The heat is on.

It’s hot, I’m 7.5 months pregnant with a fun, active 16 month old, and we’ve just moved into our new apartment, which needs a big facelift. Phase I of that lift begins today, with the removal of some carpets, and redoing all the hardwood under and around them.  Phase I will end with bedroom painting.

What have I learned during this move?  Remember when I wrote, at one time or another, about how we don’t own much stuff?  Now, remember what someone said about denial? 

“De’Nile ain’t just a river” or something similar?

I’ll leave you with that for the moment as I rush off to work from the suburbs, where Max and I are eating my in-laws out of their own home.   This isn’t Club Med, but it’s pretty close. 

a toute a later…

In over my head…

I learned last Friday, that we need to move this Friday. 7.5 months into my pregnancy, 80% slower, more handicapped than normal and livin’ large - 2x’s larger to be exact.  I thought that the baby in belly was kicking and punching surprisingly hard out of spite. It turns out that he’s really just completely run out of space to move, as was confirmed by my echographiste when I asked why it’s so dark in there, while staring at the screen.

With a 6 week conge maternite - or maternity leave of 6 weeks - beginning on the 30th, I’m reluctant to take any time off work; thus leaving my boss in a bind.  I’m sensing, though,  that I probably will end up doing it at the last minute, anyway. I always think I’m supergirl until my cape gets wrapped around my face and I crash head first. Had we known earlier, I could have and reluctantly would have asked my OB for an extra two weeks, of conge pathologique (or mental leave???) - at least I’d get paid. Because really, this is going to be mentally and physically challenging.

This delay probably wouldn’t have happened in the US, correct me if I’m wrong for those in the know, for a number of reasons.

1. It’s so easy to get a loan there (until recently). And consider that this particular loan is one that we were going to pay back right away after sale of our current apt became final.
2. The banks in the US don’t care much about our physical health, thus, they don’t demand that we get medical checkups to ensure that we’ll live long enough to make said payment. This was one aspect of the delays.
3. Our bank contact left on vacation for 2 weeks. Who goes on an extravagant two week vacation in the US without leaving back up contact? Ok. We do, but I don’t know many people.
4. She repeatedly sent more documents to sign, rather than handing it all over at once. Can you say incompetent?  When I finally met her, this director, she was clearly wearing a bra that was too small, and a shirt that was two sizes too small because everything was squishing out of the top of her too low cut shirt.  Kind of like fruit juice in a box, handled by a child.  And when that mess happens, you can’t help but to cringe, even though they don’t know any better.

And after all that, we finally got the go ahead, one week prior to the move that was agreed upon with the new owners of our fabulous-for-Paris balcony, which Max has been enjoying daily. We play with dirt, scribble with chalk, wet ourselves (with water!), eat watermelons and wave to the crazy neighbor across the street who always comes out to say ‘hello’ to Max. It’s all so….country. But not.

Additionally, the Husband is leaving the country for 2 weeks on Saturday, the day after the move. Lucky bastard. This is the same period of time during the floors in the new apartment will be redone, same period of time that I’ll be in the surburban prison of The In-Laws - who are super kind and generous with us.  But who wants to live in someone else’s house for two weeks, a house where the communication just won’t be what it should be, except between me and my 16 month old who’s favorite words in English are “more?” “No” and “Apple?” At least he and I understand each other.

The apartment looks barely packed, though our cave is already full, and The Husband worked this weekend. Max and I are having a great time, save for the looming actions of the week, imprisonment of the next two weeks, and shit laying around everywhere that needs to be <s>organized and </s> boxed.

The bright spot in the day? Taking Max out of this mess to our regular cafe and sipping my cappucino, with him seated by the window next to me, self-feeding cubes of watermelon with his baby sized fork in his tiny, tiny hands. I watched him in his little sunglasses, which he quite often insists on wearing even when he doesn’t need them, while concentrating on getting the fruit in his mouth; he was the epitome of ’summer’ cool.

Happiness is….

….watching my son find me at the playground, then hurrying toward me, pumping his little arms as he speed walks over with this big smile on his face..  After American styled burgers with BBQ sauce on the side. And a share of The Husband’s Omelette and pancakes.  On US Mother’s Day.  With our fourth family member kicking and punching my belly to get on in the game….

Life in France

I have some of my best days everyday, most filled with much laughter evoked from Max’s antics and just being himself. He loves to sing and bop around, and has made up his own songs. They sometimes go like this, “Ma-maaaaan, ma-maaaan, ma-maaaan….Pa-paaaa, Pa-paaaaa….” and eventually trails off into his own Esperanto. The ones that begin with “Maman” are totally my favorite.

* * * * * *

Toward the end of bath time, I cue him by saying, “Ok, let’s go.” He leans over and hugs the water - yes, hugs the water - and shakes his head, “No, no.” He proceeds to manipulate me, desperate to stay in, by buying himself some time by busying me. He points to the duck on the little shelf, and asks for it by name that he knows for all birds. “Uack, Uack.” Not quite “Quack, quack” but getting there. Having received it, because Mama’s a sucker, he points to the first boat. “Bateau?” After I plunk it in the water, he asks for the other, pointing. “Bateau?” Then “Bub-bles?” And I am so fascinated, that this little boy, who used to sleep for upwards of 20 hours a day over a year ago is now too busy for bed time, that he gets away with it all. And I lower my”get-out-of-bath” criteria to a mere “when the water gets cold.”

* * * * * *

I look through the the 26th floor window of the office next to mine - lots of glass - and think, “I’m in a high rise just like I used to be ages ago!” And it still feels a bit like the top of the world, where the people below are mere ants.

* * * * * *

I don’t have smiles for everyone, anymore, and I feel that this is somewhat sad. Friends who visited recently couldn’t get over how nice everyone is. Imagine that. It’s all for a different post, because I’ve encountered the nastiest people I’ve ever come across here in Paris. From young girls eyeing one another head to toe, or old women who have told me, “Bougez vous.” I’m typically so surprised, certain that I heard wrong, that I don’t react. Until an hour later, after playing over the alternatives in my head, after realizing that there probably aren’t any that fit the scenario that I think, “I can’t believe that bitch said that!” And ‘vous” was not in the polite form - Max was in his stroller.

I have some thoughts on this type of attitude, that I’ve encountered more than a handful of times. Most of it comes from old women, but I also believe that selfishness and the French sense of entitlement plays a big role. What confuses me slightly, though, is that so many of the French that I know are so proud of their Socialist leanings; “all for one and one for all” and all that. Yet, they can’t be bothered to spread just a bit of cheer.

I told a friend yesterday that in San Francisco, I’m more surprised when I encounter unfriendliness from strangers. In Paris, I’m always surprised when I encounter someone who is genuinely friendly. Maybe it’s me, like my recent visitors say, as they adjust their European Vacation colored glasses. And one day, it might be, as I have decreasing tolerance for people here. For the time being, though, I know it’s not. One of my fears, though, is that I’ll import this horrible attitude back with me to San Francisco.

Hello, Spring & Sun!