with my granddaughter

It's rare that I have Snowdrop under my sole care for several days in a row. Sure, when she is at at the farmette, I'm her primary caregiver, but Ed is nearby and these days, he'll play with the little one extensively if I need to retreat for a few minutes.

But in Paris, when her parents take off for a several day side trip, Snowdrop and I are on our own. It feels very much as if I've taken my young adolescent for one of those growth journeys with an elderly chaperone, except that she's not an adolescent and I'm not really concerned with her growth: she does plenty of it on her own, or at home.

This is our first full day in Paris, after a night where, like last year, every one was up in the middle of it, fighting the body's internal clock, except this time Snowdrop was easier to soothe and the adults were hell bent on coaxing at least a solid chunk of hours of sleep.

On the upside, except for me, no one was up before nine. Indeed, I had to rattle their door (Snowdrop shares the bedroom with her parents) to get them going, as the young parents had a train to catch and I wanted Snowdrop to resume her regular patterns of sleep as quickly as possible.

Breakfast is a mishmash of yesterday's purchases: yogurts, fruits, day old croissants. Snowdrop is happy.






A book read with a freshly out of the shower mommy (yes,  the book is the farmhouse favorite du jour, which has the blessed feature of being relatively short to read, as opposed to her home favorite, Cherries and Cherry Pits by Vera Williams, which takes a whopping 25 minutes and that's without a pause to catch your breath!)...






And then we all set out -- the parents for the train station and Snowdrop and I -- for the park.

Remember the night I recently spent researching interesting and novel things to do with children in Paris? Oh, it came in very handy when a parent at the Jardin du Luxembourg playground asked me if I knew of good activities for children in the city. (Honestly, I must sport the look of a know it all, because I am frequently asked for directions and assistance and not only in Paris. You'd think my camera would have people understand that I am a mere tourist, but no. Perhaps I look like I'm in need of adult conversation...)

Basically, I doubt that Snowdrop and I will stray far from our beaten paths. (Though I want to thank the commenter who forwarded additional tips! I am always looking for ideas!) I am surrounded by good options and so I stick to activities that are not too far. (Perhaps I'm just too cautious: Snowdrop is just three months out of diapers and you can't be sure when she'll ask for a restroom).

So -- the gardens! (And yes, the weather is perfect. Absolutely perfect.)

We do try something new: we try the extensive playground in the north corner of the park. Here, you have to pay to get in with your child. Not a lot (2.5 Euros for the whole day for her and half of that for me), but still, it discourages a casual drop-in. (On the upside, there are toilets, which elsewhere in the gardens charge a fee, so the price buys you peace of mind in that regard.)

Snowdrop loves playgrounds. And trains. And play cars.














And child friendly parks. She really loves them.






But I see that many many of the activities here for the 2 - 6 year old set (the playgrounds in Paris are often divided along those age lines) are very different than those in the U.S. and she is both too bold and too intimidated by them.

For example, she plunges onto an elevated roped floor, not realizing that the ropes will not support her unless she grips hard. Down she goes.

(Just before the plunge...)






Too, in France, she is shy with the children. In the U.S., being a school kid gives her a huge boost on the playground: she knows the ropes. But here, kids move in ways that are different and speak a language that she does not understand. Back home, she'll say "it's my turn now!" when someone tries to dispossess her of a toy. Here, she'll get off and say to me -- it's his turn now. She doesn't want the confrontation.

(She waited a long time before every child was off this spinning thing that I used to see in American playgrounds until they were deemed too dangerous. By the way, I encouraged her to take off her shoes and socks so we could do some of the rope ladders together; she took off the shoes and socks alright, but was too timid to go on the little ladders and until she mastered those, I would not let her go on the huge, tall ones which, incomprehensibly, she eyed with some interest.)






On the language upside, she is utterly charming with her "merci" and "bonjour," and in the middle of the sleepless hours of the night, her father taught her "s'il vout plait," which just makes anyone grin when they hear it.

