Au revoir, R

There are a lot of firsts we look forward to as parents: first steps, first words, first day of school. There are others we dread, like the first solo driving trip, although le Petit still has many years to go before we confront that, thankfully. But there are also a whole lot of difficult firsts that don't even occur to us to worry about until we get there.

Today le Petit said goodbye to his first friend. Ever since I went back to work when he was nine months old, le Petit has spent four days a week in the care of his nanny and in the company of R, a little boy four months his junior. I've watched R progress from a baby-chair-bound infant to a determined crawler fighting back for the toys le Petit grabbed to the running, climbing, perfectly-matched playmate he is now. Watching them interact has fascinated me, for although they constantly steal each others' toys and wrestle each other to the ground, they do it with love. I'm not exaggerating. It is a sight to behold.

They've even developed their own language. Back when they were pre-verbal, they'd hold detailed discussions in squeals and coos. Now that they've both learned to speak, only one word of their primitive baby-speak remains: "ta-TA." That's how they still call for one another. "Il est où, ta-TA?" le Petit asked me this evening. "Ta-TA is right over there!" I told him, pointing to the corner where R was hiding. R ran up and yelled "ta-TA!" and gave le Petit a hug.

R's family is moving to Brussels, and today was the last day the two children will spend together. R's mother recently gave the nanny a disposable camera to take pictures of the kids during a typical day, and she brought me the prints today. In one shot the two boys are at the park, lined up together at the top of the slide. In another they are on either side of a miniature seesaw. In a third they are following each other across a rope bridge, wearing expressions as serious as if they were completing Army Basic Training. There are two pictures of them at home standing up in le Petit's crib, both shirtless. They're jumping on the mattress and smiling, though it looks a bit like an ultra-featherweight boxing match.

Over the last few weeks I've talked to le Petit about R's upcoming departure. I've told him that R and his family will be moving far away, where they'll have a nice, new house and be very happy, but R will be too far away to come and play with him every day. Le Petit listens but is too little to understand, of course.

"Bye-bye!" le Petit said brightly as R left with his mother and sister, just like on any other day. He gave everyone kisses as prompted. We promised to try and catch up with occasional play dates when R's family comes back to visit Paris, but I'm afraid that may not be as simple as it seems. I know that at first every time le Petit sees his nanny he'll ask about R. Then slowly he'll forget, and meet new children, until eventually his friendship with R is just a cute story that Mommy mentions from time.

Silly as it sounds, during many a recent night I've laid awake feeling sad about it. Le Petit will be just fine, of course, but when R's mother and I said "au revoir" tonight we both had tears in our eyes.

Organization

I currently feel like half of my waking hours are passed picking toys up off the floor, especially jigsaw puzzle pieces. One of the (few) positive sides of having a tiny apartment is it forces me to put things away immediately, and that keeps me from feeling like I'm drowning in clutter. As soon as le Petit goes to bed, the toys get picked up off the floor.

I'd like to organize my blog a bit, too, and here's where I need your help. My "Favorite Posts" list has been gathering dust lately and I'd like to update it, but the idea of going back through all my blog posts to put together a new list feels too daunting. And who am I to choose, anyway?

So, the nominations are open: what posts do you think most worthy of sitting on my sidebar? You can leave a comment or send me an e-mail.

(Oh, and to help with the uncluttering of my living room, does anyone in the greater Paris area have a basement or attic that could accommodate my neglected floor loom? You have no idea how happy that would make me.)

Pardon his French

Le Petit is in the sponge phase of language acquisition. When my husband and I hold a conversation while le Petit is nearby, without even looking up from his puzzle or his blocks, he distractedly repeats words and phrases he overhears. The context doesn't seem to matter; he picks words for their complexity, their music or their unusualness. Who knows? He's storing it all for later. So what if right now his biggest preoccupation is learning the names of the colors? Some day he'll have to know what "à bon eschient" means, and then he'll drag it out of the depths of his memory and ask us, "Why...?"

We're not there yet. But we still should be watching our tongues. I'm doing my best to moderate my language, an effort I could already see paying off last week when I yelled, "Oh, SHH--SHH--SHOOT!" Le Petit ran off down the hallway repeating me. He repeated it again a few days later, with the proper emphasis and intonation. I was glad I'd had the presence of mind to catch the "I".

My husband, as I've mentioned before, makes much less of an effort. One of his favorite expressions, "casser les c---lles," which he never uses directly when talking to le Petit but often uses within his earshot, literally translates in English to "break my balls." Accurately translated, it means to annoy, to bore, to torment, to frustrate. A long, unnecessary meeting at work, a difficult colleague, a sink full of dirty dishes, an bowl of green peas spilled onto the dining room floor: all of these things can (and frequently are in our household, and usually at the top of the lungs) described as "ça, ça me casse les c---lles!"

