spent the whole night in a semi sleep, constantly waking up to Bebe's rustlings, cries of distress. She sounds like she's doing battle in her sleep. not upset, just vehement. Clay seems to sleep right through it. Even in the next room I can hear her but it is a bit more muted so less distressing.
The "salon de repos" is a blessing. I never before appreciated so much being in a quiet room, where i was guaranteed to be undisturbed. No pitter patter of little feet. No cries of protest right outside the door. No "mamamamama". No little hands pulling on my shirt insisting "mama! up up!" (as soon as Isabelle hops into my bed in the morning, she is pulling on me, insisting "mama! up up!" and making her manga sign . I rouse myself with a pang of guilt. Oh my gosh she is so hungry, I had better hurry! How she is that hungry I do not know, since after a full dinner, last night, she then consumed a scrambled egg during story time right before bed.
I lied down on the cushion and willed myself to relax. It was more difficult than I had anticipated. I couldn't get used to the idea that I was in a room alone and would be left undisturbed. And that I wouldn't be cringing at noises outside the door (protests against diaper changes, getting dressed, Hubbie's voice insisting "mama is night night" while Bebe cries for me). I would pay the entrance fee just to be able to go in and lie down!
Tuesday 18 March 2008
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