And she is sensitive here to her interactions with adults: we were sitting at a sidewalk cafe waiting for lunch and a grandmotherly type came up and told her in French -- you look like a photo! Such eyes, so serious! Snowdrop could tell that she was being praised and honestly, for the rest of the lunch hour she was on her best behavior. Coquette! -- the waiter teased.

On the other hand, as we waited in the long line of the Bon Marche Epicerie -- that big food hall where I picked up some pasta and fruits, just in case going out proves to be to bothersome at any point (I realized I had to be ready in case she falls sick and I can't easily leave to get food) -- Snowdrop tried the old self-amusement game of kicking anything in sight: signpost, wall, and ooops! -- a woman's well-groomed leg. The woman was understanding even as I was mortified. Snowdrop knew she had crossed the line and she huddled into her stroller for the rest of the walk.

And so now you know our morning! The big playground...






And lunch, at Le Nemrod on Cherche-Midi...

(A timed release selfie!)






... a place that proved to be too perfect for words, as they had a delicious croque monsieur for her and they offered to make it with the softer bread, which is easier for her to devour (reminder: a croque monsieur is a melted cheese and ham sandwich, layered with a very delicate mustardy sauce; she loves this concoction!).






(Fortified, she then rejects the stroller in favor of pushing it and walking alongside.)





And finally, we stop at the Bon Marche, the department store, so that I can pick up a little set of Legos, as neither my daughter nor I felt like bringing toys here for Snowdrop, even as I know she'll enjoy this new little set both here and later at home.

And then to the grocer, and on to our Paris home.

(It's good to be in a very familiar neighborhood...)





I say Paris home, because indeed it is that. When Snowdrop got tired, she said "I want to go home," and she meant here, back to the apartment. How quickly a kid adapts to a new environment!

(I should include a picture of our wee apartment. The main room serves as a living and dining area, though if you put up the table, you will lose your ability to navigate the space. Still, it's quite a nice area for Snowdrop to play in. The owners have small children and they knew to put in safe covers for sharp edges. Too, there is a portable high chair and of course the crib. The place has really grown on me.)






(The living room windows look out on a side street with a school,  which, as in the rest of France,  lets out late -- at 4:30. On the upside - homework is rarely assigned, and as for time off -- well, just ask how many holidays they observe here in May alone.)






Evening. I'm sitting back, taking in the sounds outside. It's nearly nine, but it's still light. On this day in Paris, the sun sets at 9:36. The good and the bad of northern Europe: beautifully long spring and summer days! The darker days of winter...

I hear music and voices. The window is wide open and I should not be surprised, but I am on a side street and so all this must be wafting from some distance. It's so perfect.

Let me go back to the start of the evening hours: Snowdrop wakes up from her nap (a long nap! I am not surprised!) and I expect it to be a slow wake up with the usual squirms and protests, but no! All I have to do is say: let's go out and look for that merry-go-round! She is like lightening at the door, seizing her shoes, putting them on.

Our walks down the stairs have to be a two stage affair. I just cannot carry her and the stroller at the same time (and the banister is unreachable for her and she is way beyond crawling on a stairwell: too embarrassing, I suppose). So she has to wait downstairs for me. And right at this moment, an older woman is sitting by the mailboxes where the weird looking bird rests in a cage. I ask her if it's her bird.
Non, il est un oiseau de la rue. (He is a bird of the street. It turns out she found him floundering out there and she is trying to bring some life into him. When I explain this to Snowdrop, she immediately asks -- where is his mommy? Kids ask the most difficult questions!)

I know there are many carousels in Paris, but the one I'm aiming for this evening is in the Tuilerie Garden, just across the river from us. Oh, what beautiful weather! Oh oh oh! What an evening!






The walking time fits into my idea of a perfect evening outing. Too, I know that she likes that merry-go-round. She was on it last year and cried to high heaven when it was time to disembark.






This is one of the many many differences in taking a two year old (as opposed to a one year old) to Paris. She understands now. If I tell her: three rides, no more! -- she may respond with a lust toward a fourth, but she wont fuss when it is not handed to her. And believe me, three is plenty for a gaga that gets sick at the SIGHT of merry-go-rounds!

So, three rides, on the animals/mechanical devices of her choice: horse, airplane, motorcycle.















