T, your half-birthday passed us by, but the switch from 3 to 3.5 must have sunken in because you’ve already moved on from the endless discussion of the events that took place on the three candle day to the upcoming four. You’ve been falling back on this trope a lot lately: I need three cookies because I am three, three stories because I am three. I myself prefer the balance of two: one cookie for each hand, one short story and one long, etc., but it’s all fine for now.
On our way out of the restaurant last night, in an attempt to avoid the very nice waitress who offered you a treat for the road, you performed some kind of maneuver–part tantrum, part gymnastic–that left you on the floor and then made your arm hang limp by your side. I couldn’t tell if I had twisted your arm or pulled it as I was holding your hand at the time. It was all unclear, but you were really upset, and what I first took as a post-chocolate crepe crash turned into a huge overnight drama. You were up all night, complaining about your arm, searching for your ice, and causing more of my hairs to turn gray.
Your dad is out of town, but after consulting with him and considering that it’s a holiday here, I decided to take you to the hospital. I did a quick vocabulary study and we headed out the door. You comported yourself well in that I saw them note that you were calm, face content and rosy. At the same time, you would not say a word to them, even when they let on that they had some English. You wouldn’t talk about it or point to where it hurt. Since you didn’t talk, they could only assume the worst and sent us for an x-ray. Radio. It has been added to our dossier, I assume along with a note that your mother is a worrier and the fact that once again you’ve outed as a coquine (read: rascal). At least the nurse didn’t chastise me for using the services of the urgences unnecessarily as she did the mother who followed me. Nothing was broken, just a little unspecified trauma in the end.
We had a long chat yesterday about being finished with the stroller. I told you that I can’t carry it down the stairs anymore, that it’s too hard for me to push right now. You were fine with it as you’re always on me to “not break your baby” anyway. You were so fine that you seemed ready to walk the mile to the hospital before I assured you that this morning was certainly an exception. It’s an interesting time, T. As you like to say, you’re “big and little” and that seems to be the heart of 3.5 at our house. You have this whole world apart from us, you speak better French than we do–in fact, today was that day, the first day you corrected my French–and I can still carry you home when you fall down and cry. Big and little’s not a bad place to be.
…and thanks for that extremely rare and refreshingly long nap today.
I’ve hit a blogging wall. This post will not come. I feel the need to produce some sort of “year in france” summary, but it. won’t. come. And so, someone who says better than I ever could.
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I am glad we did this. I am glad I won’t wonder what it’s like to pick up and move to Paris. I am glad to have had the opportunity to step outside myself, my world, my familiars to feel discomfort and anxiety and longing. Why? Because along with the general unease brought about by those feelings, there is also the creativity that strangeness brings, the new friends, the adventures, the rewards of stepping out of the system (or at least sliding into a new one) for a while.
I’m still amazed at how much of this city I saw in one week back in the 1990s on a trip with my parents. Perhaps I’ve had a handful of days as ambitious as those were, but there hasn’t been any urgency. And that’s the point to one year abroad, right? One takes it slow, embeds in the neighborhood, meets the corner baker and rarely leaves the little quarter like the locals? Yet we are far from being locals and that is apparent everyday.
There’s the way I thought it would be, the way it is, the way it still might be. I have high hopes for year 2, but they come with a dose of nostalgia. We have been pulling off the industrial sized bandage that is home millimeter by millimeter all year long, and it feels like this upcoming trip to San Francisco will be the final tug–wrenching yet freeing all at once. We will pull some treasures out of the heap in the basement, pack the rest away, eat burritos and give lots of hugs. Then will we fly back on T’s silver airplane and give Paris one more chance.
I would not wish a Paris housing search on anyone. We knew when we arrived that we’d need to find another place, but my shitty French and fear of the telephone postponed the search for a while. Now the search has entered deadline mode and after suffering some of the most ridiculous rejections you can imagine (”no you can’t come see the apartment as I don’t think the staircase is safe for a three year old), we have honed in on two possibilities. I present them to you now, in no particular order.
Apartment F:
This is our connect. Our current landlord really wants to free up our place so that her son can move in. Somehow she has a lead on a place around the corner (perhaps she also owns this one? it’s not clear). If we don’t leave in time, her son will move there. She has proposed a swap.
The apartment is 1 bedroom, half the size of our current one, modern building, same neighborhood, same school assignment for next year. Key features include: storage, secured parking for velo or stroller. Huge savings on rent.
Apartment B:
Also 1 bedroom and half the size. Also big savings, though slightly more expensive than the other one. Small old building with “charm”. In this case there is also an alcove, essentially a room without a door that could be T’s room. This one is in a different neighborhood, different arrondissement, so new school assignment for the fall. The drawbacks here are the lack of storage (no real closets or basement storage), and lack of oven. The oven was key for me, but since so many apartments here don’t have one, that I don’t care so much anymore. At least there are four burners on the stove.