Le Petit has been paying attention. And one night, after my ordinarily understanding and patient husband roared at le Petit to go back to sleep at half-past two in the morning, I held him in my arms and heard him say clearly between sobs, "Casser les c---lles!"

The phrase resurfaced regularly after that. Whenever voices were raised for whatever reason, le Petit would interject. The argument would be suspended and, trying not to laugh, I'd explain to le Petit in a neutral voice that "we don't say that. We say ennervé."

Needless to say, my strategy didn't work. I warned my mother-in-law (as much as a cautionary tale as anything, since her language is almost as "vert" as my husband's), so no one was entirely surprised when in the middle of one of the heated, inconsequential dinner arguments frequent at my in-laws' table, a tiny voice weighed in.

All conversation stopped. My mother- and father-in-law covered their mouths with their napkins and tried so hard not to laugh that they cried. My husband intermittently yelped in laughter and gasped for air. Across the table from one another, they couldn't meet each others' gaze. Le Petit repeated himself, and the hilarious feedback loop continued. Only I managed barely to remain calm and repeat to le Petit "we don't say that. What is it we say instead?" but an uncontrollable smile pulled at the edges of my mouth. Meanwhile, le Petit sat there, pleased with himself, triumph on his face.

A week later, we had just closed the front door of my apartment and my mother-in-law was digging in her purse for the keys. "Merde!" she murmured reflexively.

"Merde!" declared le Petit from his stroller.

"We don't say that, we say mince," I admonished.

"We don't say that, we say zut," my mother-in-law said simultaneously.

Get your lines straight, thought le Petit. But upon hearing "we don't say that," he said with a grin, "Casser les c---lles!"

It echoed down the hallway, passing through paper-thin doors to once again impress our neighbors.

And that was when I decided to give up once and for all.

Our Lady of the Business Plan

On Monday, after my disturbing appointment with Dr. Porsche, I spent the rest of my day off wandering around Paris. Though I trek through the Paris Métro every weekday on my way to and from work, unfortunately spending time above ground in Paris has become somewhat of a luxury.

It was a beautiful day, clear and hot. I went to the BHV first, the venerable department/hardware/everything store on the Rue de Rivoli across from the Hôtel de Ville. Only an American in Paris would hit the annual sales exclusively at the BHV, the opposite of chic -- and leave with lingerie and a new bathing suit, no less.

Leaving the BHV, I crossed the esplanade of the Hôtel de Ville, headed toward the Seine, my target the tourist heart of the city. I fished my pocket map from my purse, since my memory of Paris geography is still approximate. Sure enough, if I walked straight, I'd arrive right in front of Notre-Dame.

I joined a long line of tourists snaking out from the entrance. It was moving quickly enough and I was in no hurry. I'm always a bit overwhelmed by Notre Dame de Paris; the crowds and the souvenir shops for blocks around, the feeling that you can't move but blunder into someone's vacation photo. I prefer churches where, outside the hours of mass, footsteps echo and dropping 50 centimes into an old automatic light switch will let you admire some sculpture overlooked by the Michelin guidebook. In Notre-Dame, there's no silence, and you have to fight for room for quiet contemplation.

But I suspect that an empty cathedral would be more of an anachronism. This urban Gothic monument was probably mobbed even before its construction was completed, and although the 12th century crowd wore more clothing and fewer Gucci sunglasses than the crowd in June 2009, the press of tourists and the murmur of innumerable foreign languages was the same.

Two American college students joined the line behind me.

"Is this the line for tickets to get in?" one asked.

"It's the line to get in, but it's free."

"That's too bad. They should make people pay," said one of the students to the other. "It makes no sense. How are they going to pay for the upkeep if everyone gets in free?"

"You're always thinking like an MBA," said the other with a laugh.

"Yeah, but the business plan makes no sense."

"Don't worry," I turned to add, "The French government more than pays for it, I'm sure."

"But that's the problem."

"Well, they do charge to go up to the tower," I offered.

"And if only the people who were willing to pay could go inside," he continued, "then everyone else would get out of my way."

I should have pointed out that the Louvre is just as packed with ambivalent tourists more than willing to pay for an expensive ticket just to check the Mona Lisa off their to-see list, so his reasoning may be flawed. Instead I protested, "But it's a church!"

Then I admitted than in Spain and Italy you sometimes did have to pay to visit churches, except, of course, to attend mass.

