Mermaids

Lately my two little ones are very into "becoming mermaids". To the point where, they are both packing towels in their school backpacks just in case someone sprinkles water on them and they begin to sprout a tail! Miss Pudding is assured that, if this should happen, the teacher will plop her into a tub of water. Petite is afraid she will be made into sushi should anyone find out.

Zell Um See - from Lake to Mountain

Zell Um See, Austria Beautiful lake surrounded by mountains. Drive up to the glacier, enjoy a beerfest, beautiful lake with beach and play areas for kids, friendly people and very "family oriented". We stayed at Da Claudia Pensione. A lovely family B and B with larger rooms for folks with kids.

Searching for Playgrounds across Northern Italy

Since we spent 99% of our non-hosting-at-the-villa time, occupying the kids in other parts of Italy this summer, I have become an expert on playgrounds. Other people visit Europe to sip wine, shop, see historic sites. Since we live there much of the time, most of my time (with kids) is spent looking for ways to occupy them. Since my two are not going to go for strolling through Venice (or hiking with me in the mountains), we divided our time away from Bonvicino between mountains (for me) and beach (for hubbie and the kiddos). Italians really know how to relax - and everyone takes vacation. Even in the current economic crisis, people still take time away from work. Most vacation time is spent with family (grandparents, siblings, aunts and uncles). People don't often travel out of the country, or even out of their region, but most families take a holiday nearby either in the mountains or the seaside. Picnicing, camping, swimming in the ocean. A holiday doesn't need to be expensive. Many families own a small apartment in the mountains or ocean. It is completely usual for three generations to squeeze into a one bedroom apartment for holiday time. Sofas convert to beds, futons are pulled out. Everyone has a place to sleep and everyone is together. Vacation time = family time. Hubbie had fantasies of driving us all south, to explore the most southern regions of Italy, but once the air conditioning in the car blew and temperatures began to soar in our northern region, I vetoed the idea and suggested we head for cooler terrain, in the mountains. Our highlights traveling with children are: For mountains: Canazei, Dolomites Bardonecchia Gressoney-la-Trinite, Val d'Aosta For ocean: Elba Noli, Liguria

Mountains for Mama, Playgrounds for Kids

Gressoney la Trinite, Val D'Aosta, Italy A little piece of mountain heaven. Hiking, climbing, mountaineering for beginners and expert. Gondola and tram runs all day to take you up to the top with beautiful views. For families: playgrounds for kids with gorgeous views for parents. The lake in St Jean nearby, is a virtual family playland with horseback riding lessons, pony rides, bouncy slides, trampolines, fishing, and of course gelato. The town of St Jean is adorable. Enjoy strolling around or running the kids from toy store to gelateria. #val d'oasta #travel with kids #Italy #29VSL #ClayPix #mountains in Italy #hiking #children #motherhood

