We leave Paris on July 7; the movers come on July 3. Every day we grow increasingly nostalgic about our Parisian experience, and every day I get a tad more anxious about all of the unknowns ahead of us.
We are moving "home." Home in that it is our home country, the place in which we have both spent our entire lives living, with the exception of study-abroad during university and these past two years. Home in that we will be in the same time zone as our family. Home in that English will be the language of business, and I won't feel like a tongue-tied moron in the vast majority of my daily interactions.
On another level, though, it's not home at all. New York is a new city for both of us, but even more, I've realized that I don't know how to live my current life in the US. When we moved to Paris, Baby Oil was just six months old. In the past two years, I have learned how to parent (or at least, how to parent in the infant and toddler phases). I am learning now how to parent two children at once. I know when the park is crowded, what to wear to the playground, how to take kids on the bus and the metro, and how to conduct my daily stay-at-home-mom life here in Paris.
I have absolutely no idea how to do that in New York. All of the cultural norms around parenting that I've absorbed are informed by expats in France and the French themselves. I know when behavior is too rowdy (in the park, essentially never), I know how far away it is acceptable to sit from your child in the playground (really, really far - the moms sitting closer are always expats), I know which boulangeries give a free piece of baguette to your child when you buy something (the one on Rue de Rocher). But in the US, there will be other cultural norms. And as much as it is my home country, I am a foreigner in the world of American parenting.
The classes are what put me over the top. There are so many classes for kids in America! Just in Brooklyn, it seems you could skip preschool altogether and just escort your 2- or 3-year-old from yoga to art to music to dance to science class. If your child doesn't take Sustainable Art (this class is actually offered at the Park Slope YMCA - the brochure explains that your child will "learn to make art that cares about the environment"), will he be shunned as an outsider?
Baby Oil will have to wait until he is 3 to be old enough for the Action Heros - Boys Only dance class offered at one Park Slope dance studio but he can start combined yoga-and-swim classes immediately at the Y. Due to conflicts with his preschool schedule, we won't be able to enroll in the Brooklyn Design Lab's Paint Studio in which "we delve into alternative painting techniques and experiment with tools and materials of our own creation." I wasn't aware alternative painting techniques for 2-year-olds even existed. Classes for toddlers simply don't exist in France. The expectation is that your child is at creche, or home with the nanny. Or, in the case of many expat kids, spending long afternoons at the park with a frazzled, lonely mommy eavesdropping on anyone who doesn't look like a nanny in hopes of making a new friend.
It is quite possible that Brooklyn, or maybe all of New York City, is going to be a parenting experience unto itself. I'm beyond excited at the thought of actually having places to take my kids when the weather is crummy, but I am also intimidated at all that I don't know about being a NYC parent. One month left - Mr. Oil has taken to buying caramel au beurre sale in a jar and drizzling it over ice cream, in between trying to sample all of the multitude of French yogurt options available in our local grocery store. I'm doing my part to buy at least one fresh baguette every day. I recently tried to tell Baby Oil that there are no baguettes in New York. His response? "No baguettes in New York. Baguettes in the boulangerie!" Poor kid is in for some serious culture shock.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Monday, June 3, 2013
A Day For Me
I knew many things had changed in my life since our son arrived back in January 2011. But it was a bit of a surprise when I realized a few months ago that I had not spent a single night completely alone in almost two-and-a-half years. I've had nights with just my husband (3, to be exact), and nights with just Baby Oil. But never a night alone.
Feeling the urge to reclaim some alone time, I mentioned to Mr. Oil that I would love to go to London for a day by myself, do some shopping, and sleep in a hotel. He did not understand why going alone was appealing, but with some positive reinforcement from my stepmom, he gave me the best Mother's Day gift around - 30 hours alone in London. And yes, we noted the irony that the best Mother's Day gift involves no mothering duties.
Saturday morning I set out for London. It's an easy train ride from Paris, and I was in London, with my bag dropped at the hotel, by 11:30. My agenda for the day was straightforward - no plans. Walk around. Do some shopping. Get my hair cut (it is difficult to do this when you have a baby attached to you all day long!). Do whatever I wanted to do.
I thought about my kids, and my husband, throughout the day. I still noted every construction vehicle, and if I passed a nice bakery I thought, "Mr. Oil would like that place!" But I enjoyed every moment of the utter privilege of thinking only about what I wanted to do. Did I want to try on LK Bennett shoes at Selfridge's? Yes, please. Did I then want to try on more shoes at French Sole? Yes , please. Did I want to walk into three different locations of the same store (Reiss) and try on clothes at each one? Yes, please. Did I want to sit and have a latte at a time when some people would insist we eat "real" lunch? Yes, please. Did I want to spend 20 minutes exploring the wonder that is Boots (a pharmacy chain - think CVS on crack)? Yes, please.