Comparison:
Both places are furnished. We haven’t actually been inside “F” yet, but will see it over the weekend. My sense is that it will have a more amenity-filled kitchen, but we will either have to share a bedroom with T or sleep out in the living room. I’m a little hesitant to leave our neighborhood, but the other one seems nice too. So, bottomline: B has essentially two bedrooms, but no place to put a suitcase and a potentially limited kitchen. F gives us the pleasure of having a connect and using it. It has storage, probably a better kitchen (tbd), almost definitely less squeaky floors, but only one bedroom.
Maybe you’ve heard about the free bicycle program here? For the most part, it’s super-easy to do and a fun way to get around town. I haven’t used it too often because: I’m lazy, the weather blows, or I have my kid in tow and there’s no kid-carrying option. But, today was different. What do you call a perfect storm when the various factors don’t conspire, but cooperate (other than a fucking great time)? This was today.
Dropped T off, had coffee with a friend, launched my afternoon en Velib. I passed this pretty house:
It was located on a round-about, so I went around and then back to have another look. Then I came to these houses which reminded me of San Francisco:
And I saw this bike in the window of a shop that was closed for lunch:
Can you make out the lettering? Bicycle frame font, a new obsession.
This path seemed promising, but then it wasn’t:
Eventually I made it to my destination. I looked for a parking spot, remembered one over by the National Library, but was totally shut out. All the spots were full except for these:
The orange things are blocking the lock mechanism that allows you to park the bike and walk away. I watched a velib’er ahead of me wait for someone else to fetch a bike so he could park. This seemed silly so I started circling the neighborhood looking for a spot. They were all full. I came back to the first stand just as someone was leaving and soon after a guy pulled up behind me. He wanted to cut me. He spoke French. I didn’t understand him so I answered with something that seemed relevant. Then he said this was his fourth parking attempt. I said it was mine too. We swapped stories. We had tried completely different stations and they were all full. The guy I was waiting for left. I didn’t let the chatty guy cut me. I locked my bike and then went, um, bicycle shopping.
No purchases. I made my way home on foot/train. I attempted to position my phone to take a picture of myself in front of the library. There was this one:
And this one:
And in this one, you can see my new stockholm dress:
Somehow I thought we’d chosen our fork in the road last year, but still it feels like we’re stuck in an endless series of roundabouts giving us too many opportunities to rethink past moves and to over-think current and future choices. I’ve been making some attempts to rejoin the workforce of late, but it’s not easy. Today I was asked to describe my dream job and as I stumbled along with my answer, I had to summon great force to squash the “can a job be a dream?” thought bubble. The response I offered was a legitimate and intellectually stimulating way of contributing to my profession and society at large, but a dream…no.
On the way home, some more shimmery, iridescent thought bubbles floated above. “You are already living the dream…the dream…the dream,” they chanted. Sometimes that dream puts me face to face with an angry toddler (not my own) who screams “C’est interdit!” as she belts me in the playground, but more often, the dream streams across an endless series of afternoons spent sewing as I please and engaged in interviews of a different sort, filled with questions from my favorite three foot tall interrogator, this afternoon’s including: why does the rhinoceros have a horn, why does the crocodile have big teeth, and, mama, why are you here? The first two, for defense and for eating, were easy, and as I started to get all philosophical on the last one, she interjected, “no why are you standing over there, not next to me?”
And to top it off, in a few weeks I’m told I’ll be almost 4. Dreamy times, these.
Since she came home, the cat has barely left this spot on T’s bed next to the heater. I can’t blame her. It’s freezing. I’d do the same except for the extremely loud construction noises coming from upstairs. They drove T and I out this morning a few minutes after 9 which put us at her school about an hour earlier than usual. Maybe that’s why she looked so stricken when I left her.
There was no choice. Today was part 5, sub-adventure D of our multi-stage scavenger hunt through the fine print of French administrative procedures. In response to a letter regarding our state-sponsored health insurance (this is the thing you always hear about aux Etats-Unis), I reported to an office around the corner from T’s school with two copies, recto-verso, of our new identity cards and and two copies of C’s pay stubs. I waited for my number, presented the letter with the items, was told “Thank you, you are finished” to which I replied, “the card?”, and to which the woman answered, “Later.” I think “later” means the day before we leave this country, but I’m just guessing.
Then I went to a far-off arrondissement to have T’s birth certificate and health records translated. This is in reference to sub-sub-adventure, 5.F.III., called registering your child for school. It’s not clear if we’ll be here in the fall, but registration for preschool ends on the 31st so we might as well do it. Since none of T’s vaccinations were done here, her records needed to be translated as well as the fact of her existence and the location of her entry onto this planet. Neither her existence nor her immunities can be verified unless they are written in French. Unfortunately for one series of shots, the nurse back home made an error and dated them 11.06.05, about 6 months prior to T’s birth. The translator will not, under penalty described in some print somewhere, help me out and make the change. I’m sure that will go over well. Upon receipt of these documents next week, I will again try to enroll the girl in maternelle–keep your fingers crossed that all the spots at the coveted school are not already taken because the last thing I need is a dose of San Francisco style preschool panic on this side of the ocean.