"Hey, that's what we need. I could go for free! I'll just let them know I'm part of the club," said student number one.

"That's right! You're Catholic!" said student number two. "Don't you guys have, like, a secret handshake or something?"

"If we do, we wouldn't learn it until confirmation, at least. I dunno. I don't remember. What would a secret Catholic handshake be like? Two hi-fives over the head, maybe?"

More like a secret genuflection, I thought with a smile, but said nothing. We separated as we reached the entrance and, ducking into the sombre stone interior, were greeted by a flurry of flashbulbs.

Crooked

I'd been warned. My mother-in-law had told me he was an idiot. When I came back from the hospital emergency room and gave the assembled family a debriefing, I mentioned I'd been instructed to wait for the swelling to go down and then take myself to an eye, nose and throat specialist within a week. "You could go see Dr. so-and-so," she said, mentioning a doctor in a practice nearby, "but he's an idiot." She suspected him of caring more about his Porsche and his friendship with the high-flying, scandal-ridden mayor than his patients.

But I called anyway, figuring that a known idiot was better than an unknown, motivated as well by the fact that he had a separate number for his receptionist and, shy as I am, I wouldn't have to talk to him directly to make an appointment. And so I found myself on Monday morning, x-rays in one hand, the other extended to shake with a middle-aged man in a white coat with tousled hair and eyes that dripped disinterest and disdain.

He led me to a chair opposite his desk. In France, most doctors work individually, and they answer the door and show you into their office themselves. There's no nurse, no long wait in a tiny room with a gown and a paper sheet draped over your legs, and if you have to undress, you do so with the doctor standing a few feet away, eyes averted. A visit begins and ends in a very civilized manner across a desk, with the examination table discreetly placed in a separate corner of the room.

"I'm here because I had a running accident. I fell." The doctor stared at me, at my two black eyes, at the long scratch on my forehead and particularly at my nose, but said nothing, so I continued. "My nose was broken, but without any displacement. At the hospital, they told me to wait a week, then see a specialist, just in case..."

"Your nose is crooked." He announced, cutting me off.

"Uh, I hadn't noticed anything in particular," I replied.

"Your nose is crooked," he repeated. "They can't tell anything at the hospital, just afterwards. You don't see it?" Normally the French word for crooked, à travers, is a bit less harsh than its English equivalent, but the doctor spat it out with such force that it sounded like a curse.

"I didn't see anything different than before," I said hesitantly.

"Your nose was like that before?" he asked, incredulous. How could you go through life with such a disfigurement? he seemed to say.

"Well, I don't know. I mean," I said, suddenly unsure. I hadn't actually asked anyone if my nose was crooked. And after all, while looking in the mirror that morning, maybe I had noticed a slight difference. Surely my husband would have said something. Or was love blind?

"No one has said anything to you?"

"No."

He shrugged, got up from his chair, and motioned me to the examination table. Just like in the television series, with a slide, a flip, and a loud snap he took the x-rays out of their envelope and held them to the light. He glanced at them, then came up to me and grabbed the bridge of my nose.

"Your nose is broken. Does that hurt?" he asked, wiggling my nose and pressing his giant fingers into my eyes.

"No."

"Does that hurt?" he tried again.

"Yes!"

He moved my nose back and forth, staring at me sternly, for what felt like an eternity or at least a good five minutes, until eventually he let go.

"We need to operate," he pronounced. "To put it back straight."

"Operate?" I was stunned. I hadn't noticed anything was wrong, was in no pain, and honestly thought this would be a routine visit. Now Dr. Porsche was talking of surgery.

"So what are the possible complications?" I stammered. "What's the argument for, what's the argument against?"

"It's a one-day procedure. On the one hand, there's general anesthesia, and the possible complications of that. And you'll have your nose in a cast for a week. On the other hand, if you do nothing, you'll have a crooked nose forever." It was clear to the doctor which was the worse fate.

"Can I think about this a bit?"

"No. If you do nothing, it will heal, and it will be too late."

He was a hard sell. He gave me paperwork to fill out, an anesthetist to call, directions to his clinic in the chic suburban neighborhood of Neuilly, and his mobile phone number to let him know when I decided. He made it clear that my indecision was folly; I had no time to lose. Afterwards, I had the unpleasant sensation of having spent the morning talking to a salesman on a used car lot.

I handed over his sixty Euro fee (60€! And he didn't even take the government-issued carte vitale!) and slunk out of his office close to tears.

"Your nose is crooked," he assured me one more time for good measure as he saw me to the door.

