Someone Else is Living Your Parisian Dream

Weekend mornings, when The Husband doesn’t have to work, are my favorite time and bed is my favorite place to be. Perpetually half awake, I wait for the grunts, grumbles and and sighs of Max’s extreme stretching in his crib to escalate to a near cries before stumbling over to him. Hovering over his crib, I wait for a second, smiling down at him with my arms extended as if to pick him up and sure enough, he breaks out into a huge smile kicking his little pajama clad feet and waving his arms simultaneously as if he were balanced on a tightrope upon a unicycle, saying, “Hi! Hi! Hi!Hi! Hi! Pick me up! Let’s get this party started!” I bring him to our bed, and we play, coo, chat and smile between seconds of shut eye as we drift in and out while My Husband lays next to us, half asleep arm stretched toward us. It’s hard work, but this is family. I love taking our time, never rushing to get up or out. And our weekends rarely begins before 1 or 2pm.

On one such morning over the weekend it occured to me, as I was babbling to Max in this language and that, at least a handful of Max’s friends will share a background that is unique to their fully bicultural world in speech, cultures and understanding of their role in each. It can be assumed that these children will be international citizens from birth, with their own little passports and racking up the frequent flier miles shortly after a few intercontinental flights when Mama gets tired of getting pee’d on during the plane ride anddecides that its worth the money for an extra seat. Maybe they’ll talk behind their teachers’ and classmates backs, in advanced English - or American, if you will - really quickly so that the other children don’t catch the smack talk - just like some people speak to me in French.

I’ve pondered my own biculturalism quite a bit, but for some inexplicable reason, am fascinated that my son will experience a different variation of that phenomenon. From his home in France and inevitably acquired French sensibilities, I wonder whether he will look upon the States as so many French people do, with contradictory emotions of, disdain, disgust, fascination - even if they would never admit it - and perhaps even envy at all the ‘things’ grotesquely excessive or not, because the French do partake. I wonder whether he, like me when I was a child in the States, will beg for pitstops to McDonald’s because there’s this antenna embedded in that golden arch that transmits waves of subliminal messages and they sound like, “…allbeefpattyssausapecialsaucegelettucecheese…” in that double-dutch sing song chant. And those waves, they smell like fries, or French fries as we Americans call them. And Max will probably not be immune, as the French surely are not, judging by the lines and lack of sitting room in almost any Mickey D’s (as we Americans call it) in Paris.

I wonder whether my son will drink the Kool-Aid.

I gotta wear shades.  Lounging on the balcony while mom hangs my onesies out to dry.

I filled out the forms late last week, to: register Max as an American citizen, to obtain his social security number, and his passport. I was a bit stunned, in disbelief, awe and mostly impressed with myself - that I’d come this far, as far as being A MOTHER - after I filled in that little box called Relationship to Child. I talk about my son all the time and see myself referred to as his mother in his Carnet de Sante and Livret the Famille, etc. But I’ve never written it myself, MOTHER. It occured to me that, one day, when some half-pint punk struts up to my son and tells him, “YO, MAMA“ for any reason, that will be me he’s referring to, the woman with an ass so fat that she requires her own zip code. Or perhaps the woman so smelly that she turned the Right Guard left. Who knows yet how brutal little French children can be, those children to whom I may have to pay a little “visit” at the playground. Anyhow, I called to make an appointment to hand in said papers. This morning - 5 days later and only so late because I held out for the 10am appointment, declining the opportunities for a closer date, but at 9am - we walked out 30 minutes later waving the little 10 inch American flag that was our party favor. It was easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy as my friend Gloria would say. Or we can call it a quickie, but we won’t say such things on the day that my son bacame a bonafide American.

As our papers were in order, the process was a quick and painless one that started with a scolding on our tardiness, by a French adminstrator, which ended with my unapologetic half lie of, “We didn’t hear you.” Really, this is because she didn’t call our name loud enough for us to hear her from our home, where I stood in front of the bathroom mirror pulling my unbrushed hair to the top of my head. She turned out to be very nice, despite her puckered, school marm expressions. While the whole process was standard, given we had all of the required papers and forms in order, I garnered some very important information that is worth passing on to fellow PARENTS (!) of Francofilles (and fils). Did I just make a play on words? And it wasn’t a Knock-Knock joke?