Bologna, Italy

Bologna, Italy #Bologna, #Italy

TO BURGUNDY

TO BURGUNDY Thirty minutes from our exit, I turn off into an Autogrill rest stop so that we can all pee and I can feed the girls. I’m not sure what Mary is planning and I figure I can at least get the girls one of the two items they will eat - French fries or pasta - at the rest stop. Nope, this rest stop has neither of those, only steak dinners and ham sandwiches the girls refuse. M.P. refuses to go to the toilet (she toilet trained herself swiftly at age two but now has become fussy and controlling over “I have to pee but I wont!” I am so burnt out that I promise to buy them both a toy from those ridiculous slot machines if they will go to the toilet. We load up on cookies and chips – because that is all that there is and is better than nothing – and hit the road. We turn off the auto route somewhere in Burgundy and wind our way on tiny roads through tiny towns. Not sure you can even call them towns. More like hamlets. A few houses, a post office, no other establishments. I have the name of Mary’s town, La Petite Celle. And that’s it. I’m totally reliant upon the GPS on my phone. Miraculously, we pull up at her house and see her standing in the garden. I feel like we have reached an oasis. BURGUNDY OASIS Until 30 seconds later when her barking dog comes running up to the car. Petite bursts into hysterical tears. She is terrified of dogs since being bit by her ballet teacher’s dog IN ballet class! M.P. adores dogs but is allergic. This one is a puppy and is jumping all over the place. I knew that Mary had recently acquired Gloria and I had told her that Miss Pudding is allergic but suggested that if we are outside of the house and the dog is away from her all will be fine. Not so, since the exhuberant puppy sees my two girls as new playmates and wants nothing more than to start the games. I carry both girls into the garden, one on each hip, sashaying out of Gloria’s way every time she attempts to jump up for a kiss. Mary has laid out a proper lunch in the garden, festively decorated with flowers as centerpieces. Her two girls calmly sit down, say a prayer and then eat. It is impossible to make polite chit chat with a terrified, hysterical six year old in one arm and a dramatically upset four year old in the other. Clearly, my plan for this play date as an oasis from the long drive and the heat is going completed awry. It is sweltering hot and all I can think of is how soon can I politely get the girls back in the car and head to the hotel with a pool? Eventually, Petite calms down and even hops into the kiddie pool with Mary’s two girls. She wis happily playing – a huge development for Petite, who can be painfully shy – but M.P.ias still hysterical. Between the heat and the dog I think she has just had it. She won’t go in the pool, which I know would cool her off. I can’t take her inside because of all of the dog hair. I always tend to feel at fault and now I feel like the incompetent mom and the bad guest. Mary is calmly sitting eating her lunch while I am doing gymnastics running between Petite and M.P., trying to calm them down so that we can at least wait a few minutes before taking off. Mary had graciously invited us to sleep over and luckily I had forseen that the dog hair would be a problem and hadn’t taken her up on her offer. After only 30 minutes, Petite is happily settled in, playing mermaid with the other girls, M.P. is hot, uncomfortable and hysterical. I am still concerned about her asthma. While trying to extricate Petite from her mermaid game and get her out of her swim suit and into some clothes, I hand M.P. my Iphone (the screen has now broken three times and at this point it is wrapped in scotch tape) to watch a movie for a few minutes in the hopes of calming her down. She drops it on the ground (again). I scoop up both girls, make my excuses and stuff them into the car, crying. I flip on the the Ipad (yes I have become an IPAD addict in terms of calming my kids) and they are immediately entranced by “Horton the Who.” I touch my Iphone screen to punch in the address of the hotel we are headed to near Lyon. The screen is blank. The phone won’t turn on. It is kaput. I have no map (because who carries paper maps in this age of electronics?), no other GPS system and no idea where I am going. Or where I am, for that matter. I open my computer and find the address of the hotel we are booked into some 18km from Lyon. I know that I can easily follow signs to Lyon but what then? “OK girls I need to pop back into Mary’s house to get the directions because my phone is broken”. Petite bursts into hysterical protests “No! Don’t leave us!” “OK, so come with me” I offer, dreading the drama of having to carry them both back through the garden, fighting off the jumping dog. Petite, terrified of being more than two feet away from me, insists on coming back into the house with me. I hoist her onto my hip, fighting off the excited puppy on route. M.P. is too entranced in the world of Whoville to notice. So back into the house we go. I ask Mary if I can use her WIFIor computer? I need to find directions to this hotel, which , unfortunately is in the outer outskirts of Lyon. She can’t remember her WIFI password so offers me her computer to look up directions and then TYPE THEM ON to my computer. So here I am, madly typing directions which are becoming increasingly complicated. Flying down the auto route is easy. But apparently once we exit we will be on tiny unmarked roads in the middle of nowhere. With no GPS and no map. Meanwhile M.P. is screaming hysterically from the car. Mary goes out to comfort her. Petite is panicked beyond consolation because of Miss Pudding’s screams and is yelling at me “Go to her, Mama! Go to her!” I MUST get these directions. I can NOT bring both girls in to the house with the jumping dog. It is agonizing to hear my baby screaming for me hysterically. But I also know that I must get these directions because once we hit the road I am screwed. I won’t have internet access or a phone on the rest of this four- hour drive and I need to know where we are going. I finally race back to the car. Miss Pudding is soaked with sweat and her face is covered in tears. I feel like the worst mom in the world. I quietly comfort both girls and explain that I needed to get directions but now we are going to a hotel and Papa will meet us there tomorrow. For the next four hours, pedal to the metal, no driver’s license, no phone, map or GPS, I am totally focused on our destination. Luckily the girls fall asleep and I am left to listen to “Horton Hears a Who” on my own, which is oddly comforting (and a welcome change from weeks of Angelina Ballerina). I feel l pretty confident until three- hours later when we take the exit off the auto route. Computer open and balanced on the passenger seat next to me, I try to focus on the obscure directions. Left at Pont du Nord. I drive around and around the roundabout. No left. No Pont du Nord. Only signs of towns that have no meaning to me. The girls are now awake and asking, “Mama, why are we driving in circles?” I lightly reply, “Just looking for the right road!” I know Hubbie will flying into the Lyon airport so I assume the hotel is near there. I follow the signs towards the airport but once we hit “arrivals and departures,” realize this isn’t the right direction. I systematically try each of the exits off the roundabout, hoping I will eventually reach a town, a gas station or some sign of life where I can ask for directions to the hotel. Finally I stumble upon a deserted gas station with a car wash and a single man washing his car. He is the only person I have seen since our stop at the Autogrill. I stop the car and get out (Petite bursting into hysterics that I am leaving them in the car) and ask him if he can point me towards the town of Jons. (I discover later the “town” consists of a post office and a pizzeria). He points down the road “200 km”. Jackpot! Miraculously we are almost there. CORNFIELDS OF LYON A few minutes later we arrive at the Best Western Jons and I almost cry with relief. My plan is to park and stay here until tomorrow night when Hubbie arrives. I am glad to see there is a restaurant and, though I am more of a deli or picnic girl than a hotel restaurant diner, at this point I just want to plant my kids in the pool and order them room service. The receptionist is expecting us, because Hubbie has been calling to find out if we had yet arrived. She is very nice and offers to make us a dinner reservation in the hotel. Or order pizza. I suggest that pizza is better suited for the kids and our current stress level. Then I hustle the kids into their swimsuits and into the pool. I am amazed at their stamina during what to me has been a very rough couple of days. Once in the pool, they are happy as can be. It is such a joy to see M.P. giggling after a day of heat rash and tears. The receptionist returns to report that, for some reason I can’t understand, the pizza delivery is closed. OK, ANY other options here other than hotel restaurant? I have perused the menu and other than grilled fog legs and shank of lamb, there aren’t a lot of options. Absolutely nothing my kids would remotely touch. She gives me directions to another pizzeria just “down the road”. SEARCHING FOR DINNER Dreading putting the kids back in the car, I am surprised that they are game. We pile in and set off. Following the directions, we drive to Balad. We continue through the tiny town. Nothing. A boulangerie and pharmacie that are closed for the night. No people. Deserted. A car pulls up and people pile out, heading to their apartment. I run up (Petite screaming in protest) and ask them about the restaurant. Never heard of it. And since the town is the size of a postage stamp I have to take their word for it. They go down the street and ask another local if he has any idea. Nope. No restaurants around here. Trying to put a positive spin on this I tell the girls, “OK! Back to the hotel for cookies and chips picnic!” #France #travel #travel with children #motherhood #French food #29vsl #claypix #Burgundy #Lyon #parenting

