Someone Else is Living Your Parisian Dream

During my physical exam at the Hertford British Hospital yesterday, my doctor told me, “The head is right there…” She also made a few more surreal statements (maybe not in these exact words, but maybe they were…) about a “short tunnel“, “cervix a bit dialated” but could just “open up at any time” to which I nodded as I tried to visualize these states of my innards.  And then I heard “will probably come some time next week“  to which I finally responded, “WHAT? Really.“  To which she responded, “Sure.” To which I responded, “Ok.”  And then I put my panties back on as she shuffled papers.

And I tried to explain it in my simple French, but I lost because my French is too simple. I don’t have the cultural or lingual tricks down to nicely say, “No thank you; I’ve already made up my mind after much research.”

I’ve done much research through product comparison, reading reviews, and intense stroller ogling on the streets. So intense that I’m certain parents everywhere were concerned that I was sizing up their well-dressed children’s Burberry coat and knicker ensembles, wondering whether it fit my own child one day. Don’t worry, people. I would never steal a Burberry off of your child’s back. Not when I’ve got 300 light blue onesies from Target sitting in 3 different suitcases. I’m looking to steal your MacLaren. /p> I eyeball strollers everywhere and have noted that consistent with my research, there are many MacLarens rolling the streets of Paris. I’m a bit bummed that I got something “better” according to my benefactors. Mine is more expensive than yours. And I’m upset.

This was the second conversation that I’d attempted to have with relatives who think that they may know better. The first conversation was a success. To my relief, I didn’t receive a travel system at my San Francisco baby shower - but I didn’t receive the MacLaren stroller that was on my list either. My family bought me nearly everything and then some that was small and packable, but it didn’t make sense to carry a stroller across the world. Prior to not receiving it though, I was questioned about my decision on this particular brand because it isn’t what ‘other people seem to have’….the mini-van driving population of the suburbs. People have bulky, heavy travel systems. Much like the one that I am to receive as a gift, here in Paris.

I carefully selected the MacLaren Techno XT because they are said to be to be easily maneuverable - with one hand (and I confirmed this with a test drive through the store). This is a useful function in Paris’ dense crowds and small streets. It will also be useful to navigate around dog poop. In addition, it’s a light stroller and there are many, many stairs in apartment buildings and the metro stations. I dread standing around, examining the face and body language of each hurried passerby for assistance in carrying the stroller and it’s bassinet up and down stairs. Aimee pointed out another issue, which is that a travel system won’t fit into the elevator of her building - or many others. Another great point - The MacLaren easy to open and close, reportedly. And last but not least, My Husband is tall. The handles of the MacLaren are ergonomic and comfortable for tall people.

Instead, I am receiving a brand new Peg Perego travel system - I can’t remember which one, but I do recall that it was expensive. And big. It is perfect…for a suburban mom. Large, heavy, comes with a bassinet which I can remove when the baby is sleeping or when we hang out at friend’s houses (rarely), comes with a car seat base (I’m rarely in a car, and we switch cars very regularly). But for the 95% of times when I’m running errands or on public transportation, how will I get around the city with this huge contraption?

Advice? Email it to me, but please keep in mind that I cannot hurt my benefactor’s feelings - they have been extremely generous and with only the very best intentions.

My hormones are swinging hand in hand in with some ongoing drama in my life and perpetual lack of communication. On many days, I don’t feel as if I deserve the joy of bringing a baby because the troubles take the excitement away, replacing it with a deep fear of, “Are we ready?” The answer that comes to mind, inevitably, is “No”, though I am prepared to give to him everything that I personally can. So next, I turn inward as I do often these days and ask myself what the options are. If we aren’t ready, “Will I be enough? Am I ready?” And the answer is more comforting, as I am forced to turn back to my old habits of self reliance. Yes. I am ready because I have to be. Because you can’t count on other people or control their behavior, but you can always count on yourself. And I am comforted by this old, familiar friend - my best friend since childhood - who will help me ‘tough it out’ though I know that her stay - in my mind- will be short this time.

