Bonjour!

I didn’t get to blog from Paris everyday like I had planned to do because we stayed out very late each night; most nights we didn’t even eat dinner until after 9pm (like true Parisians).  So, I’m going to capture our trip in a couple of blog posts.  These are just the highlights of course; our days were very full!

You read about our Eurostar “adventure” from London to Paris in my last blog post; Yikes!  But after we got on the train, we had a lovely ride, a great driver to our Paris apartment and a warm welcome from Catherine, the apartment owner.  While researching Paris accommodations, it quickly became apparent that it would be better for my family to stay in an apartment rather than a hotel.  Somehow I got to the website Haven In Paris and found a lovely apartment for rent in The Marais section of Paris (the 4th arrondissement).  It was perfect!   The apartment was stylish, stocked with everything we needed and spotless.  Catherine even had a bottle of wine, bread, chocolate, fresh flowers and other goodies waiting for us.  The location couldn’t have been better; we were near 2 metro stations, several bus lines and a few blocks walk to the Seine river.  Best of all was the wealth of cafes, restaurants and shops right outside our door.  It’s always tricky renting an apartment online, but we couldn’t have been more pleased.  We made ourselves at home and felt very French.

After a neighborhood tour from Catherine we took off on our own and over the next few days we explored the neighborhood and absolutely fell in love.  We peeked into a few vintage stores and I found a dress that I wanted badly, but didn’t think that I would wear anywhere.  It was too expensive to just hang in my closet, so I took a photo instead.

We had our first macaron right down the street from our apartment at Maison Georges Larnicol on rue de Rivoli and after one bite we vowed to have as many macarons as possible while in Paris!  They are insanely delicious!  Delicate, yet bursting with flavor, each bite is heavenly.  I don’t know how they pack all that flavor into such a little tiny cookie.   You know my family, we like to review food–especially sweets–so look for a blog post comparing different macarons shops.

The food in Paris will make you dizzy; there is so much to eat!  We at in several cafes and restaurants, had take out sandwiches from boulangeries and ate food at the grocery store as well.   I couldn’t possibly comment on every cafe or restaurant, but believe me when I say that was pretty much ALL good!

However, I must comment on a few establishments that were particularly outstanding right in our neighborhood.  Every morning we had croissants from the corner boulangerie for breakfast and took a baguette in our day bag to snack on while touring.  We tasted other boulangeries in the city and they were all good, but our corner place was the best.  A few blocks away on rue Vieille du Temple were a couple of restaurants highly recommended by Catherine.  She was correct; our meals at Le Petit Fer á Cheval and Les Philosophes were outstanding.  I don’t eat beef, but I had to try a tiny bite of my son’s Beouf Bourguignon; wow!  The meat was so tender and the red wine flavor was present, but not overpowering.  It was incredible.

Our neighborhood is also home to a famously delicious falafel place called L’As du Fallafel.  We got falafel and chicken shwarma to go and ate it on the street.  It was huge!

Parisians love ice cream and gelato; I think there was a frozen treat shop on every block.  On the same block as Petit Fer á Cheval and Les Philosophes was the best gelato shop, Amorino.  The gelato was delicious to eat, but also artistic; if you got two flavors on a cone, they designed the scoops in the shape of a rose.

I promise that we did more than eat in Paris!  Read about our sight-seeing adventures in the next blog post.

Photos:

Google Map of our location.

We are inside our apartment.

The view outside the apartment window.

Girly on the apartment building stairs.

Girly outside our apartment building door.

The kids with Catherine, the apartment owner.

Vintage dress at a store on rue Rivoli.

James standing outside “our” boulangerie.

Bread in our boulangerie.

L’As Du Fallafel.

Schwarma from L’as Du Fallefel.

Amorino gelato storefront.

Amorino gelato.

Au revoir!

*Read about our London adventures too!

© 2011, Funkidivagirl.com. All rights reserved. Republished only with permission.

Today was supposed to be the day.  The day that I finally started exercising again since mid-December.  The day that I checked off at least 5 items on my incredibly long To Do list.  The day that I got back on schedule after a solid month of long aimless days, late nights and late risings due to Winter Break and Snowmageddon 2011…..11….11…11 (it sounded like there should be an echo in there).  The house is quiet today, with just me and Chili Dawg here.   Right now I should be done exercising and blazing through my To Do list.

Instead it’s 2:00 p.m. and I still haven’t exercised.  I have on gym clothes–it’s a trick that I use to motivate myself, get up and put on gym clothes right away–but it doesn’t always work.  Obviously, because here I am.  I spent the last 2 hours creating a new exercise schedule, so that’s something, if not actually something to break a sweat.

I located and read my contract on my current gym and saw that yes, I can leave without penalty and join the YMCA.  That task was not on my To Do list, but now I can make that awesome new exercise schedule come to life.

And although I only meant to read for 20 minutes while eating lunch, I read a few extra chapters of This Must Be The Place, which is a really good book and hard to put down.

In other words, I have done nothing productive.  Except write this blog post and I only did that because I didn’t want y’all to be worried about me, to think that I had finally gone over the edge after last week and send help.  The fact is that I needed a “me day,” but won’t give myself permission to take one (there’s so much to do!), so instead I silently rebelled against myself and did stuff, but not what I needed to do.

Oh well.

I think that’s going to be one of my 2011 sayings: oh well.   I really need to cut myself some slack sometimes, you know?  I can really be quite crazy with all my stuff to do, lists and excel spread sheets of all my projects and need to yell, “Back off lady!” to myself sometimes.  ”Oh well” works too.

Like this morning.