From the Mouths of Babes

In the car, I hear Miss Pudding pipe up from the back seat"Mama, I do NOT ever want to be a Mama. It is too much work!!!" #motherhood #children # toddlers #parenting

Last week in Bonvicino

This is our last week in Bonvicino, at villa, before we return to Sausalito. Was meant to be a quiet week at home - one of the few without guests, where we could attend to projects, take care of the house and the kids could have the property to themselves. Needless to say it has been chaos from the start. Beginning with hubbie's local photo shoot on a day when the kids were nuts and inconsolably irritable. Then on to the "questura," immigration office, to reapply for our residency visas since the three hours we spent last time (shlepping the kids) resulted in NOTHING - the computer went down and apparently our records were lost. So, back to the office with two absolutely miserable, irritable and tantrummy children. Petite is inexplicably afraid of the police so any mention that we are in a police office (not unsimilar to the doctor's office) sends her into hysteria. Trying to negotiate visa reapplication, in Italian which I have not yet mastered, with one hysterical child crying in my lap, terrified mommy is going "to jail," while the other is climbing up onto my shoulders like a monkey,is not easy. One would think that after seven years, my Italian would be much improved. But when I realize that 99.9% of my conversations take place with one or two children screaming "mamamamama I need...!!" and climbing on me, it is easy to see that understanding the dynamics of our plumbing system or attempting to negotiate auto insurance is impossible. I can barely even order a chicken at the butcher.

Credit Cards in France

CREDIT CARDS IN FRANCE I’ve driven from Paris to Italy so many times; this shouldn’t be a problem. Only thing is Mary’s house is in a teeny tiny town outside of another teeny town off the autoroute, somewhere in Burgundy. Thank god for GPS. Hubbie left me his Citibank debit card. I take 100 euros cash out before we leave, just in case. I’m so used to being able to use a debit card for everytihng in the USA, I forget that France doesn’t’ work the same way. Unless the card is from a French bank (mine was stolen), there’s a fifty percent chance the credit card won’t work. I’m reminded of this when I reach our first pay tolls (I had gotten used to the free auto routes in Austria) and my credit card is rejected. I pay the 24.50 euros in cash. Next pay toll we reach I insist on using my card. I know it works and I’m not willing to use up all my cash at the damn toll booths. I insert my card and it is refused. I ring the “help” button and explain, in French, that my card is refused but I know that it works. The barely audible voice on the other end asks me to pay cash. Using one of the French’s favorite phrases I insist that is not possible. Traffic building behind me, I wait. A few minutes later two young attendants stroll over. They are in no hurry. Why should they be? They get paid either way. They ring the help button and begin the absurd discussion of why my card won’t work. They try to insert it like an ATM card (as French bank cards work this way, not by “swiping”), I explain that the card has to be swiped. The three of them mull this over , examining the card, turning it over. It never ceases to amaze me how perplexed the French are over foreign credit cards. It’s a Citibank Mastercard for goodness sake. They finally swipe the card and we are on our way. #credit cards #France #travel with children #autoroute #29vsl