I hit the big London shopping spots - Selfridge's, Oxford Street, Regent Street, Harrod's, and Kensington High Street. I managed to pick up some tea at Fortnum and Mason, and of course grabbed a new train for Baby Oil at Hamley's. I got my hair cut at the posh Daniel Hersheson salon. At the end of the day, I swung by Ottolenghi and bought a fantastic flourless orange-almond cake with chocolate frosting to bring home for Mr. Oil.
Eight hours later, I virtually collapsed in my hotel room at the lovely Lancaster London Hotel, with views from my room overlooking Hyde Park. Tea + sweets + clothes + shoes + toys = a heavy load by the end of the day! I went to eat in one of the hotel restaurants as I had learned the hard way that even a trusty pair of flats can wreak havoc on your feet after five miles of walking around London. After the hostess went to find an appropriate table for my party of 1, a couple standing behind me said, "Excuse me, but won't you be bored by yourself? Would you like to join us?"
Now, according to Mr. Oil, nobody actually wants to be taken up on these sorts of invitations. But in a moment of awkwardness, I said, "Oh...sure." And that is how I ended up spending an hour and a half eating dinner with a nice couple from Australia who had just finished a week long garden tour of England and Wales. They are from Warwick, about 2 hours southwest of Brisbane, where they garden on 3 acres. My favorite part of the evening was when, after the husband had gone on for about 15 minutes straight with many details about the gardens they had visited, the wife, said, "Wow, I'm impressed. I thought you just slept through the tour."
The best moment of the day came when I crawled into the king-size bed in my room, all by my lonesome. Nobody to feed in the night, nobody needing a drink of water, nobody at all. Just me, asleep. In the morning I forced myself to stay in bed until 8am, took a relaxing bath, and headed back to the train station.
There were certainly moments when I wished that my family was with me. And there were moments when I was a bit bored being by myself. Overall, however, having this day to be completely myself, all by myself, was wonderful. It is not easy to find the balance of having an individual identity while being a stay-at-home mom. And I know my husband will never quite understand the value of what he gave me this weekend. Not only did I come home refreshed and relaxed, I came home to a clean home and two happy kids. Major points for Mr. Oil.
Feeling the urge to reclaim some alone time, I mentioned to Mr. Oil that I would love to go to London for a day by myself, do some shopping, and sleep in a hotel. He did not understand why going alone was appealing, but with some positive reinforcement from my stepmom, he gave me the best Mother's Day gift around - 30 hours alone in London. And yes, we noted the irony that the best Mother's Day gift involves no mothering duties.
Saturday morning I set out for London. It's an easy train ride from Paris, and I was in London, with my bag dropped at the hotel, by 11:30. My agenda for the day was straightforward - no plans. Walk around. Do some shopping. Get my hair cut (it is difficult to do this when you have a baby attached to you all day long!). Do whatever I wanted to do.
I thought about my kids, and my husband, throughout the day. I still noted every construction vehicle, and if I passed a nice bakery I thought, "Mr. Oil would like that place!" But I enjoyed every moment of the utter privilege of thinking only about what I wanted to do. Did I want to try on LK Bennett shoes at Selfridge's? Yes, please. Did I then want to try on more shoes at French Sole? Yes , please. Did I want to walk into three different locations of the same store (Reiss) and try on clothes at each one? Yes, please. Did I want to sit and have a latte at a time when some people would insist we eat "real" lunch? Yes, please. Did I want to spend 20 minutes exploring the wonder that is Boots (a pharmacy chain - think CVS on crack)? Yes, please.
I hit the big London shopping spots - Selfridge's, Oxford Street, Regent Street, Harrod's, and Kensington High Street. I managed to pick up some tea at Fortnum and Mason, and of course grabbed a new train for Baby Oil at Hamley's. I got my hair cut at the posh Daniel Hersheson salon. At the end of the day, I swung by Ottolenghi and bought a fantastic flourless orange-almond cake with chocolate frosting to bring home for Mr. Oil.
Eight hours later, I virtually collapsed in my hotel room at the lovely Lancaster London Hotel, with views from my room overlooking Hyde Park. Tea + sweets + clothes + shoes + toys = a heavy load by the end of the day! I went to eat in one of the hotel restaurants as I had learned the hard way that even a trusty pair of flats can wreak havoc on your feet after five miles of walking around London. After the hostess went to find an appropriate table for my party of 1, a couple standing behind me said, "Excuse me, but won't you be bored by yourself? Would you like to join us?"
Now, according to Mr. Oil, nobody actually wants to be taken up on these sorts of invitations. But in a moment of awkwardness, I said, "Oh...sure." And that is how I ended up spending an hour and a half eating dinner with a nice couple from Australia who had just finished a week long garden tour of England and Wales. They are from Warwick, about 2 hours southwest of Brisbane, where they garden on 3 acres. My favorite part of the evening was when, after the husband had gone on for about 15 minutes straight with many details about the gardens they had visited, the wife, said, "Wow, I'm impressed. I thought you just slept through the tour."
The best moment of the day came when I crawled into the king-size bed in my room, all by my lonesome. Nobody to feed in the night, nobody needing a drink of water, nobody at all. Just me, asleep. In the morning I forced myself to stay in bed until 8am, took a relaxing bath, and headed back to the train station.