I’ve been thinking about how to put this whole experience into words for you, T. I’ve been in a daze all day with no one to talk to–you at the creche, dad at work, our friends and family in the wrong time zones. People are quite pleased here, but other than the all night parties last night which we couldn’t attend, there hasn’t been much hoopla.
By this afternoon, after no one showed up at my proposed cafe meet-up and I’d listened to all the post-game analysis I could handle, I started missing you terribly and decided to break you out of school early. You were reluctant to leave because you don’t like disruptions to your routine but when I suggested that we go play at the park next to the Tour Eiffel and have hot chocolate, I knew I’d won you over. You kept mumbling chocolat, chocolat and followed me out the door.
There has been much disequilibrium chez nous recently. You are the exemplar of the 2.5 year old, learning the rules, testing the boundaries, and expressing yourself at every opportunity. Yet despite the bad humor of late, you have this incredible ability to feel our excitement and ride the wave with us and this has made you an excellent companion for the election. You agreed to wear the Obama shirt I made you; you let us record you saying his name. Yesterday afternoon when I picked you up at school, your teachers asked about the shirt and were really excited to hear that I made it. We left to the sound of them chanting “Obama! Obama!” This morning when you woke up, we all curled up in bed together with the computer and looked at the headlines. You exclaimed in your insightful yet ridiculous toddler-pundit voice: “O-B-A-M-A! It’s blue.” Indeed, my girl.
Still today has been a little lonely. After we left school, we hopped on the bus and went over to the Champs de Mars next to the Tour Eiffel. This is one of your favorite places to go. On just about any other day, it seems impossible to avoid Americans there, but today, when I wanted to hug one, it was just you and me. It started to get really cold, we finished our hot chocolate and went to wait for the bus. You played with a little French girl at the bus stop, saying the words that I’m beginning to recognize as your proto-French: comme ça and la bas and little phrases like that. The bus arrived and we sat down together across from an older man. You immediately looked at the sign posted next to you and started spelling. The man looked at me, expressed surprise and asked your age. I told him that you had deux ans et demi. He replied, “Formidable.”
As soon as he said it, I realized that this was the rejoinder I sought all day. Today is much more than “voila.” It’s that unique combination of awe and pride, seriousness and pleasant surprise. It’s tremendous. It’s formidable. It’s your future, girl.
*I suppose the French definition differs from the English on this one so pronounce it in your head with the cheesiest French accent you can muster and you’ll catch the vibe.
Me: Hello. I (what’s the word for send?) make letter since 30 minutes at the post office. A letter to the United States. There is a problem. I have written the bad state, state of the United States.
La Poste: wahwahwahwahwah
Me: I’m sorry. I don’t understand. My french is very basic. It has been 30 minutes. Letter. United States. I have written Texas. It is not true. It is Tennessee.
La Poste: wahwahwahwahwah. somethinginenglish. backtofrench. oui. T-X not T-N?
Me: Yes, yes.
La Poste: We will look for it. Who helped you?
Me: A man. I don’t know.
La Poste: We will find it and change to T-N.
Me: Thank you. Thank you.
I felt like such an idiot and quickly plunged from elation over the first sale to sadness and frustration over my mistake (and isn’t my precise attention to detail listed as a key asset on an old resume somewhere?). I feel pretty confident that it will resolve itself–the zip code was right and the post office where I mailed it is very small. The buyer was very understanding, but this was really not the entry I needed into customer service. Let’s hope that my first sale arrives at its destination.
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In other news, these are the birds:
I really liked the fabric the first time I saw it, but decided not to get it. I went back to Toto yesterday to restock my corduroy (no more orange though) and went for it. I’m not sure what to make with it since the pattern is so grand. I tried the traditional jumper below, but really had to pay attention while cutting to make sure I captured whole birds. Also the fabric is not very soft–like canvas–so I’m not sure if it would meet T’s coziness standard.
Here is the partially finished jumper:
and a close up of the orange polka dot lining and the poor, decapitated yellow bird:
I’ll have to think more about it. It might be asking to be something else, like a blanket or a bag.
I’m not on strike or anything, just slowed by visitors and missing parts and trains and absentee voting. My newly borrowed sewing machine arrived on Sunday but I need plug adapters and power transformers to make it work. We’ve been too busy laying track and searching for little cabooses for me to get the parts. It turns out that trains are a great diversion for the anti-napping child and the pro-napping parent.
I’ve also been reading through all of the Etsy faq’s and I have to say I’m getting intimidated. Perhaps that venue is too much for my designs or maybe I’m just bummed that my daughter will NOT wear anything I’ve made of late.