Fleeing Paris

\ VELCRO CHILDREN Here’s a fun development – Petite refuses to take the elevator, as does her father. But at least her dad will walk up and down the stairs by himself. Petite is terrified to be apart from me which means me schlepping Miss Pudding and stroller up and down stairs or persuading Petite to go down the stairs and we will meet her via elevator. Somehow we all get up to our room where I dump them both on the bed and put Angelina Ballerina on the Ipad, realizing they haven’t eaten since croissants this morning. Which Miss Pudding refused. They both refused lunch in Montmartre and now there is no way I can shlep them back out and down the streets to a restaurant. Luckily, I have WIFI and remember how to order pizza (which is not an easy task in Paris) to be delivered. Both kids are famished but refuse to eat the pizza because it has TINY specks of oregano on it. Which I attempt to pick off but try picking pieces of herbs out of melted cheese. I decide there is no way I can manage another day of this. It is too hot and why oh why is it so impossible for me to get my kids even down the street here? People LIVE here. I lived here. And it was impossible. HOW do other mothers here manage? FLEEING PARIS It is Weds night and the current plan is for Hubbie to return by train late Friday night. Then we will leave and head back to Italy and Villa San Lorenzo Friday night or Saturday morning. Unfortunately, we have just realized that Saturday begins the final big vacation week in France, and thus, all of Paris will be evacuating. The roads will be packed. Traffic will be awful. And there is no a/c in our car. Apparently ,even if we leave at midnight on Friday, we risk being stuck in awful traffic. I formulate a plan. I will drive the girls to Lyon tomorrow, spend the next day with them there and Hubbie will meet us there instead of returning to Paris. This means we will leave before the Friday rush and I will drive five of the 8 hours towards home at Villa San Lorenzo. Ironically, after a year of questioning my decision to leave Paris, all I want to do is get somewhere cooler and calmer. We will stay somewhere inexpensive with a pool. Doesn’t matter where since it just needs to be on the route to Italy, and easy for Hubbie to get to after his shoot. If there’s a pool, I can hunker down with the girls. An American acquaintance from Paris has just bought a little house in Burgundy. Petite and M.P. had met her two daughters and played together when we lived in Paris. Mary mentions that they have a pool and trampoline. When I realize they are on route to Lyon, I figure that will be a perfect play stop on our way. Break up the ride for the girls and give them a playdate. First though, I have to get the kids, and our luggage into the car. For other people this would be easy. We lucked out in parking the car RIGHT outside the hotel door. All any normal person would have to do is put the luggage (in addition to my bag and the kids’ we have Hubbie’s photography suitcase and three boxes of wine he has picked up) into the elevator, send it down, load the car. Kids can watch a movie while I am doing this. But no, Petite insists on being velcroed to me. Even when I go into the bathroom (in our teeny tiny hotel room) she insists that I keep talking to her so that she knows I am there. Where would I go? I ask. She is afraid that I will leave. She seems obsessed with the idea that I am going to split without them. So there I am, chattering away while in the shower, on the toilet, brushing my teeth. Now I have to get the luggage downstairs. I suggest that the girls sit in the lobby – where they can look through the glass door and watch me load the car. No, they refuse to either stay in the room while I schlep the luggage downstairs OR sit in the lobby. Petite is terrified of the elevator. I show her the alarm button and explain that I have a phone and if anything happened, the receptionist would come help us. She is not buying it. Somehow, I get both girls, two duffel bags, two back packs filled with kid paraphernalia, the stroller, Hubbie’s heavy photo case and three boxes of wine into the tiny elevator which really has room enough for two anorexic short people. I have to make it in one trip or schlep the girls back upstairs with me. We make it down to the lobby and unload. I’m exhausted and can’t believe we haven’t even begun our five-hour drive. M.P. finally concedes to sit on the chair in the lobby, sucking on her bottle while watching Petite and me load the car three feet away, just on the other side of the glass door. I shove the luggage in, stuff the wine boxes under the girls’ feet and strap them in. Now I have to navigate. #Paris #travel with children #motherhood #travel France #29VSL #ClayPix