There were certainly moments when I wished that my family was with me. And there were moments when I was a bit bored being by myself. Overall, however, having this day to be completely myself, all by myself, was wonderful. It is not easy to find the balance of having an individual identity while being a stay-at-home mom. And I know my husband will never quite understand the value of what he gave me this weekend. Not only did I come home refreshed and relaxed, I came home to a clean home and two happy kids. Major points for Mr. Oil.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Everything Else
I would be remiss if I did not chronicle a bit more of our trip to Basque country. The food alone is certainly blog-worthy. The Basque have their own version of tapas, called pinxos (pinchos). At lunch and dinner time every day, the countertops of all the bars in every town are covered with platters of pinxos. You wander in, pick up one, two, or three, and enjoy the tasty morsels with a glass of sidre (hard cider), beer, or wine. Somehow the bartender knows exactly how many you've eaten, even if there are 20 other people standing alongside the bar with you.
Pinxos tend to revolve around either fish or pork, which in general are the two most common food categories in the region. I cannot possibly tell you what is actually on any of them as they are all combinations of tapenades, vegetables, fish, etc. The first day we ate pinxos for lunch, I said to the bartender, in my best high school Spanish, that we had never eaten pinxos before and we were unsure how to eat them. What I meant was that I didn't know whether we ordered specific items, or if it was an all-you-can-eat situation, etc. The bartender took it to mean that I was a total idiot, and looked at me with a strange expression on his face as he replied, "Put them in your mouth."
The best part about pinxos is just the camraderie and ambiance in the bars. Don't let the word "bars" make you think this is just for adults - strollers were everywhere. I have never seen so many grandfathers taking care of their grandchildren, and on top of that making sure to enjoy a drink and a pinxo with another grandfather-nanny. On Sunday afternoon in Bilbao, we stumbled across the Plaza Nueva, a square lined with bars and restaurants serving pinxos and drinks to hundreds of families, 20-somethings, grandparents, and everyone in between. Many of the bars had hand-printed signs stating, "Hay calamares", explaining that they were also serving hot fried calamari. This was clearly the most popular dish with the Sunday afternoon crowd judging by the number of people we saw popping calamari bits into their mouths around the plaza.
With its location on the rough Atlantic coast, fish of course plays a huge role in the local cuisine. On Saturday night, we headed to the seaside town of Getaria for dinner. After a drink in one of the bars (with two other strollers present, and one pregnant woman drinking beer), we headed to dinner at Elkano. We didn't realize at the time that some of the most renowned chefs in the world have eaten here and declared it the best fish restaurant in the world. We also didn't realize that it was a pretty fancy place. Nonetheless, we showed up with our baby and toddler in tow. Unfazed, the hostess supplied us with a booster seat for Baby Oil - apparently it is commonplace in Spain to bring very young children to very expensive meals!
And then we found out about kokotxas. Kokotxas, a Basque specialty, is part of the chin or throat of a deep-sea cod called hake. At Elkano, they offer kokotxas served in multiple ways - lightly battered, grilled, and with "green sauce" (seemed to be garlic and butter). Rocked. Our. World. And our mouths. Both of us took one bite, looked at the other and said, "I have never tasted anything like this before." It was, simply, awesome.
The grilled hake was also some of the best fish I have ever, ever eaten. So fresh, so tasty, so perfectly prepared on the outside grill located on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Baby Oil and Mademoiselle were also perfect - though Baby Oil declined to eat anything but bread, and we decided we would forgo caring about his nutritional needs for one night - so we successfully pulled off eating one of the nicest meals we've had in Europe with two small children.
On the French side of Basque territory, the food is more...French. We chose to focus on desserts, which are vastly superior in France compared with Spain. Paries and Adam are probably the two most well-known patisseries in the Pays Basque. Paries features mouchous, which are a type of macaron with no filling, and kanougas, which are caramels (unclear if anything is actually different or unusual about them). Adam features one simple macaron - one layer, no flavors save traditional almond. The Adam macaron is chewier than Parisian macarons but it is seriously delicious. Both shops offer touron, which is made of honey, sugar, and almond paste. Frankly we found the tourons too sweet for our tastes, though we tried a few flavors. Since it was raining for 2 days straight while we were in St Jean de Luz, we decided to spend most of our time eating.
We also sampled quite a bit of gateau basque, or traditional Basque cake. Again this features an almond filling - they really have a thing for almonds down there in Basque country - but in a delicious crust, and the traditional kind has cherries in it. A great gateau basque is excellent. Our favorite one was from a small bakery in the town of Espelette. This little town in the foothills of the Pyrenees is most well-known for piment d'Espelette, a specific type of chili pepper used in many Basque dishes. In Espelette, you can find everything with piment d'Espelette, from cheese to chocolate and anything else you might want.
In addition to the food, I should also briefly mention the bright and beautiful world of Basque textiles.
