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.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