MONTMARTRE and METRO

MONTMARTRE and METRO I decide to take them to Montmartre. There’s a tiny shop that sells Arabian outfits – I had bought one for Petite a few years ago and figured she’d get a kick out of that. And it would get me out in Paris. Line 4 is a 7 minute walk from us and goes straight there. A seven minute walk is like climbing a mountain for Petite. Again pushing Miss Pudding (who refuses to walk) in stroller, with Petite complaining all the way, we walk to the metro. I managed to leave all four copies of my Paris map in California and am hoping that I will recognize the route to the tiny store once we arrive. I figure, middle of the day, in the summer, the metro wont be crowded. This will be an easy ride and I’ll pop them in a taxi to come back. The metro is a sauna and it seems as if all of Paris has boarded our car. There’s nowhere to sit and we are impossibly squished in the crowd. I finally manage two jump seats and insist the girls sit down. Petite declares that she is afraid of being underground, in the tunnels. Miss Pudding is crying and screaming “get me out of here”. Petite closes her eyes and says, “tell me when it is over”. I consider getting them off the metro but then we will be in the middle of Paris, further from our destination, scrounging for a taxi. I decide (perhaps a bad decision) to ride it out (mostly because I am trying to save our cab fare). After thirty hot, uncomfortable minutes, which seem torturous to Miss Pudding, we reach our stop. I get them off the train and hustle them onto the escalator (no easy feat with stroller and Miss Pudding who unsteadily seems on the brink of rolling down the escalator every time she steps foot onto one). We reach the top and breathe sighs of relief to be above ground. Until I see that the exit is one of those roundabout turn styles they have at the zoo, rather than the automatic door. Petite can manage pushing through one but Miss Pudding tends to be clumsy and I worry she will get stuck. Plus, I have to manage the stroller. Crowds are pushing past us and I watch to observe another woman with a stroller. As I am folding our stroller and trying to keep Miss Pudding from being squished within the turn style, I hear two men arguing loudly behind me. Someone grabs my backpack and I turn around and yell. Incidentally, I never wear a backpack and have never been hastled in Paris – or anywhere. I’m usually pretty low key and savvy but here I am with two confused kids, a stroller and a backpack full of extra kid clothes (because inevitably someone will pee or throw up and need to change). Any mugger will be sorely disappointed to take off with my pack. But I am stupidly wearing it on my back since I need both hands to manage stroller and children. That’s the last straw. I am hot, tired and overwhelmed. I have two freaked out, hot children and this guy is trying to mug me? No way. I whirl around and yell at him. Not sure what I yell but basically I’m a fed up, overstressed mama and you’d better BACK OFF. He looks pretty surprised to see such a furious Mama Bear up in his face and moves away immediately. We exit the metro, Petite now frantic with worry, “Why were those men yelling? Why did you yell at him? What did he do? What happened?” I want to calm her but basically I want her to shut up while I hustle them across the busy street into one of the shops. As I am getting my bearings and trying to remember where the tiny Arabian shop is in the twisty streets of Montmartre, Petite won’t stop chattering at me, fretfully. People are bustling by and I’m well aware that I look like an absolute tourist. Previously, by myself, I never felt so jostled and discombobulated. It was easier to blend in and much easier to remember directions without dragging Petite around, yammering at me. At least Miss Pudding is in the stroller, so that’s one I have under control. As we march up the street, a man sidles up to me, “Where are you from? Are you English? I love hearing you speak. I love your children’s accents”. Good lord, I had forgotten what a mecca for hustlers Montmartre is. Now that I look like a total tourist I am a prime target for every game in town. I have no patience and my Mama Bear alter ego tells him sternly to go away. In French. Of course this only exacerbates Petite’s anxiety. “Why is that man talking to us? Why is he asking to speak English?” I’m trying to brush it off, “Oh, he just wants to practice English,” while at the same time desperately trying to figure out which way to go. Miraculously, I find the tiny Arabian store and Petite and Miss Pudding are delighted to try on and score some (cheapo) costumes. M.P. has her heart set on a white party dress that looks appropriate for a wedding and Petite chooses a green Arabian “Princess Jasmine” bikini top with gold jangles, paired with matching disco pants. A gold headband adorned with coins that jingle and a pair of gold sunglasses complete her outfit. We bought the same thing as a birthday present for her Italian friend (note: all three outfits totaled 50 euros). THE SACRE COEUR The Sacre Coeur – which my kids could care less about, but is one of the most famous sights in Paris – is only two blocks away and, more importantly, I know that there is a double tiered old fashioned carrousel below it. I figure that’s worth the walk up. We will do a ride and grab a cab. Of course this only leads us into even more touristed terrain, with hustlers aplenty, trying to sell me crap or chat to me right and left. I finally get the kids on the carrousel, which is a pretty spectacular set up in itself. Halfway through the ride Petite declares that it’s too “slow” and she wants to get off. Are you f—kiding me? She dismounts her horse but I insist her feet stay on the carousel until the ride stops. . Eventually we get in a cab and head back to the hotel. Of course the taxi can’t take us directly to our hotel entrance because it is a one-way street going the wrong way and no I don’t want to pay even more money for it to go all the way around. Both girls fell asleep three minutes into the ride. They actually look quite darling curled up together across the back seat. I lug Petite into the stroller and hoist M.P. over my should while pushing the stroller the extra block to the hotel entrance, stumbling gratefully into the lobby, where at least, the reception men are nice and graciously fill Miss Pudding’s milk bottle without charge. #Paris #Montmartre #travel with children #children in Paris #Paris metro #Sacre Coeur #mugging in Paris #parenting

FRENCH APPLIANCES

FRENCH APPLIANCES – they never work *I have spent years struggling with French appliances: ovens, washers, tea pots, electric stoves, fuses that blows. You’d think that my ONE day on vacation, the washing machine could just FUNCTION. He takes the kids to search for food and I shlep round the corner to the Laundromat. After filling the machines and putting in my five euros in coins I can’t get the washer to turn on. It’s hot, I’m sweating and no matter what I do, the machine wont start. Of course there is no attendant. Theres a mobile number scratched on the wall but I don’t have a cell phone and I don’t have much faith in a Laundromat attendant rushing to my aid. I decide to take the clothes out of the machine and try another Laundromat. I add the lost five euros to the 68 euros the hotel won’t refund. So far, Paris has cost me 73 euros for a hotel room I am not staying in a washing machine that won’t work. I finally get the machines open, pile the laundry into my bags and shlep it down the street to another Laundromat. 12 euros later and I’ve got two loads running. I head to the shopping street I know Hubbie is wandering with the girls, collecting picnic items. Miss Pudding is virtually starving. She practically reaches into the rotisserie at the boucherie to pull out a roasted chicken. So Hubbie stops at a bench across from the metro station. It is still sweltering. He pulls out the chicken and starts feeding it to the girls, like feeding little babies. They devour it. Meanwhile I realize I have to wait for the laundry, to toss it into the dryer, if we want it done before the Laundromat closes tonight. Or risk Hubbie heading to Bordeaux with no clothes. I head back to the hot Laundromat and wait for the washing to end so that I can pop it into the dryer. I’ve told Hubbie to go ahead and take the girls – he promised to take Petite to visit her old French school, requiring a metro trip (I would have avoided that and hung around our neighborhood). I told him to go ahead and visit the school (view it from the outside) and I’ll meet them in the park nearby that Petite used to play in daily. #France #Paris #appliances #travel #motherhood