Ubiquitous throughout the region, ranging from cheap touristy items to upscale fabrics, you can find towels, tablecloths, robes, napkins, bags, portfolios, and much more in these lovely patterns. Our favorite shops included Artiga, Tissage de Luz, and Euskal Linge.
While the beret is a worldwide symbol of France that you never actually see in Paris, it turns out that the beret is a Basque symbol of victory in the world of Basque rural sports. We almost bought a Basque beret for Baby Oil but instead just took this photo.
Despite some feelings of loyalty toward France, I have to say that the Spanish side of the Basque region felt significantly more Basque. The French side felt more like France with a Basque veneer, and better desserts. I am truly glad we decided to explore this part of Europe, even if we ended the week declaring that we would never go on vacation again with small children. Which is why we are headed to Scotland in two weeks.
 |
| Pinxos in San Sebastian |
Pinxos tend to revolve around either fish or pork, which in general are the two most common food categories in the region. I cannot possibly tell you what is actually on any of them as they are all combinations of tapenades, vegetables, fish, etc. The first day we ate pinxos for lunch, I said to the bartender, in my best high school Spanish, that we had never eaten pinxos before and we were unsure how to eat them. What I meant was that I didn't know whether we ordered specific items, or if it was an all-you-can-eat situation, etc. The bartender took it to mean that I was a total idiot, and looked at me with a strange expression on his face as he replied, "Put them in your mouth."
 |
| More pinxos in San Sebastian |
The best part about pinxos is just the camraderie and ambiance in the bars. Don't let the word "bars" make you think this is just for adults - strollers were everywhere. I have never seen so many grandfathers taking care of their grandchildren, and on top of that making sure to enjoy a drink and a pinxo with another grandfather-nanny. On Sunday afternoon in Bilbao, we stumbled across the Plaza Nueva, a square lined with bars and restaurants serving pinxos and drinks to hundreds of families, 20-somethings, grandparents, and everyone in between. Many of the bars had hand-printed signs stating, "Hay calamares", explaining that they were also serving hot fried calamari. This was clearly the most popular dish with the Sunday afternoon crowd judging by the number of people we saw popping calamari bits into their mouths around the plaza.
 |
| Bilbao |
 |
| Getaria harbor |
And then we found out about kokotxas. Kokotxas, a Basque specialty, is part of the chin or throat of a deep-sea cod called hake. At Elkano, they offer kokotxas served in multiple ways - lightly battered, grilled, and with "green sauce" (seemed to be garlic and butter). Rocked. Our. World. And our mouths. Both of us took one bite, looked at the other and said, "I have never tasted anything like this before." It was, simply, awesome.
 |
| Kokotxas three ways |
The grilled hake was also some of the best fish I have ever, ever eaten. So fresh, so tasty, so perfectly prepared on the outside grill located on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Baby Oil and Mademoiselle were also perfect - though Baby Oil declined to eat anything but bread, and we decided we would forgo caring about his nutritional needs for one night - so we successfully pulled off eating one of the nicest meals we've had in Europe with two small children.
 |
| They are cute small children!! |
On the French side of Basque territory, the food is more...French. We chose to focus on desserts, which are vastly superior in France compared with Spain. Paries and Adam are probably the two most well-known patisseries in the Pays Basque. Paries features mouchous, which are a type of macaron with no filling, and kanougas, which are caramels (unclear if anything is actually different or unusual about them). Adam features one simple macaron - one layer, no flavors save traditional almond. The Adam macaron is chewier than Parisian macarons but it is seriously delicious. Both shops offer touron, which is made of honey, sugar, and almond paste. Frankly we found the tourons too sweet for our tastes, though we tried a few flavors. Since it was raining for 2 days straight while we were in St Jean de Luz, we decided to spend most of our time eating.
We also sampled quite a bit of gateau basque, or traditional Basque cake. Again this features an almond filling - they really have a thing for almonds down there in Basque country - but in a delicious crust, and the traditional kind has cherries in it. A great gateau basque is excellent. Our favorite one was from a small bakery in the town of Espelette. This little town in the foothills of the Pyrenees is most well-known for piment d'Espelette, a specific type of chili pepper used in many Basque dishes. In Espelette, you can find everything with piment d'Espelette, from cheese to chocolate and anything else you might want.
 |
| Sheep's milk cheese with piment d'Espelette, in Espelette |
In addition to the food, I should also briefly mention the bright and beautiful world of Basque textiles.
Ubiquitous throughout the region, ranging from cheap touristy items to upscale fabrics, you can find towels, tablecloths, robes, napkins, bags, portfolios, and much more in these lovely patterns. Our favorite shops included Artiga, Tissage de Luz, and Euskal Linge.
While the beret is a worldwide symbol of France that you never actually see in Paris, it turns out that the beret is a Basque symbol of victory in the world of Basque rural sports. We almost bought a Basque beret for Baby Oil but instead just took this photo.