She wants then to go to the fountain and I oblige...






... until I understand that she wants to jump in that pond. I remind her that she may be feeling hot because of the sweater, but she ignores me and keeps the sweater on.

But again,  she is a big girl, one who can take more and more of the heartbreaks in life (believe me, not being able to jump into that pool was a very big heartbreak!).

We stroll past the Louvre pyramid. She remembers it from photos (this is how she remembers much of Paris -- from the book I made for her just after last year's trip). Last year, we were here when it was raining hard. This year it's most certainly not raining, but time has brought forth its own sad changes: you can't access it anymore. Not since the brutal attack on visitors here just a short while back.



 

I tell her we must hurry now. I need to make it to Paul's bakery before it closes: croissants for breakfast!

And after, we go to the Little Breizh. This is why I love our neighborhood -- it has everything within spitting distance, including this fabulous creperie, where they specialize in the Breton buckwheat flour crepes. I order bacon and cheese for her (bacon in France is really like knobs of  pan fried ham) and sardine and tomato for me.

I could not be prouder of the little girl.


 



(Too, I want to offer some thanks to the family that came in just after us: they had a little boy, possibly slightly younger than Snowdrop, though it's hard to tell, and slightly incapable of sitting through a meal. She was fascinated by his misconduct and she made sure I took in how much older and ergo better at this she was.)






(To those who make too much noise: shhh! Of course, she is only two. One could well remind even her, perhaps all of us, of the need to stay calm at times of greater stress.)






She eats a good bit of her crepe -- enough that I can offer to split something that I know she loves -- a nutella dessert crepe.

The entire kitchen staff watches in delighted amusement as she gets more and more chocolat on her hands and face.






Gaga is prepared. Gaga has wipies. One swift wipe and she is fine again, drawing contentedly on a scrap of paper.






My daughter, like any parent, worries when she is away from Snowdrop. I text her -- if the remaining days here would be like this one, I'd be so totally satisfied!


On a less chipper note: I do read the news. I know of the horrors that take place all around us. People write about how one must move forward, resilient and strong, in defiance of those who aim to quash the happiness of others. I get it, though I also know that we move forward, because we don't have a choice. To stand still isn't cowardice -- it's pointless. You can't run from the hatred of the few. And so you ignore it and take the next step in life and the one after. And you search and hold on to the precious elements of each day.

Snowdrop is asleep now and still the laughter and pleasure of community streams in from the streets all around us. And that's a good thing. Really, that's such a good thing.

Paris arrival

Each arrival at a new place has its own story, its own aura, its own excitement tempered with trepidation. How will it turn out? What mark will this week leave on us?

I have many many bright little twinkly images from our travel to Paris and some small reminders that in travel, there will always be challenges.

Let's start with the bright twinkly images: Snowdrop loves airplanes and shows unbound excitement at the prospect of a family trip in one.

That's the little airplane, gaga. She's been told that there will be a small one and a bigger jet.







(One unfortunate discovery: now that she has her own seat, when she is buckled in, she cannot see out the window -- a real blow to the girl who loves to see the plane take off. But her smile remains firm.)






We connect to our Paris bound flight seamlessly in Detroit.






No delays, no mad dashes. And Snowdrop is for the most part, at her very best during the whole long journey. She now only puts up with the bothersome parts, but she does so with an enthusiastic smile, even while coasting on almost no sleep.

(Ever grateful to the flight attendant from first class who peeked in and brought Snowdrop a big dish of ice cream...)





Oh sure, there will be something that will sometimes upset her. And she is a passionate girl, so that your heart goes out to her in the rare times this happens. But mostly, she tries her darndest to show terrific spirit and cheer.

I will say that she is in one respect like me: she just cannot get comfortable enough in an airplane chair to sleep long and hard. She tries, but in the end, she captured maybe two hours of night sleep (still better I suppose to my zero) on the transatlantic flight.

Still, she is an excited little girl and she moves through the tedious end of the journey -- the lines, the connections, the waiting -- with patience and curiosity.

(Waiting for the strollers to be brought up from the plane at CDG airport.)





