Spring arrived in Paris this week, complete with daffodils and cloudless skies. Parisiennes are shedding their winter coats and knee-high boots, and babies in strollers are the only ones on the street still bundled up. I'd be outside soaking it all up, generating a little vitamin D for myself and Mademoiselle, but, alas, I've been inside with le Petit, who's come down with the flu.
I'm not used to my go-go-go three-year-old to suddenly be spending his entire day on the couch, refusing to eat, drifting in and out of naps, his fever and his mood fluctuating with each dose of medication. I'm hoping he'll be himself again in time for his school's Carnival celebration on Saturday.
Meanwhile, Mademoiselle is thankfully very much herself, having so far avoided whatever bug has laid low her elder brother. She's wearing summer outfits in our sweltering apartment and finding ways to wiggle her feet out of her socks. We found her in her bed with one sock in her mouth.
Mademoiselle also seems to have decided that rolling onto her side is good enough for now, and is no longer working on rolling all the way to her belly. Which, given her tepid enthusiasm for tummy time, seemed like an odd goal anyway. As a mother, I can only applaud such precaution, and I'm hoping it lasts when, oh, I don't know, she starts driving a car or meeting boys. Right now she's more interested in her musical whale crib toy and her brand-new activity mat, which gives me plenty of time to psychologically prepare for whatever comes next.