Despite some feelings of loyalty toward France, I have to say that the Spanish side of the Basque region felt significantly more Basque. The French side felt more like France with a Basque veneer, and better desserts. I am truly glad we decided to explore this part of Europe, even if we ended the week declaring that we would never go on vacation again with small children. Which is why we are headed to Scotland in two weeks.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Boulder Pulling
As you drive through Spanish Basque country, the landscape feels rugged and wild. You feel isolated, seeing few people but many sheep. This quiet wilderness is turned upside-down once you experience the life in Basque country, where the people are warm, welcoming, and live life to the fullest in their remote corner of Europe.
No experience better captured the vitality of Basque life than watching the gizon proba in Deba last weekend. Gizon proba is one of the traditional Basque rural sports. It literally translates as "man test", and consists of 8 men attached to a metal harness dragging an almost-2000-pound "boulder". For a set amount of time (about 30 minutes), the men pull the weight back and forth across a proscribed distance. The number of lengths is recorded on a scoreboard as hundreds of locals cheer on the men. When the first group is done, their competitors warm up and attempt to best the first team's score.
The idea of 800 or more people standing around in the rain on a Saturday afternoon, shouting and cheering as a bunch of guys lugging a giant weight for half an hour sounds crazy and even a bit boring. The reality is certainly unusual but completely engaging. The home team, from Deba, went first. Almost the entire crowd was from Deba, so the cheering at each turn, and the encouragement as the task became increasingly difficult, was deafening at times. Local kids watched with the same intensity as American kids watch the NBA finals. 20-somethings stood in the back, alternately cheering and drinking. A quartet of EMTs were on hand in case of injury.
The first 20 lengths or so come across as child's play. Soon enough, however, it becomes clear that this thing they're pulling is really, really heavy.
And finally, time is called. The team literally collapses in relief.
Then the next team warms up. They were from the neighboring town of Mendaro, and could not hold a candle to our Deba team (we stayed in Deba, so of course felt a natural affinity for the home team). The man we rented the apartment from later suggested that the event was rigged, but I think it's hard to give anything but your most in this environment. Plus, I was there and both teams were working hard. Deba won, 40-35.
I have never experienced anything like gizon proba before. Not just because it was so foreign to us, but because we felt we really experienced an authentic community event, the kind that regularly marks the lives of the Basque people. Afterwards, we walked back to the center of town with what felt like every person who lives in Deba, and we ate at the restaurant in the town square with dozens of other families and townspeople, all basking in the excitement and energy of the feat of strength we had all witnessed.
No experience better captured the vitality of Basque life than watching the gizon proba in Deba last weekend. Gizon proba is one of the traditional Basque rural sports. It literally translates as "man test", and consists of 8 men attached to a metal harness dragging an almost-2000-pound "boulder". For a set amount of time (about 30 minutes), the men pull the weight back and forth across a proscribed distance. The number of lengths is recorded on a scoreboard as hundreds of locals cheer on the men. When the first group is done, their competitors warm up and attempt to best the first team's score.
The idea of 800 or more people standing around in the rain on a Saturday afternoon, shouting and cheering as a bunch of guys lugging a giant weight for half an hour sounds crazy and even a bit boring. The reality is certainly unusual but completely engaging. The home team, from Deba, went first. Almost the entire crowd was from Deba, so the cheering at each turn, and the encouragement as the task became increasingly difficult, was deafening at times. Local kids watched with the same intensity as American kids watch the NBA finals. 20-somethings stood in the back, alternately cheering and drinking. A quartet of EMTs were on hand in case of injury.
 |
| And they're off! |
 |
| The coach keeps them going strong. |
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| This is serious stuff. |
The first 20 lengths or so come across as child's play. Soon enough, however, it becomes clear that this thing they're pulling is really, really heavy.
 |
| Yeah, this is hard. |
And finally, time is called. The team literally collapses in relief.
Then the next team warms up. They were from the neighboring town of Mendaro, and could not hold a candle to our Deba team (we stayed in Deba, so of course felt a natural affinity for the home team). The man we rented the apartment from later suggested that the event was rigged, but I think it's hard to give anything but your most in this environment. Plus, I was there and both teams were working hard. Deba won, 40-35.
I have never experienced anything like gizon proba before. Not just because it was so foreign to us, but because we felt we really experienced an authentic community event, the kind that regularly marks the lives of the Basque people. Afterwards, we walked back to the center of town with what felt like every person who lives in Deba, and we ate at the restaurant in the town square with dozens of other families and townspeople, all basking in the excitement and energy of the feat of strength we had all witnessed.
Friday, May 24, 2013
Ce n'est pas des vacances
We arrived back in Paris today after 9 days in the Basque region of Spain and France, seriously questioning our sanity in taking this trip with a 28-month-old and 4-month-old. It turns out that traveling with kids is not actually a vacation - as one French woman we spoke with in Biarritz said, "C'est du travail!" - it's work! Good friends of ours who also recently had a second child are planning a trip to Club Med in Turkey in a few months, and throughout our trip, we thought, "Gee, that sounds like a good idea."