Heading to Paris

HEADING TO PARIS After this, I am looking forward to going to Paris the next day. We leave early in the morning to beat the heat. The drive takes a good 6 hours, the AC is still busted but Miss Pudding is much better. We arrive in Paris and it is hotter than I have ever experienced there. I purposely did not pre book our hotel because, at this point I figured we would show up (I knew rooms were available but hadn’t wanted to prepay). Hubbie will stay with us tonight and tomorrow morning, early, he takes a train to Bordeaux for a three day photo shoot. The other option is for me to take the girls and go with him BUT this would be an extra 5 hours of driving there and back with NO A/c, only to arrive in VERY hot Bordeaux, no pool and nothing to do with the kids. I figure staying in Paris is a better option. At least I know what to do here. I decided to stay in our old neighborhood for the familiarity, and had contacted our favorite 1 star hotel that we have stayed at for years. It is in our old neighborhood, in the 14th arrondissement, right near Rue DaGuerre, a popular pedestrian shopping street that was featured in the film, “2 Days in Paris”. “CITY OF LIGHTS,” PARIS FANTASY VS REALITY The skies open into thunderstorms. Hubbie double parks and I run into The Hotel de Blois, on rue des Plantes. Previously, our most beloved place to stay. Yes they have a room. We will all have to squeeze into a double bed. But after tonight, it will be only the girls and me so that seems doable. I hand the receptionist Hubbie’s Am Ex card, realizing that, after tonight, I won’t have a credit card to pay with so I had better put his card on file. We lug the girls and the luggage up 6 flights to the tippy top floor to a sweltering room. There in no AC (I am sure that one of the websites said there is AC) AND the radiator is on full blast. Miss Pudding is flopped on the bed, melting before my eyes. I march downstairs and say sorry it is too hot. My children are melting. We can not stay. He says I just ran your card, I cannot cancel. Excuse me? We didn’t pre book. We arrived ten minutes ago. So French. He insists that once the card is rung, he can not refund. After much arguing (I get Hubbie involved) the reception agrees to refund the last two days but not our first night). WHAT? I’ll have to argue it with Am Ex but right now I need to get my hot and tired kids situated. Back into the thunderstorm, around the corner to the IBIS I know is there and I know has AC. Crappy tiny room but at least it has AC and my kids wont melt. They’re starving. Is now 5pm and they haven’t eaten all day. And I have laundry to do. I’ve been washing my stuff out in the sink. The girls have so many clothes it doesn’t matter but Hubbie needs clean clothes for his photo shoot. #Paris #travel #children travel #France #motherhood

FRANKFURT

ONE NIGHT IN FRANKFURT By now the kids are beyond fried and hungry. We park the car and walk along the river. Which seems to be the prettiest part of town, which is NOT saying much, since Frankfurt is an armpit town. But pe

ople are out and musicians are playing. Unfortunately, we can’t find any food for them. Hubbie finally searches out a gelateria and gets Petite some ice cream while M.P. is fascinated by a group of musicians singing by the river. All is much better and we eventually pile into the double bed in our air-conditioned room. GETTING TO KNOW FRANKFURT’S CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL *I have been to urgent care and children’s hospitals in Paris, various parts of Italy, east and west coast of USA and now Germany. Shall I be continuing a tour of worldwide pediatric facilitites? The next day Miss Pudding is still having trouble breathing. Hubbie has a very important shoot for Apple. I had no idea Frankfurt would be so crappy. Hubbie drops me with Miss Pudding at the children’s hospital (after first going to the wrong hospital). Luckily, the doctor is not an idiot and understand immediately to prescribe a liquid steroid. I can’t manage Petite in hysterics at the hospital so Hubbie takes her to the Apple shoot with him. Thank goodness this doctor knows his stuff (note to self: next time go immediately to the children’s hospital). I pay and stroller Miss Pudding, who is practically passed out, to the pharmacy a few blocks away. She has sucked down so much gunk into her chest that she throws up as soon as we arrive but luckily, before I’ve given her the medicine. I finally get the meds into her and she perks up immediately. I find a taxi and get her back to the hotel. Hubbie drops Petite off with me. Now I have Miss Pudding, who is happy to lie in the A/C and watch a movie, and Petite who is raring to go and to whom, in a state of desperation last night, I had told I would take to a shopping mall. I ask at the front desk and of course, the mall I had spied on route to the pharmacy is still under construction. We are in a hot armpit city and I just am out of ideas for entertaining spirited Petite in our tiny hotel room all day. The lobby isn’t even cool enough to play in. Hubbie’s Apple contact gives me the name of another shopping area and I pop the kids in a taxi and we head to “the mall”. Miss Pudding has perked up and happy to be strolled around while Petite window shops and I search, unsuccessfully, for something for them to eat. Eventually we take a cab back to the hotel and collapse in the AC and wait for Hubbie to return.

