Someone Else is Living Your Parisian Dream

There’s a whole string of half-posts waiting in the drafts box to be completed and I’m just getting round to clean up.

My first chore, though, was to manually exorcise thousands - not hundreds, because I received hundreds per day ever since I fixed comments - of spam comments from my e-mail, and then from my blog client. I’ve done this, one at a time for a few days until I finally decided to do a clean-sweep-delete without looking. Why don’t I just implement a filter? Because I broke the filter when I broke the blog back when. So for now, comments require sign up. Really, I didn’t set that requirement because I was getting blog-uppity. I did it because spam was getting me down-diggity.

And since I can’t really blog these days without mentioning my kid, I have to say that one characteristic of motherhood is just this. It takes days or weeks to complete a simple task while it continues to pile, thus necessitating more days to fix it, clean it, fold it, write it, read it, or respond it. Everything else has been reduced to a very, very distant second priority, except for vacuuming my hairs off the floor every day because I’m shedding like mad and constantly eye to eye with tumbleweeds of dark hair everywhere.

While I still maintain that young Parisians don’t hold The Gold on fashion on the streets, I’m compelled to express my admiration for their grandmothers. Their great-grandmothers, even, to be all-inclusive, are deserving of a standing ovation for not allowing age to dictate their wardrobe.

Nevermind the smart scarves and coiffed hair. Nevermind My Husband’s Mamy’s gorgeous white Chanel suit with dark piping that she wear eons ago, that I’d love to get my hands on. I’m talking contemporary, “A-woman-of-your-age-and-stature-has-no- business- going-out-dressed-like-that-The-neighbors-will-talk!” fashion. To my recollection, I’ve never seen the 50+ crowd in boots, tights and knee length skirts outside of Paris. To my recollection, none of the older women in my family have knees. Some have ankles, I’m sure, but that’s just a rumour. My friends’ Moms, either for that matter except for Robin and Stephanie’s mom who is tall, intimidatingly classy and beautiful. She gave me a good firm handshake when we met, beating me to “the grip” thus relegating mine to limp fish. I hate that. That woman’s got it goin’ on.

But Parisiennes. Smartly dressed, sure, but boots and skirts? Even back on my most cynical, “I’mgoin’home!” days of yore, I would stop my griping to asmire a head of magenta hair bobbing across the street, looking great otherwise, in what would typically be an outfit donned by the 30 and unders. No wait. She didn’t bob…she floated. And I cringe as I write that, just so you know.

I came out of a dressing room, recently, with several bikinis in hand. I had settled on two, and almost changed my mind as I saw the same two sets in the hand of someone’s Mamy. I split-second assessed that she was funding her granddaughter’s splurge and gave myself the green light to carry on. My assumption was very incorrect as she held the top up agaist her bosom, as if asking herself, “Will these triangle cups contain my mammories?” In fact, she would have spilled out from under the cups like melting ice cream under hardened chocolate crackle. I gave her a courteous smile that said, “We both have good taste”, along with a mental Purple Heart for courage. She returned a stoic stare. See ya on the beach, Mamy.
Better your grandma than mine. Really. But then again…I’m a mom now.

Sometime (okay, probably many times) between June 15 and July 5, you may find our little family dining out on Clement Street at one of the many fabulous local joints, in particular, the new B*Star Bar; little sister of the supah-popular Burma Superstar restaurant. Loyalists have awaited B*Star Bar’s arrival with baited breath, as have I. This huge undertaking prevented my other sister-in-law, the infamous Do-It-All of now both restaurants, including waitressing and cooking and proprietor’ing, from coming to Paris to visit her new nephew. There may be a Husband sighting too, if you catch us at the right time. Now, that’s rare.

I can’t wait.

Other foods I’m craving…

• Burmese at Burma Superstar
• Cha Cha Cha, and luckily, there’s one close-by
• Dim Sum
• Crab
• PPQ

Places I miss that I hope to enjoy:

• University Ave people watching from outdoor seating at University Cafe, but Palo Alto in general, my old stomping grounds.
• Some grass doubles at Washington Square Park
• North Beach cafes and bars

With tons of family and friends in the hood to help and spend time with Max, I’m sure to do everything I’m missing so keenly; to date My Husband on my territory, spend quality time with my close friends and family, and to share my old haunts with our son, as well.