Basque country is a fantastic place to visit, even with kids. And I will write much more about the trip. At this moment, I am just too exhausted to do anything but pen this note about our questionable decision-making, and about how we spent most meals trying to ensure Baby Oil didn't break anything at the restaurant, and maybe ate something besides french fries. Only one meal got to the point of embarrassment, after breaking a glass, a plate, and rolling a baseball around the floor. The silver lining was that seated near to us was a French family with a little boy a few months younger than Baby Oil. At first I thought to myself, "Great, I will now watch this child happily devour spinach and cod and vegetable soup, while mine tries to jump out of his booster seat."
But no, it turns out that French toddlers may not all live up to their reputation. I watched this French child eat apple juice with a spoon, stick his hand in his water glass, and then only eat his fries. I felt much better about life after this.
The genuine delight and exuberance expressed regularly by Baby Oil did add to our enjoyment - how long has it been since you were thrilled to the point of shrieking at the sight of a crane? Or a dump truck? Or a really big car carrier? He quickly latched on to saying "hola" around Spain, which never failed to elicit a smile.
We did learn some important lessons about travels with children. For instance, now we know that snaps on pajamas from DPAM will set off airport metal detectors, but Petit Bateau jammies do not. We know that there are really big sharks in San Sebastian's aquarium, but an outside seal pool at the aquarium in Biarritz. We know that after two days of rain in a beach town, your toddler may very well resort to poking his little sister in the eye as a new fun game. We know that Spanish formula makes Mademoiselle spit up even more than normal. We know it matters less whether the town you stay in is historic, scenic, or charismatic - the real issue is, how good is the playground?
So we traveled Basque country for 9 days. We ate incredibly well, and felt like we really got a feel for the region, particularly in Spain. It was a great trip - but it was not really a vacation.
More to come...
Basque country is a fantastic place to visit, even with kids. And I will write much more about the trip. At this moment, I am just too exhausted to do anything but pen this note about our questionable decision-making, and about how we spent most meals trying to ensure Baby Oil didn't break anything at the restaurant, and maybe ate something besides french fries. Only one meal got to the point of embarrassment, after breaking a glass, a plate, and rolling a baseball around the floor. The silver lining was that seated near to us was a French family with a little boy a few months younger than Baby Oil. At first I thought to myself, "Great, I will now watch this child happily devour spinach and cod and vegetable soup, while mine tries to jump out of his booster seat."
But no, it turns out that French toddlers may not all live up to their reputation. I watched this French child eat apple juice with a spoon, stick his hand in his water glass, and then only eat his fries. I felt much better about life after this.
The genuine delight and exuberance expressed regularly by Baby Oil did add to our enjoyment - how long has it been since you were thrilled to the point of shrieking at the sight of a crane? Or a dump truck? Or a really big car carrier? He quickly latched on to saying "hola" around Spain, which never failed to elicit a smile.
We did learn some important lessons about travels with children. For instance, now we know that snaps on pajamas from DPAM will set off airport metal detectors, but Petit Bateau jammies do not. We know that there are really big sharks in San Sebastian's aquarium, but an outside seal pool at the aquarium in Biarritz. We know that after two days of rain in a beach town, your toddler may very well resort to poking his little sister in the eye as a new fun game. We know that Spanish formula makes Mademoiselle spit up even more than normal. We know it matters less whether the town you stay in is historic, scenic, or charismatic - the real issue is, how good is the playground?
So we traveled Basque country for 9 days. We ate incredibly well, and felt like we really got a feel for the region, particularly in Spain. It was a great trip - but it was not really a vacation.
More to come...
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Canaries
Just when I think this city is done surprising me, I learn something new.
Today I learned that in Paris, canaries are priced by how well they sing. Which leads to so many questions, such as who is the judge of quality, and what if you disagree with your bird's abilities?
I also thought I was done with pregnancy-related anecdotes. And then a friend went to her last appointment with her ob, three days before a scheduled cesarean. The doctor informed my friend that the baby looked ready to go, and he was concerned she might go into labor. "Please, do me a favor," he says. "Take a cab home, and lie down for the rest of the day. I have a reservation at a really nice restaurant tonight so I don't want to be interrupted by you going into labor."
Right now every interaction and experience is colored by the reality of our impending departure. I have been eating so many baguettes in anticipation of no longer having ready to access to them that I may actually be baguette-d out. (I say this every day, and it hasn't actually stopped me from eating one yet.) We have a bucket list of things we'd like to do before we leave, and we're heading on our last big exploration of France next week, when we go down to the Basque Coast.
I feel some regret about leaving just when Baby Oil is starting to speak French, and that Mademoiselle will have had so little time in her country of birth. For a long time, it felt like our life here was simply a time-out from our "real" life in the States. Somehow, along the way, this turned into real life.
I get two more months of life in this city of sliding-scale canary prices. Two more months of watching 10 year-olds zoom by on their scooters, holding tight to the baguettes under their arms. Two more months of elderly Parisian women going ga-ga over Mademoiselle in the grocery store (seriously, this happens often). Two months to prepare for life in New York, a life about which we know nothing except where Baby Oil will go to preschool. Which in New York, it turns out, is a major accomplishment given that we missed every application deadline. Who knew that they were so deadly serious about preschool? The acceptance letter we received read like a university admissions letter - "We are pleased to inform you that [Baby Oil] has been accepted into our program."