Combine this with the guilt of being more afraid than excited, more insecure than stable with those whom I should be sharing mounting excitement as the clock ticks onward toward a new generation, never once minding our mental and emotional states, questionable solidarity of our future. No one waits. There’s no right time. My friends and family beckon me homeward, and I tell them no. I need their support, but I won’t allow myself to run away from here. I won’t leave until I am satisfied that I’m running toward something better for myself and our baby. Not until the act of making the decision to stay or leave becomes a struggle of pros and cons.

I can’t help but to ask myself whether this issues would arise if there was no big move. No intercontinental adjustments. No extra life adjustments. If we were able to merely slide from love into parenthood without the added stressers of everything, topped with a forward moving biological clock that wouldn’t wait for new friends, a job, learning a language, learning to live again, learning to cross the street, learning to order at the local restaurant, learning to speak or make a phone call without rehearsing my words….I should have sought counseling long ago, even previous to this move. Someone to help to help clarify some ongoing issues that I’ve harbored, but also to help guide my thoughts and actions across oceans and cultures, more recently. An unbiased party to shed practical light on ideas, ideals, actions and reactions that are so easy for oneself to justify after they’ve marinaded in her head for some time. Friends excuse the same because they love her and see her side. I needed third party to guide me outside of my own thoughts and my pain that blinded me to others. Not that others don’t need the same….I think that everyone can use some talk therapy.

It seems that the French prefer medication, which is covered by Securite Sociale, over ‘talk therapy’ with a psychologist/counselor, which is not. Though it’s been a painful few months, and numbness is a temptation, I’ve proven to myself again and again that I’ve learned quite well through the years to invoke that sensation through pure will and the flip of a mental switch. This time, I prefer to embrace the pain and trudge through the mud, face my issues, face this monster called expatriasm - and others that I’ve pushed to the side, rather than conquered - and see whether I can really win a battle with myself.

I’ve surmised that regardless of the outcome, learning to walk through the pain with some guidance and clarity is victory enough for me. These last few months, though right up there with one of the most agonizing of my life, have also been the most personally rewarding. I’m going through another personal growth spurt, for I am learning the real meaning of inner strength - for me. It’s the strength that I have learned to summon most recently - and with much difficulty - to reach out and admit that I needed help. Even better, the force that I’ve felt when my friends and even strangers have rallied ’round and for me, is irreplacable and overwhelming. I’ve learned that there’s no shame in not being able to handle life and it’s curveballs on.your.own. You can’t do it on your own. I’ve tried, and it’s resulted in disasters. At this phase in my life, everything is much better with friends. At this time, friends are all I need. I need the people who will stay by my side.

I rounded the corner very late last night and found what I was looking for. La Tour Eiffel stood magnificently in all her shimmering glory. A party of lights commenced against the dark sky and as always, I was mesmerized. With a content smile on face after a fabulous dinner, laugh out loud fun, and friends in my heart, I cast my hopes for the future at her. Not peeling my eyes from the brilliant, dancing lights, I recalled a recent episode of Sex and the City that I watched on DVD; the one that reminds all my friends of me. Carrie in Paris where a young Parisienne describes the light show as “saw eeee-deous” - so hideous - with the stereotypical contemptuous French sneer of boredom. I smiled inspite of that recollection, embracing the realization that the Tower holds the same power over me that the the Golden Gate Bridge does, when plane descends upon it, through the clouds and over the Marin headlands, on a flight home from France. Majesty. Power. Ever-present. Yet another snapshot of yet another piece of my life. Another landmark. This is my baby’s home, and so it will be mine. This is where my family lives.

One of the worst things about full term (3 weeks or so from delivery), aside from analysis paralysis and full fledged fear of becoming a parent, is that I feel pressed to get up and take a shower right away when I wake up. Whereas I normally lounge around a bit (or a lot) in the morning, there’s a new pressure to put on some clean clothes and make myself presentable, just in case push and shove come a bit early.

In our living room, standing against the bookshelf in it’s pieces, is the baby crib and linens, bought and brought by My In-Laws. The crib is a special one - one that my beau-pere used as a baby. Years later, My Husband slept in it.  It was recently repainted for a third generation.