URGENT CARE GERMAN STYLE

URGENT CARE GERMAN STYLE Miss Pudding is wheezing so we ask about a doctor. Turns out Urgent Care is next door. Petite becomes hysterical. Absolute terror about being in a medical facility (in the waiting room). Is crying and freaking out begging us to take her outside. But we can’t. I’m holding Miss Pudding and Hubbie is trying to check us in. She’s completely hysterical. We finally get to see the doc. Who speaks English. Miss Pudding is now crying (of course) because the doctor is scary and she’s only 4 years old! The doc seems irritated and says she can’t possibly hear Miss Pudding’s breathing with the stethoscope because M.P. is crying too much. WHAT? I show her M.P’s inhaler and explain that in the past she has been given a liquid or inhalant steroid. The doctor says it is not possible for her to do this (wtf?) And we must give her a suppository. Which I refuse to do because seriously, M.P. has no idea what that is and wouldn’t you be freaked out if someone shoved something up your butt? Plus, I know there is another option – liquid steroid. In a huff, the doctor finally calls the pharmacy and then reports that the pharmacy does not have the appropriate child medication so we will have to go to the children’s hospital. It is now 9pm. The kids have been in the car since 10am, haven’t eaten, are sweltering and completely freaked out. I ask the doc if possibly, another pharmacy IN THE ENTIRE CITY might have the right medication and can she just give me a prescription? “I don’t have time to call all the pharmacies!” she barks. I’m ready to slap her but restrain myself and ask again can she just give me the prescription, I promise I will give the suppository (not). Finally, prescription in hand, the nice receptionist jots down (illegibly) the address of closest pharmacy. We pile in the car and set off (thank god for GPS). The pharmacy is closed but supposedly is open 24 hours so I ring the bell. The pharmacy slides open the little mailbox and I hand her the prescription, crossing my fingers and toes. She glances at it and asks if the doctor is the one who called her a half hour ago. Shit. Then I notice she is pointing to the word “spacer” on the prescription – the inhaler that we HAVE already for M.P. The one the doctor SAW that we have. We don’t need that. We have one! “Oh”, she says, “in that case, no problem. I have the medication you need”. What? That dumb ass doctor. I am so thankful to get the medication. We give MP the inhalant and she seems a bit better.

FRANKFURT

Things REALLY go downhill once we drive to Frankfurt. Traffic, heat, air conditioning in the car goes bust. Miss Pudding has a sniffle that turns into asthma. As soon as we arrive at the crappy hotel (in Frankfurt which is an armpit city!) – I am desperate to get the girls into A/C. We arrive at the hotel and I realize my wallet is missing. I last had it when we stopped along the auto route. I remember searching for 2 euros to buy the girls gummi bears. Now it is gone. I am less concerned about my driver’s license than about than my debit cards for USA, French and Italian banks as well as my Am Ex which, at least, is easy to cancel. Turns out the Best Western DOESN’T have A/C. Honestly, I’m not someone who looks for any amenitiess in a hotel, even A/C unless it is sweltering. Which it is. We don’t know what to do. We have prepaid for the room. They finally give us a room that is practically underground but does have A/C.

ZELL UM SEE

We are headed to Frankfurt for Hubbie’s photo shoot. So we decide to drive through Austria and check it out (why not?). We stop in Kitzbuhel, a ski area recommended by a friend. Then to Zell Um See, Austria, which we pick as a destination because it is a lake on our route. We have no idea it is so well known. Just need somewhere cool to go with the kids. After an hour driving all over the area looking for a room, we end up at Pensione Claudia, a family inn, run by Claudia. It is just a five minute walk to the lake so we stroll the girls down to a lovely grassy area for lounging and a swimming pool, lakeside, and of course a playground. The next night happens to be one of the annual town beer fests. The girls have been angling for us to buy them traditional Austrian dresses and they are so cute I can’t resist. Miss Pudding LOVES hers. Petite just loves buying clothes. As soon as Miss Pudding puts her dress on and notices the dancing stage, she insists on dragging Hubbie up to try an Austrian polka. She exclaims, “I just HAVE to dance in this dress.”

The Dolomites

Next, we drive north to the Dolomites (ocean for hubbie, mountains for me) – cooler and less expensive and gorgeous mountains. Really, with my kids just need a good play park and swimming pool. Fabulous playground with mountain views and a pool in town. LOVE it there. FABULOUS. My favorite place. Hubbie and I had come to Canazei ten years ago to ski. The skiing is fantastic. The towns are charming, the lifts are accessible and there is fabulous food everywhere. We discovered that skiing Italian style is basically, take a lift up, have a coffee and a brioche, ski down, have a glass of wine, take the lift up, have a delicious lunch of risotto or pasta, a meat dish, or a "light" lunch of panino. Of course, enjoy a beer or glass of wine. Ski down, have an espresso. Take the lift up, have a biscotti, ski down and it is probably time for aperotivos. The Sellaronda is a serious of lifts and gondolas that circulate the Dolomite mountains and towns, taking you from one town to another, connecting the towns with ski trails. It is very accessible for the intermediate, casual skier and a lovely way to explore the region. Summer is no less spectacular with cool breezes, hills covered with bright green grass, dotted with almost vividly colorful wildflowers. Snow capped mountain peaks surround the valley of Canazei. It is an ideal family destination in winter, with ski school for children or summer, with adventure parks, playgrounds, biking and swimming pools. Unfortunately, once we left, things went downhill.

ON THE ROAD FROM Villa San Lorenzo

The villa is booked for two weeks so are hitting the road. Packed up the car, strapped in the kids, and starting off by heading south to the island of Elba. We spend a few days in Elba which is lovely but a four hour drive PLUS waiting 2 hours for ferry and then driving to hotel from ferry. We stay at X, an all inclusive family resort. There is an enormous shallow pool, which is perfect for the kids, but is VERY salty and Miss Pudding complains that her eyes are irritated. On the plus side, the place is geared towards families and there is a staff of four college kids whose job was to facilitate games and activities with the kids day and night. My kids are shy but they like the idea. We spend the first night dancing to hokey tunes. The staff immediately love me because I am the only adult who will get up and dance with the kids. I figure, what do I have to lose? And i need the exercise :) Petite is shy at first but is also very intent on copying the teacher's moves precisely. Miss Pudding is happy to do her own thing, moving from modern dance, to a ballet combo, as her whims guide her.