I rang at my in-laws' apartment across the street. I knew that if anyone could look at things rationally, it was my mother-in-law.

"Do you see anything wrong with my nose?" I asked when she answered the door, barely choking back a sob.

"Well... hmm..." she studied me closely. "It may be a little, just a tiny bit, curved to one side."

"Crooked?" My voice cracked, despite myself.

"Wasn't it like that before?"

While I panicked and searched for close-up full-face pictures of me stored on their computer, my mother-in-law repeated, "He's an idiot! I knew it! Quel con celui-là!" Eventually I found a series of pictures taken on le Petit's six-month birthday. We both sat in front of a cake, me looking directly at the camera, le Petit on my lap bewitched by the lit candles. I had a giant smile.

I looked beautiful. Happy. Consumed with joy, I'd even say. Yet as I looked closely it was clear as day: my nose was curved to one side. I'd never noticed it before.

Dr. Porsche, though he has probably given up hope by now, is still waiting for me to call back.

Blog access issues

For those of you who haven't been able to connect to my blog recently, the issue should be fixed. (Obviously, if you're reading this, you've figured out how to access the blog, but my available communication channels are limited.)

The problems only concerned the "old" URL, http://parisiennemaispresque.blogspot.com, which gave either a 404 error or a "Site Not Hosted by Blogger" error depending on your browser. Now this URL should redirect to the blog just like it did before.

For future reference, you can also access the site from the (easier to remember, if not type) http://www.parisiennemaispresque.com URL. And, I'm proud to say, a good ol' fashioned Google search for "Parisienne Mais Presque" will bring up my site right away!

Teaching diversity

We were standing in line at the supermarket when le Petit pointed at a store employee standing nearby.

"O-ba-ma!" he said loudly, overjoyed and ready to jump out of his stroller.

I've mentioned before that le Petit is a huge fan of President Obama. Every week he flips through our copy of The Economist looking for him. He recognizes his picture on Parisian billboards and can pick him out in a photo of G20 leaders. I somehow managed to transmit my joy and optimism over Obama's election, and now le Petit idolizes him, or at least searches for him everywhere. Recently he's started mistaking most of the black men he sees for Obama.

Much to my embarrassment, the employee overheard le Petit, but he just smiled with amusement and said, "Ah, so he thinks all black men are Obama, huh?" He exchanged a look and a laugh with the cashier, a black woman.

"Yes, well..." I said hesitantly, "He loves Obama and looks for him everywhere." After all, I decided, being mistaken for the handsome American president, who's uniformly admired in France, may not be such a bad thing.

While bagging my groceries, I explained to le Petit, no, that man isn't Obama, but yes, his skin is a similar color. The cashier complimented le Petit's language skills, and I proudly explained that he was learning to speak both English and French (and, it went without saying, some American patriotism, too -- after all, he can name our president.)

We paid and said goodbye, le Petit with a big wave and an "au revoir." As we walked back home, I started into my standard speech for such occasions.

"You see, people come in all different colors. Some people have darker skin, like Obama. Or like M [le Petit's nanny]. Or like mommy's friend R. Other people have very light skin, like Mommy's friend A. A also has blond hair. Mommy has brown hair. Mommy has blue eyes, and you and Daddy have brown eyes. Some people are tall, and some people are short..." and on and on, listing people he knows, in my stock, matter-of-fact explanation of the diversity of physical appearances.

I have no idea if I'm going about this the right way. My goal is to confirm what he's starting to observe, that people do indeed look different, believe different things, and speak different languages. That families come in different configurations. That what we have in common is far more important than these differences. I use every opportunity I can to teach this. I was on Facebook last night when he crawled onto my lap and we looked at a friend's pictures together. "See, that's Baby L. She has two daddies. See, there she is with J, her daddy. And there's B, her other daddy..."

I was thinking, if this approach seems natural to me, why am I so uncomfortable when le Petit mistakes someone in a store for Obama? Why does it make me feel like somehow I've failed? I guess that's because it shows that talking can only make up for so much. Le Petit clearly lives in a world that is smaller and more homogeneous than I'd like. Most of the people I list in my great explanation of diversity live far away: R in New York, J and B in Chicago, A in Delaware. Le Petit only knows them from pictures on the computer or tacked to the refrigerator, and to him they're about as real as President Obama.

Of course, this says a lot about my hermit-like existence in Paris. After six years of life here, I can count my close friends on (a couple fingers of) one hand, and I still don't have any mom friends with toddlers for play dates. For many reasons, we need to get out and meet more people. But still, that feels like an inadequate excuse.