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.