Job

Went for job interview in Bologne, Italy. Left kids with hubbie - he had to reshoot an assignment for a magazine. They requested that he find "more fashionable people". So he set off with cameras, and stroller, 4 year old and 6 year old daughters (Miss Pudding and Petite) in tow. Petite, a born fashionista, had just indulged in a shopping spree (I should get an award for standing in line for thirty minutes at a "hip" clothing store, music blaring, waiting to pay for her clothes). Note to self: do NOT shop on the Sunday of the summer sales. Petite was wearing her new half shirt (bare tummy) and flouncy skirt, paired with Italian sandals. Needless to say she was literally strutting down the streets, pushing her sister in the stroller. I put Petite in charge of searching for "fashionable ladies" for Papa to photograph and scampered away to get to my interview. Miss Pudding's comment "But mama. You don't need a JOB. Your JOB is taking care of us!" followed by a huge hug. Honestly, when she wraps those little arms around my neck I melt!

Yearbook night?

I just received the notice for Yearbook night at my three year old's nursery school. I figured this was some optional night where parents discuss "graduation" for the pre-k class. Turns out it's a night all the parents are supposed to show up WITH all of our child's artwork that we have been dutifully saving ALL YEAR. Apparently, we paste it into a scrapbook and make a year book for our child. Darling, huh? My idea of HELL. First of all, I do not have an artsy crafty bone in my body. We will be given construction paper and glue and are meant to put together a meaningful book of memories using our child's SAVED artwork (I felt I was doing such a good Mom job by posting the artwork on the fridge each week. Before then tossing it into the recycling) and our own set of calligraphy pens, holiday stickers and artistic sense. Are you kidding me? Clearly I missed the note in the beginning of the year, stating that we are supposed to SAVE the finger painting, christmas santas, and easter eggs sent home in our child's bag throughout the year. On top of this, we just moved, so I have one springtime chickadee under an umbrella that my three year old constructed with help. And a piece of aper with blue scribble on it that is her "art work". I certainly hope they will be serving wine at this event.

La Rentree

It's my second to last day of a four day quickie trip to Paris. Today is Sunday and walking "home" this evening, I saw all the folks returning from the week long holiday. Cars double parked, children and bags being unloaded and hustled into apartment buildings. The police are out in force, in competition to ticket as many illegally parked cars as possible. I am sooooo relieved not to be returning from a 10 hour drive from Italy, with tired, hungry kids, having to look for an impossible to find parking space on a Sunday evening, try to find something to feed overwrought children (because everything is closed)and then hustle them onto a crowded metro tomorrow morning to shuttle them to school. And I know THEY are happier too!

Breast Not Always best

Most Parisian mothers do not breast feed. Formula is preferred for its convenience and so mom can keep her boobs from sagging. This display is common inmost pharmacies.

Six year old sneak out

This morning Petite says "I want to do something and I know we aren't supposed to . if i have a sleepover" I asked "what?" "Sneak out" OMG my heart skipped a beat. My total fear is teenage sneak out running around somewhere at night. I'm thinking WHERE THE HELL did she get this idea? at 6? she still "sneaks" into our bed! So i ask where she got the idea "I don't know" I try another tactic, "what do you mean sneak out?" She replies, "like….out of bed" "OK…..where to?" im imagining six year old girls roaming the streets at night She takes a deep breath and says "ok i KNOW this isn't allowed BUT….sneak to get ice cream….out of the freezer" I had to bite my lip to stop from busting out laughing I gave her a hug "you're right. you're not supposed to sneak out of bed during sleepovers" (thank god she didn't mean sneak out of the house!)

California style

As much as I miss the vibe of Paris, California life seems to suit my kids. I miss living in a city that is literally eye candy. Beauty everywhere you turn, people bustling about, numerous social and cultural events at any given moment (not that I was attending any of those with two little monkeys clinging to me). This week both of my children have walked down to the beach with their schools. That blows my mind. Sure, a field trip to the Louevre sounds impressive. But which is more fun for the kids?

Calm yourself, Calm your kids

Calming your own stress REALLY affects your kids. I've known this for years, of course. But this week it has actually become a reality. I was invited to be part of a spiritual women's circle (almost all moms) and most of the focus was on paying attention to intuition, telling the voices in our heads to shut the f- up! and letting our "higher selves" guide us. All of this I've heard before. But something about sitting with this group of women, not meditating in silence, but sharing experiences in a guided, focused way was extremely calming. I was even more surprised to find that, five days later, the calming effect has remained. I've made a huge effort to use a very calm voice with my kids. Especially when they are stressed. The more they rev UP, the more I calm DOWN. I get calmer and quieter, as they rev up into hysteria. And it works! I have noticed a strong shift in their own ability to de-escalate. This morning, the car stalled, we were late to doctor appointment, I had to drive my husband to work, my six year old commented "Why is everyone in a rush? This is making me UNCOMFORTABLE!" as she started to rev up. BRAVA to her for articulating her feelings. I replied, "No we are not in a rush and you are right, I will caaaaaaalm down. Let's all calm down." I slowed down and she calmed down. It was amazing to see this effect in action!