We are renting an apartment and I have to say, I picked it for its location, which I love. Otherwise, it's fine, though very very tiny. Two bedrooms, sure, but I swear, everything in the photo spread was done at an angle where you could not really feel its tinyness.

(Here's the entrance to this very typical Parisian courtyard...)





We're on the European first floor, so not too many steps to climb! Snowdrop is at once fascinated and terrified by the bird that is kept in a cage just by the mailboxes. It's not an especially attractive bird and he looks not too cheerful for being there, but it is an interesting way to enter our teeny tiny Parisian home.

Wait, I think I'm straying a tad from the twinkly images. Okay, so long as I'm noting the challenges, I'll say that the biggest challenge (aside from the sleepless night) has been the car ride from the airport to the apartment. Normally I take the train: cheaper and faster than a cab. But with a two year old and countless odd bags, it seems always easier to cab it. Never again.

It took forever.

The driver, wanting to avoid highway rush hour traffic, took us the back ways which I am absolutely certain was worse. Stop and go. Stop and go. Everyone was suffering, but for Snowdrop, it was just too much. She didn't complain, but she felt quite shaken by it.

Okay, back to the twinkly images: did I tell you it is really really warm here now? Summer weather!

Shorts weather! (Is this a mother or a grandma walking her girl home from school? In Paris, sometimes it's tough to tell. I'm thinking it's grandma...)






After she has her bath, the Snowdrop and I set out to pick up lunch (at two different bakeries...).

We start at Gerard Mulot for the pastries.






(The kind clerk offers her a macaron cookie which she is delighted to accept!)






And then we hop over to the nearby market for fruits (Snowdrop has a cherry and peach obsession at the moment and these fruits are burgeoning here right now!) and to  Paul's for the baguette sandwiches.











...which Snowdrop just cannot manage to stuff in her mouth, but I will give her an A for effort.






No effort required for the desserts!






While the young family naps, I go out again, this time with a list of things I will definitely need in the days ahead. For example a crib sheet. Who knew that most people bring their own? Too, yogurts for breakfast. Wine for a goodnight blog-writing glass. Paper towels. Nespresso pods. Exciting shopping, no? Well, it gives me a chance to catch a few moments in Paris where my attention isn't focused on children.

We are less than a minute away from perhaps the oldest church in Paris -- the medieval St Germain des Pres.





It's possible to find quiet streets here -- twisting around paths formed very many years ago. I follow these now and I think how different Paris feels each time I am here! It's beauty is always viewed by me from the circumstances of my visit. This time, I am looking at it as a place to be reconsidered with Snowdrop in tow.

Evening. It's a no brainer: after a long nap, Snowdrop asks repeatedly to go to the park. This is where she left her heart. When you tell her "you'll be going to Paris" I'm sure her image is of the pond at the Luxembourg Gardens.

We head out.

And whatever memories she has of this place -- the pond, the sand playground -- are confirmed.











Want some sand, gaga?






Dinner is pizza at the Cesar St Germain.


 



It's quite good and the little one finally settles into enthusiastic eating, after the pies cool down a bit.






A post-dinner stroll. To the river.






We're getting close to the longest days... Even at 8, the sun has a long way yet to go...





Time to head back again. Time to settle in for the night.

Sleep well, Snowdrop. Rest. Look forward to the days ahead. Remember with a smile those behind us.

departure

How did things get so chaotic today? I have only one small carryon (plus a little bag for Snowdrop). The farmhouse is together, the garden requires no work. But I am rushing.

In part it's because we have a ridiculously short layover in Detroit. (The airline changed departure times on us and we got squeezed into 58 minutes between flights.) Any delay and we're in trouble.
Perhaps this makes everyone just a tad nervous.

Snowdrop doesn't know or care about layover minutes, but by now I hear she is impatient to get going, even as her parents have their list of essentials to work through.

So you get one photo today: of the calm guy, whose thoughts right now are on cutting down some dead timber and plowing the field out back.





As he watches me dash, somewhat amused, with a shake of the head, I tell him that no matter where you head out -- across the ocean or to the lakes up north -- you're going to have to plan, coordinate, hustle, think clearly -- especially if there is a young one in your midst.