Two months left. What do you think we still need to do here?
Today I learned that in Paris, canaries are priced by how well they sing. Which leads to so many questions, such as who is the judge of quality, and what if you disagree with your bird's abilities?
I also thought I was done with pregnancy-related anecdotes. And then a friend went to her last appointment with her ob, three days before a scheduled cesarean. The doctor informed my friend that the baby looked ready to go, and he was concerned she might go into labor. "Please, do me a favor," he says. "Take a cab home, and lie down for the rest of the day. I have a reservation at a really nice restaurant tonight so I don't want to be interrupted by you going into labor."
Right now every interaction and experience is colored by the reality of our impending departure. I have been eating so many baguettes in anticipation of no longer having ready to access to them that I may actually be baguette-d out. (I say this every day, and it hasn't actually stopped me from eating one yet.) We have a bucket list of things we'd like to do before we leave, and we're heading on our last big exploration of France next week, when we go down to the Basque Coast.
I feel some regret about leaving just when Baby Oil is starting to speak French, and that Mademoiselle will have had so little time in her country of birth. For a long time, it felt like our life here was simply a time-out from our "real" life in the States. Somehow, along the way, this turned into real life.
I get two more months of life in this city of sliding-scale canary prices. Two more months of watching 10 year-olds zoom by on their scooters, holding tight to the baguettes under their arms. Two more months of elderly Parisian women going ga-ga over Mademoiselle in the grocery store (seriously, this happens often). Two months to prepare for life in New York, a life about which we know nothing except where Baby Oil will go to preschool. Which in New York, it turns out, is a major accomplishment given that we missed every application deadline. Who knew that they were so deadly serious about preschool? The acceptance letter we received read like a university admissions letter - "We are pleased to inform you that [Baby Oil] has been accepted into our program."
Two months left. What do you think we still need to do here?
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Feeding Bebe
Mademoiselle is 3 months old today! But what really made me have one of those "oh, this time goes so quickly" moments (cue the cheesy music, please) was when our pediatrician told me that in just one month, it would be time to start introducing food to our petite fille.
Food? Already?!
But let's back up a few steps, and talk briefly about Mademoiselle's nutritional journey to date. For the first month of her life, she was breast-fed, with just a very few small bottles of formula given by Mr. Oil when I was truly desperate for sleep.
At her one-month check up, the pediatrician asked if I was nursing, and I said yes but mentioned that she had been given a few bottles of formula. "Wait," said the doctor, "what country are you from?"
"I'm from the US," I replied.
"But Americans do not do this. Americans are very serious about the breast-feeding. They never give a bottle. Where did you come up with this idea?" said the doctor, quite shocked about my un-American behavior (he is French, of course).
"Um, I was really tired?" I replied, a bit confused. Was he going to chastise me? Where was this heading?
"This is so French!" he exclaimed. "Of course you get tired, and it is better for your own milk if you get some rest. This is very good!" Phew.
Anyone with a child, or who has any friends with children, surely knows that there is a great and ongoing discussion about the benefits of breast-feeding. And there are significant amounts of judgment that go along with your decisions in this area. I have no plans to expound on any of this here, and while I think the judgment exists just as much in the American expat community in France as in the United States proper, the French have a different outlook. While nursing is encouraged, nobody is expected to nurse for very long. In fact, one of the informational sheets I was given when I left the hospital with Mademoiselle stated explicitly that "long-term breast-feeding is not normal in French culture, and if you choose to do this, it will be difficult." As an example of this, an American friend was at a dinner party here in Paris. She was still nursing her child, who was about 13 months at the time. An older French woman who had never met my friend before said to her point-blank, "What, will you still be nursing him in university?"
When Baby Oil was born in the US, I was visited by lactation consultants in the hospital and had several follow-up visits with the on-site lactation consultant at the pediatrician's office. In France, when I asked a question about nursing to one of the maternity nurses, I was told that the best resource for information on nursing was Message, the English-language expat moms' group of which I'm already a member.
I stopped nursing 3 weeks ago, and it was absolutely the right decision for me. Mademoiselle is thriving and smiling and happy, and I'm much happier too. So right now I'm quite grateful to have had a baby in this country where women are not expected to subjugate their body to their child for months if not years on end (not that there's anything wrong with nursing, and yes I know that breast milk is best, and yes I know that the American Association of Pediatrics says blah-blah-blah). I told the pediatrician at the three-month check-up that I stopped nursing and he gave me a blank look, as if to say, "why are you even bothering to mention such a trivial matter?"
So at 4 months, we are supposed to start introducing food to Mademoiselle on a fairly regimented schedule. While at least one American mom here has told me that she would ignore the French approach, I tend to agree with the pediatrician who explained that every year, a new set of recommendations comes out that changes whatever was recommended the year before. But at the end of the day, we mostly end up doing what our grandmothers did, because we know that worked.
