School bus

Most of you know that Petite has not had an easy time separating these past eight years, and school has been a constant source of anxiety.  So, it is not surprising that we have spent the past few months hesitantly anticipating the start of the school year.  Familiar country but new school, yet again

Petite has taken the school bus for almost two weeks now! The first day she was so excited the night before.  School is practically walking distance so it's comical that we drive or do the bus.

She's been so excited all summer which I find surprising bc the idea of school bus always made me nervous.  Isn't that where all the unsupervised teasing and bullying goes on? I guess not here.

The bus is a yellow mini bus - or maxi van - depending how you look at it.

It's scheduled to arrive at our house at 8:20 (school starts at 8:30).  Either because it's the first week or just Italian time "start" time is flexible.  Since the bus didn't arrive at ours till 8:35.

Petite was up before 7am,  anxious to be ready.  By 8:15 were in the driveway awaiting the bus. The plan was that Petite would board the bus and, to make her comfortable this first time, Hubbie, Bambina and I would pile into the car and follow the bus to school, since we had to drive our little one anyway.

Petite hopped up and down with excitement.  John, our friend who lives at the stop before ours, would text when the bus picked up his daughter, so we would be ready.

At 8:20 John texted,  "Dense fog. No sign of bus"

Ten minutes latwr we received the next text ,"Child on board, bus headed to you."

I felt like we were on some covert mission. 

I buckled Bambina into her car seat.  She was so so so anxious, protesting that she didn't want to go to school.

The bus rolled up at 8:35 and Petite boarded.  Hubbie and I hopped in the front seat of our car and followed the bus.

I didn't even see Petite disembark and head into school. I hoped that she was feeling ok.  Meanwhile Bambina vomited in the parking lot.  Thee butterflies in her stomach got the best of her. Poor baby.

Two and a half hours later when I pick up Bambina,  she pronounced she hates school and wants to come to work with me.  We drove home and waited for Petite to return by bus. Soon, the bus pulled up and she ran In the front door,

"I love the school bus! Can I take it tomorrow? I love school! We had science and it was sooooo fun and the teacher was so nice!"

Quite a change from school drop off and pick up a year ago.

Is it here vs there? Age? Development? Phase of the moon?

Who knows?

Banking in France

We have hired my friend’s American babysitter to spend some time with the kiddos so we can get out. It is really hard to get the kids out, since they prefer playing “at home” to schlepping around outside.  With our time alone yesterday what so you think we did? Most folks visiting Paris would go to the Louvre or the Notre Dame or take a boat ride on the Seine.

We went to the bank.

We still have our French bank account, since Clay often works for French publishers. You can't get an apartment in France without a bank account and usually you can't get a bank account without a residential address in France.

One of those choice French conundrums.

So even though we pay an annual fee, we don't want to close our account.  However, changing the address on our account is a major deal that requires lots of paperwork and documents and meetings. Our ATM cards expired six months ago, and for the past ten years we have been required to pick the cards up at the bank.  So, we've been waiting for this trip to Paris to trek to our old bank and retrieve our ATM cards.

After waiting in line, the teller (who is very nice an that's another reason I want to stay with this particular branch) informs us they were sent to our old address.  The one we moved out of two years ago.  With the cards MIA, we need to give a new French address.  Which of course we don't have.  We could easily give a friends’ address, but we have to show proof of residency there.

Clay asks if our former bank contact is here Monsieur D.  Yes, he happens to be in his office right now.  So, we pop up (very unFrench - the French don't do pop ins.  This actually was a relief to me when we lived here because in Italy they are a matter of course and I feel I am constantly risking offending friends by not "popping in" every time we drive by. Also, when the kids were babies I dreaded the pop-in.   There was inevitably a knock on the door just as I was nursing a baby or had gotten one to sleep or had just secured myself a few Minutes of quiet.

Monsieur D. greeted us graciously and after an hour, we worked out the challenge of inputting our new contact info into the computer (and yes one should be able to easily do this remotely by login on but of course we have been unable to log on since our French mobile is no longer active. So basically it is impossible to edit our account without showing up in person - in Paris - and meeting with Monsieur D.

After many security codes and questions, birthdays, marriage dates and mothers maiden names our accounts were edited.  Monsieur explained that the USA has enforced a new law prohibiting French banks from advising American clients in any way. Some distortion of the privacy act I assume, but basically means that he wouldn't be able to help us with our account if we hadn’t stopped in for a chat.

Good lord!

Our account sorted, the conversation turned as it always does in Italy or France (or maybe just with Clay) to food.  Knowing that Madame D. is Vietnamese and adores cooking, Clay asked where Madame D. shops for her ingredients since he plans on filling the car before we head back to Italy.  This prompted an extensive three-way discussion with Madame D. on speakerphone with Monsieur D. and Clay, debating the spelling of Bahn Cun and the differences between Chinese and Vietnamese noodles.

I was getting worried about wrapping things up in time to take the metro back across town because I knew the sitter would have to leave for her real job (guiding tourists up the Eiffel Tower.)

Ingredient list in one hand and Monsieur D’s personal mobile number in the other, (only to be used for personal/ food related discussions not bank issues) we strolled out an hour and a half later.  We had thirty minutes to complete the rest of our errands: roast chicken and éclairs for the girls and baguette and fromage for Clay before hopping the metro home and racing back up our stinky stairwell (the sewage problem has not been rectified).

That's the difference between being a tourist and living somewhere.

 The metro without tantrums! What a difference!

 Ballet at the Palais Royale

 Clay's FAVORITE Udon restaurant. Papa/Petite date.  Petite actually ate the broth even though there were greens in it!

Ma petite Parisienne avec sa parapluie. 

 The famous store. Repetto, right next to our apt.  Bambina spent the week trying to talk me into buying her toe shoes.

 Scootering along the Seine.

 Canoeing at the Jardin D'Acclimation - one of the best parks ever.

 Bambina doing interpretative dance of the "New pjs and rain boots"

 Places des Vosges

 Walking along the Seine

Scootering - this purchase has SAVED me because now no one is complaining that they need to be carried!

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.

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.

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".  

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.  

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!

cooking with bebe