Someone Else is Living Your Parisian Dream

I recently began my post-natal rééducation, or post-natal rehab to tighten my bits.  This 10 session prescription is covered by the combination of securite sociale and mutuelle. In a just a few words that might ring with too-much-information, the sessions involve an explanation that was at first slightly confusing because my kine was imparting way too much information far too quickly. An explantion of dressing rooms outside of her office, leaving my pants and shoes in that 3×3 room, that has an entry door and a separate exit door - like a magician’s box - , but leaving my culottes on and taking them off when back in her office.  I wasn’t quite sure  what culottes were, since I’ve never spoken in French about them publicly but I had a glimmer, so in the midst of my confusion about rooms, what to leave on and what to take off, I tried to get some further clarification in a language called heathen - “vous dites mon sous pantalone?” My underwaaare?  And I may as well have twanged it and spit chew-juice through the gap in my front teeth. I was to cross the little public corridor back to her office all barefooted, in my t-shirt and in my underpants? Because 1. That’s not a sexy look, and 2. Hello? That’s how people get athlete’s foot fungus… With the language barrier and lack of logic behind this go there to take that off, but leave this on, I couldn’t get my brain wrapped why I wouldn’t just strip for her? Those useless dressing rooms - and there were about 6 of them - couldn’t have been cheap.

Back in her office, I lay back and let her have her way with me, breathing in and slowly releasing at her command as she stretched, prodded and massaged my shy spots back into place - those spots that may have fallen out of place when Max was born. 30 minutes later, we were finished, and I made my next appointment before running upstairs to our apartment. That’s right. 5 flights on foot to tighten up places that have fallen out of place because I’m  old, lazy and out of shape.  In most cases, this convenience is a dream. I left the apartment at 9:32 for our 9:30 appointment and was stripping off my culottes by 9:34.

I’ve noticed that Paris is wonderfully convenient in this way, where groceries, medical care, emergency nylons and doctors visits - eyes, ears, teeth, x-rays, anything can all be taken care within an approximate distance of 4 or so blocks, no matter where you live.  In this instance, however, the knowledge that there is someone else in our building, who takes about 10 cigarette breaks each day outside of our front door, who has handled me makes me want to disappear into her cloud of cigarette smoke each time I leave the building.  And also? My husband sees her  for back issues.  I told him that she asked me about his back, which felt strangely like a violation of doctor-patient privilege that I become accustomed to, legally forbidding doctors in the US to discuss patients’ cooties and broken parts, or even the fact that the patient visits.   “This is Esmerelda calling to verify your attendance in basket weaving class at 9:30am….”  When I filled my husband in on this violation of his rights, I asked him whether she had inquired about the state of my parts; whether her treatment is working on me.  When he told me, “No“, I joked “Oh. Because she told me that you said that I didn’t even need the rehab…”

My arrangements haven’t been this convenient since college.

4. I’m often accused of being more logical than emotional. Hand in hand with my inner analytical nerd, this logical self once won an inane argument with my husband by pulling up my laptop and drawing a flow chart. And I didn’t limp along with MS Office’s simple “shapes” and arrows that wanna-be “connectors”.  No. I pulled up Visio because my need to make him see my fool-proof logic (and his lack thereof) required a robust application with true starts, stops, bi-directional arrows, success paths and paths of failure, the path down which his irreversibly faulty logic had tripped.

I started this entry ages ago, after I returned from SF. I’m doing this meme because Amy tagged me (weeks and weeks ago) and I like Amy. I’m also doing this because she admitted aloud - to The Internet - that she once played the accordion. Aloud. To the Internet.

I’m gonna have to dig real deep to dredge up 10 interesting things so I might go at this a few at a time…

1. I was once in an active warzone for a few weeks. It got boring, so I hiked out early. While this may sound trite, I mean every word of it. I learned that war time is just as psychological as it is physical. In a war, you may or may not be physically harmed, but this doesn’t guarantee your safety for the duration. This particular war had been going for 54 years at the time. Imagine fearing for your life for 54 years?
2. I was a school politician from elementary through high school. My reign and campaign was like that of our real politicians today…. Lies. All lies. No one went on more fieldtrips, took longer recesses, went home with less homework or saw more bouncy, red yard balls, enough for everyone.
3. Every now and then, in like…the 1st or second grade (??) I’d wear paper clips in my mouth. Fortunately, my whole family was blessed with good teeth, so we’ve never needed braces, though one of my brothers could use a little canine filing. However, because almost everyone else was click-clacking away on their retainers when their jaws weren’t flapping, it seemed like all the cool kids were doing it. And who was I to shun peer pressure? An older, cool, retainer wearing friend helped me fashion own from paper clips that we’d pick up from the teachers desk, or maybe the floor. I wore them for a few minutes at a time now and then, and only a few each time because my homegrown version were 1. tearing holes into the back of my mouth, 2. Tasted tinny, and 3. Were square shaped!! That phase didn’t last long, by the way.

Dear Max,

Just a few days before you turned 5 months old, you found your toes. With your mouth. I’ve watched you try to shove both feet in desperately, big toes first, as if your life depended on it. Sometimes, failing that, you just stick your thumb in your mouth while still holding your feet, because I guess that’s close enough. Better than nothing til you get it right.

This past month has seen a whirlwind of changes, and suddenly, you’re this little boy with your own personality and voracious appetite. For my food and drinks. Given that, we’ve started you on solids and I can barely keep you from eating your spoon, however, I’ve given you a couple of drops of lemon juice, to put you in your place and that stops you dead in your tracks. It feels suspiciously like you’re growing up way too quickly, exploring, grasping and fearless, just as everyone said you would. I’m enjoying every moment with you though, just as everyone said I should. One of my selfishly favorite things that you’ve learned, is to raise your arms to me when I come to you, face beaming with anxious smiles and legs kicking as your back pops off the mattress violently. As if to say, “Where’ve you been all my life?!”

I turned 33 earlier this month and coupled with Motherhood, it feels right; I don’t have the words to explain it and might never find them, but I don’t question whether I am a good mother to you. Its effortless, us as a team, and this is my absolute best. When something feels right at ‘good enough’, I allow myself to bask in that, sinking into the feeling of how ‘good enough’ relaxes you and how this relaxes me in turn. The result of this attitude though is that, sometimes, we go a few days without washing your hair. You get your bath everyday, but I might get lazy on your hair. Or worse, your ears. If you don’t nap in your crib, then I let you nap in my arms for hours while I surf the web one handed. The dishes get done, and they get dirty again…done, then dirty so I don’t worry about them anymore. I discovered early on that you change and learn so very quickly, and our time together is the only part of each day that I will not be able to replay. While I know that it’s not likely you’ll remember all this time together, I hope that years from now, you’ll recognize the way that constant love and laughter feels around you. I hope that all this flying through the air, rocking back and forth on my legs, the billion kisses and trillion ways of how I tell and show that I love you each day shapes you a good, loving man who can pass it all forward to your world.

We spent the majority of your 4th month in San Francisco, meeting my friends’ new babies and spending lots of quality time with a small handful of important people in my life. Family fought over you and friends marveled over how calm you are. Though I truly believe that this is just luck-of-the-draw, your demeanor, I can’t help but be so proud to have you by my side always.

It was late in the day, and a friend’s baby sat crying between us in the backseat of a very, very large SUV. I looked at you, to see how it was affecting you, and reached out to put my hand on your leg. You turned to with a smile, the sun lighting your face through the window behind you. You put your hand over mine, resting it therem as if to say, “I’m ok.” There was static in that moment, and I thought, “This is my son. This feels good.“