At 4 months, we are supposed to give formula + rice cereal in the morning. Then at "midday", give vegetable puree followed by formula. At 4:00pm, fruit puree followed by formula. In the evening, formula + rice cereal.
The best part is the 4:00pm piece, because that implies that I am feeding my baby at precise times. What happens if it's 4:30? Will I anger the French food gods?
At 6 months, by the way, we give formula with cereals that contain gluten. At midday, it's vegetables and meat or fish, followed by milk or "milk-based dessert" (because a 6 month old totally needs a 3 course lunch that includes dessert - good thing I bought those mini cocottes at the Le Creuset outlet - creme brulee is a milk-based dessert, right?). More fruit and formula at 4:00pm.
These decisions may have to moderated based on the fact that, as it turns out, our sojourn in France is about to end. In July we will return to the United States for good, and in August settle into a new life in Brooklyn. This has happened rather quickly and while it was something that presented itself to us rather than us searching for a way to get home, we are excited to be heading back to America. Though I'm not sure what our American pediatrician will say about milk-based desserts and 4:00pm fruits!
Food? Already?!
But let's back up a few steps, and talk briefly about Mademoiselle's nutritional journey to date. For the first month of her life, she was breast-fed, with just a very few small bottles of formula given by Mr. Oil when I was truly desperate for sleep.
At her one-month check up, the pediatrician asked if I was nursing, and I said yes but mentioned that she had been given a few bottles of formula. "Wait," said the doctor, "what country are you from?"
"I'm from the US," I replied.
"But Americans do not do this. Americans are very serious about the breast-feeding. They never give a bottle. Where did you come up with this idea?" said the doctor, quite shocked about my un-American behavior (he is French, of course).
"Um, I was really tired?" I replied, a bit confused. Was he going to chastise me? Where was this heading?
"This is so French!" he exclaimed. "Of course you get tired, and it is better for your own milk if you get some rest. This is very good!" Phew.
Anyone with a child, or who has any friends with children, surely knows that there is a great and ongoing discussion about the benefits of breast-feeding. And there are significant amounts of judgment that go along with your decisions in this area. I have no plans to expound on any of this here, and while I think the judgment exists just as much in the American expat community in France as in the United States proper, the French have a different outlook. While nursing is encouraged, nobody is expected to nurse for very long. In fact, one of the informational sheets I was given when I left the hospital with Mademoiselle stated explicitly that "long-term breast-feeding is not normal in French culture, and if you choose to do this, it will be difficult." As an example of this, an American friend was at a dinner party here in Paris. She was still nursing her child, who was about 13 months at the time. An older French woman who had never met my friend before said to her point-blank, "What, will you still be nursing him in university?"
When Baby Oil was born in the US, I was visited by lactation consultants in the hospital and had several follow-up visits with the on-site lactation consultant at the pediatrician's office. In France, when I asked a question about nursing to one of the maternity nurses, I was told that the best resource for information on nursing was Message, the English-language expat moms' group of which I'm already a member.
I stopped nursing 3 weeks ago, and it was absolutely the right decision for me. Mademoiselle is thriving and smiling and happy, and I'm much happier too. So right now I'm quite grateful to have had a baby in this country where women are not expected to subjugate their body to their child for months if not years on end (not that there's anything wrong with nursing, and yes I know that breast milk is best, and yes I know that the American Association of Pediatrics says blah-blah-blah). I told the pediatrician at the three-month check-up that I stopped nursing and he gave me a blank look, as if to say, "why are you even bothering to mention such a trivial matter?"
So at 4 months, we are supposed to start introducing food to Mademoiselle on a fairly regimented schedule. While at least one American mom here has told me that she would ignore the French approach, I tend to agree with the pediatrician who explained that every year, a new set of recommendations comes out that changes whatever was recommended the year before. But at the end of the day, we mostly end up doing what our grandmothers did, because we know that worked.
At 4 months, we are supposed to give formula + rice cereal in the morning. Then at "midday", give vegetable puree followed by formula. At 4:00pm, fruit puree followed by formula. In the evening, formula + rice cereal.
The best part is the 4:00pm piece, because that implies that I am feeding my baby at precise times. What happens if it's 4:30? Will I anger the French food gods?
At 6 months, by the way, we give formula with cereals that contain gluten. At midday, it's vegetables and meat or fish, followed by milk or "milk-based dessert" (because a 6 month old totally needs a 3 course lunch that includes dessert - good thing I bought those mini cocottes at the Le Creuset outlet - creme brulee is a milk-based dessert, right?). More fruit and formula at 4:00pm.
These decisions may have to moderated based on the fact that, as it turns out, our sojourn in France is about to end. In July we will return to the United States for good, and in August settle into a new life in Brooklyn. This has happened rather quickly and while it was something that presented itself to us rather than us searching for a way to get home, we are excited to be heading back to America. Though I'm not sure what our American pediatrician will say about milk-based desserts and 4:00pm fruits!
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