1. If traveling to the US, child must travel with US passport (as opposed to their French one). The penalty for not presenting his US passport when entering the US is a sweet $3,500.

2. If your child wishes to pass his US citizenship on to his children - this would be yours or my grandchildren - (yes, we’re ahead of ourselves), he must show that he has spent at least 5 years on US soil over the duration of his life. At least two of those years must be spent at any time after he turns 14.

Other than that, this time frame can be broken up into any number of visits and any amount of time spent. For example, Max will spend 2 weeks in the US in June and perhaps a month here and there at other times. We’ll have his passport stamped each time we return to the US, so that he can present proof later, in 55 years, when he finally begins dating, gets married and has children of his own whose citizenship he must consider.

I’m excited for my son, that he has the privilege to mature in at least two worlds, with significant knowledge of these cultures, their languages and nuances. I’m also excited that he’ll have the privilege to experience different foods, to enjoy, compare and contrast the subtleties as well as the vast differences.

Baguette or Wonder Bread?

Gnutella or Peanut butter & Jelly?

Mac n’ Cheese or Fondue?

Turkey or Horse?

Macaroons or Sno-balls?

Eclair or Twinkies?

Hamburger or Amburger?

Yes, it was relaxing. Very. And I never did it much, but now since Max, I don’t really indulge in it anymore. Ever, it seems. I’ve given up sleep.

He’s got some issues with gas/reflux/whatever that makes him scream at times as if the birds were pecking off his right cheek. I’ve realized in the last couple of days that it might be my daily breakfast of cereal and milk (!). Today I skipped the milk and it was yogurt that brought out the banshee in him, though not as bad. Dairy, it likely is. In the meantime though, I’ll keep sleeping while sitting upright with him, as I have for the last couple of months. I like it. His tiny body against mine feels amazing, as does knowing that I can provide him some comfort through the night. It doesn’t feel like sacrifice. It feels like love. Completely.I don’t nap when the little guy does. I take my shower, slap on some makeup, surf the web, do the dishes, pirate children’s songs, read, return e-mail…..all the things you’re not supposed to do, if you want to maintain sanity. Mostly though, I don’t know how to nap. I’ve never been a good sleeper - late to bed and early to rise. When we were younger, I was the friend who was up at 8am calling around. “What are you doing? Are you up yet? Oh.” This got out of hand when I worked the morning shift at a tennis club - 5am -1pm. After that shift, instead of going home for the nap that I fantasized about, I worked out in the gym. I don’t really need sleep, luckily. Very, very, very luckily. But I am definitely always tired.

Rather than randomly surfing the web, I often go through the photos that I’ve taken of him since he was born, riding the wave of emotions and nostalgia of what he looked like last week, and looking forward to his next-week self at the same time. He’s growing and changing so quickly. I hold him more often than many may think I should because I’m afraid that I’ll miss a funny face, a gummy smile or a new phase. I’m also afraid that when he’s upset, I won’t be there to make his pain go away. Maybe I’m taking that “you can’t spoil a newborn, you’re building trust “ stuff a little too seriously, but I never want to not be there for him. We’re just getting to know each other and that takes a lot of face time. So I hold him when he needs to be held and we walk out his gas whether it’s 3pm or 3am. And I’m glad to do it. Though sleepy. Very, very sleepy.

* * * * * * *

On a recent weekend get-away to the nearby countryside of Etampes, I left Max for his afternoon nap on the floor in his removable bassinet from his stroller. As I came down the bend on the stairs, I saw that that his bassinet and the toys that hung down from the handle were shaking madly. Alarmed and curious, I hurried over and saw that Max was safe and not asleep at all. He was very wide awake with his eyes focused on those 3 hanging balls, kicking and flailing his arms for momentum. He had discovered that by throwing his body around, he could make the toys swing. He exercised this new discovery for over an hour. Back at home, I removed the toys from the bassinet and hung them on his playmat over his head. Again, he kicked and flailed with wild, obsessed eyes neverminding that those balls weren’t moving because he wasn’t making contact with the frame. I really can’t think of anything I want, more than to keep witnessing my son’s wide eyed discoveries of the world around him and the impact that he makes.

I am the mother that I never thought I could be. And I love this more than I ever thought I would.

Max et Max. Kings of the jungle gym.

Get off our playground!