California, here we come!

I choked up a bit, happily watching my brother plant kisses on His Nephew’s cheeks - My Son’s - when they met for the first time, last week. Max smiled back and laughed to him with drool threatening to slip from his lower lip as my brother held him above his head in the air, talking and smiling too.

It felt like family while my brother and sister-in-law were in Paris from the SF bay area for just a few days with a couple of friends. As they lavished Max with attention, taking hundreds of photos of him, with him, and goochi-goo’ing, Max received the attention and exposure to my side of the family that I have wanted for him. He is definitely the star that burns bright for my husband’s side here, but to see my own family mentally lift his impression from photos and stories, and transfer those images to real life was special for me. It’s as if he was just a vision to them before, but is now a real person; unique with his own little faces and nuances of character. I wish for him that he had my big clan around to spoil him with love every day.

I didn’t spend the entire time with them, opting to lay low with The Husband and Max close to the apartment during the day, or running our errands, so that we could have dinner together instead. On other days, we walked the city, had a meal, parted and joined again later. This, more than anything, felt natural. Almost as if they lived here, as we didn’t feel obligated to see each other for full days and I didn’t feel forced to play tour guide. Just meeting when it felt right during the day, as we would anyway at home. I cherished that feeling, even if it was just for a few days.
I’m excited for a trip back to the US next month, to introduce Max to the rest of my clan and network of friends who have been waiting in angst to meet hold him. To finally meet the newborn children of best friends, whom Max will be able to call his ‘homeboys’ from ‘Amerikkka.’

Max locates his thumb by dragging his hand across his face until this thumb reaches his lips. Then he inserts it and sucks on it for awhile. I hear him now, in his bed slurping away. Until 3 nights ago, he woke for a feeding between 1:00 and 3:00am. For these last three nights, since he discovered his thumb, he has (update: on some days), been sleeping through the night until 7:00am, sucking his thumb in the middle of the night rather than waking me with his quiet grunts and whimpers. I don’t understand why he doesn’t lay down for day time naps as easily as he does for bedtime at night. Lucky me?

Motherhood has been more joyful and rewarding than I could imagine. Can I be honest and say that though it’s a lot of work to be ‘on‘ all the time, that it’s actually been ‘easy’ so far? Not that my patience hasn’t been tried when nap time comes and goes without a nap. There’s at least a bit of crying if he does eventually sleep for a very short interval, until her hears the silent click of a bottle opening or a fork clinking a bowl. But I’ll use the same words I have over and again…amazing. And wonderful. And ILOVEIT. So wonderful that those friends of mine who are teetering on the edge of the cliff of ‘thinking about it’, I’ll gladly push them over so that there would be no more thinking - just indulging in baby. I have to wait for a successful naptime to do that though… Another word is “bittersweet.” My son is the sweetest thing that I’ve ever known, but there’s also a something that I squash when it comes to him as well.

Everybody cross, strangers and friends alike, describes him as sage. Calm, as he stares into their eyes and smiles, so it’s no surprise that I want to keep him small forever. In addition, I look forward to his physical and intellectual developments daily. How he begins to make connections between cause and effect, grows taller, chubbier, more aware, more clumsy because he dares more, and grows more curious about his surroundings, reaching for everything… If I didn’t know it already from his continued attempts at transporting himself, we confirmed with a recent scare that his will is much stronger than his elements and his tolerance for pain is high.

He screamed his lungs out at home for 20-25 minutes last night before the SAMU came. 20 minutes later, in the ambulance, he suffered silently in my arms thereafter, with grunts and looking at us through wet eyelashes. They deemed him ok as we rode to the hospital. Later still, as I held him by his underarms and guided him to his wobbly feet and knees atop the table at the hospital, he managed some small smiles as he tried to plant himself in his favorite position, though I knew he must be in some pain, still. Those smiles were not as big as the ones that he gave to the female doctor as she cooed to him, again, about how sage he is despite his recent trauma and, what in the end settled into very minor superficial wounds that would heal in a few days.

Each day, he is more, and I can’t help but to fast forward years from now until one day, perhaps it will be me who is not enough for him. Knowing that my role in his life is to raise this little man to take on the world…to that healthy point of not needing me anymore, I can only hope that he’ll want my support in his endeavors. And we are so proud of him already, as we observe his character emerging.

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