Of course, that delivers the famous words --why leave?

I smile at that. You know why. I've told you many times.

Next post -- one hopes from Paris.

the day before

Last night, at around midnight, I hobbled up to bed, thinking -- what I need is a good rest. But as I turned over to switch off the light, I had this thought: shouldn't I have looked into some child attractions in Paris for Snowdrop? (We're leaving for France tomorrow.) I mean, my kids always just tagged along to the things I wanted to see and do (and eat) and they seemed perfectly content to take in their new surroundings from a mom-beaten path. But maybe I should do something that's really just for the little girl? A zoo perhaps? To the tiger in the zoo, Madeline just said pooh pooh... Must be a zoo in Paris. Or a park other than the Jardin de Luxembourg (which, granted, has plenty of sweet things for kids to do), shouldn't I look into this?

So I took out my computer and that is how it came to be that I got very little sleep last night. One thing leads to the next and then you find yourself dangerously close to sunrise.

Though to call anything today a sunrise is laughable. It is a miserable day out there! Cold, very wet, without any sign of improvement.

At breakfast, in the kitchen, I tell Ed how lucky we are to have had time to do all our outdoor work last weekend.






Though in truth, today's weather is irrelevant for me. There is much to do indoors and I consider it a lucky break that I am not tempted to walk the gardens. Today, I cannot be distracted.






I promised my daughter just a few short hours of Snowdrop care at her home today. Her parents have many projects that need their attention right now and Snowdrop is a bundle of energy indoors.

We play, yes, there's that. (It's been a while since I've seen her energetic run around the kitchen island with the toy stroller.) What's this I see? Did you bring farmhouse baby to meet your home baby??






But especially exciting is the moment when she spies her suitcase and is told that it's time to pack for Paris.






Needless to say, she loves this activity!

She gets it all in. Easily.

We're going to Paris? -- she asks, just to make sure.






No, no, not today! We'll be going tomorrow.

Perhaps it's at this age that children begin to think that grownups never want to move ahead with anything right now. Every good activity is postponed, nothing happens when you're most eager to plunge ahead.



And then I am off on my final round of shopping chores.

One of them is most unusual for me and rather pleasant: I'd been looking at the Parisian weather maps and I cannot believe how good they appear to be (at the moment)! We are slated to have warm temperatures. That means that sandals would really be a phenomenal addition to my compactly packed fair weather clothes.

But I do not own sandals. Flip flops, yes. Sandals? Well, they're not especially useful on farmette lands and in recent years, I've spent summer breaks on the Scottish isle of Islay: not exactly sandal country. Wellies -- yes. Open toe footwear -- no.

I'd seen sandals that I liked earlier in the week and I proceed to the shoe store to pick them up.

But it strikes me then that perhaps it's not a practical solution. What if it rains or turns chilly?

I call both daughters to consult: can one wear socks with open toe sandals?

One girl indulges me with some obfuscating noncommittal response. The other is more blunt: no.

I glance at my feet: they look like they'd been through a month's worth of hard work -- the kind where even socks can't keep the outdoor elements from roughening things up. I ask the sales clerk (a kind, older man who has been at this store for decades) -- would you happen to know where one gets nail polish these days?
He considers this very seriously, as if he wants to give the very best recommendation.
I'm not sure... There is a nail salon at the mall...
Oh! I wouldn't expect that you would have checked that one out!
Well, not me personally, but the other guys who work here -- they go there regularly.

Perhaps everyone goes to nail salons these days. I myself tried one some dozen years back, but I thought the process took way too long for what it accomplished. I can trim and buff toe nails! As for polish -- well, it's not been part of the farmette lifestyle. (I know, my Italian friend would be horrified at my cavalier attitude toward grooming.)

The shoe salesman suggests -- you could also try Macy's...

I go to Macy's. No, we stopped carrying it a long time ago. Try Target.

And so now you know how I spent a good chunk of my afternoon: in the pursuit of foot gentrification for Paris.

And the winds howl and the rains come down.






And tomorrow we leave the blustery and suddenly cold Wisconsin for the other side of the ocean.