This morning I woke thinking, “Ugh; I hate getting up.”  But then I remembered one of my New Year’s Resolutions is to “be happier in the mornings,” so I prayed for strength and a better attitude.  It worked and I sang and danced while getting the kids up and ready for school.   Then I went downstairs and my daughter said, “I stepped in something grainy on the floor.”   That would be dog poop, honey.  You stepped in dog poop.  See, it’s on the bottom of this shoe right here.

Someone had stepped in dog poop last night and tracked it in the house…through the house to be exact.  Someone had ignored my suggestion of removing outside shoes in the hall entryway.   Someone had instead walked into the living room and kitchen with poop on their shoes.   Someone was not me, but now me had to clean it up.   Me, who up until that moment was singing and dancing her way to a better morning attitude, was now scowling, ranting and vigorously mopping.  Me, who does not mop.  Me, who was now very unhappy and showing it.

The first day of “be happier in the mornings” was not successful.  The first day of “exercise everyday” didn’t happen.  The first day of “be super productive while the kids are in school and write 3 blog posts a week and be get through that To Do list by the end of March and publish this book and do that thing that I’ve been talking about and….” didn’t happen.

Oh well.

Back off lady!

© 2011 – 2012, Funkidivagirl.com. All rights reserved. Republished only with permission.

Being a mother is joyous.  And being a mother is heart-wrenching.  What’s that quote?  Something like, “it’s like having your heart walk around outside your body.”

A heart can get pretty abused that way.

The first time they don’t cry when you leave them with someone else.  The first time they drop your hand and run to catch up with a friend.  The first time they wax poetic about their favorite teacher/babysitter/other special adult with the same rapture that was previously reserved for you.

Your heart breaks, just a little, with each milestone of independence and each snip of the apron strings.  But you shake it off and solider on.  After all, isn’t this your job?  Aren’t you raising them to leave you one day?

At first it happens slowly in early childhood, with enough recovery time to adjust to this new level of parenting.  Get your wig on straight again.  But then during the teen years it’s a full blown assault.  Bam! Bam!  Bam!  There are new adjustments and negotiations that happen at an alarming rate.

At this time, you fully understand the phrase “with my heart in my mouth.”  It’s there so no one can hear you scream.

I’ve been the mother of a teen for a few years now and just like parenting a smaller child, it’s both joyous and heart-wrenching.  Sometimes within the same day.  But I roll with it.  I have learned to take the hugs when I can get them and not take it personal when I don’t.  I have learned to listen when he talks and not take it personal when he doesn’t.   Sometimes he wants to spend time with the family and sometimes he would rather be with friends.  I don’t take it personal.

That’s the key to being the mother of a teen and keeping your heart in tact–don’t take anything personal.

Except this.  This I am taking personal.

How can I not?

I’ve read the books out loud to him since he was 5 years old.  Every. Single. Book.  Even the last books when he was more than old enough to read on his own.

I’ve been to bookstore parties, played trivia games and bingo.

I’ve stood in line–at midnight–with hoards of other fanatics.

I’ve taken him to every movie.

I’ve bought every dvd and watched the movies again.  And again.

I admit, I’ve enjoyed reading the books as much as any kid and I am a fan even without my son, but I love that this was something that we experienced together.  His dad could not follow our long detailed conversations and nor did he try.  This was “our thing”–just us two–for over 10 years.

As I read the last page of the last book I was sad to have that time come to a close.  Yes, I would miss that world, but mostly I would miss sharing that world with my son.

But at least we still had the movie, the last movie, to extend that time together, right?

Wrong.

My son just informed me that he wants to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows with friends.

“But” I said,  my voice sounding small, “that’s our thing.”

Let me say that I think kids should want to spend time with friends.  I encourage it.  It’s healthy and expected but how can he be okay seeing Harry Potter with anyone else but me?

“Sorry,” he said.

He didn’t sound sorry.

He sounded perfectly okay seeing Harry Potter with anyone except me.

Sure, I’ll see the movie.  Alone or with my husband who will keep asking questions because he didn’t read the books and knows nothing about Harry Potter, but will feel sorry for me.   Or maybe with my friend, a Harry Potter fan with children still too small to share her passion.

Either way, it won’t be the same without my son.

I get it; he’s growing, changing and finding his own way in the world.  Trying on who he wants to become.  I fully support that, but sometimes it’s hard to find common ground and I miss how close we used to be.  But at least we had Harry.  Harry and the Wizarding World was always an easy thing between us.

I know that we will be close again one day, when he feels that he’s himself enough to be mine again.  And we’ll find new interests to share.   But we’ll never have Harry again.  That bond is, sadly, prematurely, over.

Can someone please come take this knife–er, Gryffindor sword–out of my heart?

***************

Other posts about me & The Boy that you may like:

A Great Day With The Boy

*Just when I am burnt from blogging, I write from the heart and get an awesome response you, the Funkidivagirl.com community; thanks so much.  Also Blogher liked this post so much that they paid me to syndicate it on their blog!  Read it there and check out other great blog posts too.

© 2010, Funkidivagirl.com. All rights reserved. Republished only with permission.

This story is in honor of World Breastfeeding Week. Even though I haven’t breastfed in a long time, I am still a huge supporter of breastfeeding women and causes.

I call myself a pseudo-hippie and even though it was a latent tendency that was sure to erupt at any time despite my Midwestern upbringing, the hippiness emerged when I became pregnant with my first child. I started eating organic food and while reading everything that I could about childbirth and raising a child, I was drawn to “Attachment Parenting”. Childbirth with minimum intervention, co-sleeping, baby-wearing and breastfeeding all made sense to me.

I had a drama-free birth (if you can call being in the worst pain of my life drama-free) and my son took to breastfeeding right away. So while breastfeeding was not difficult for me, it was still awkward and new. I was certainly not adept at breastfeeding in public yet. That would come with time…I would become a breastfeeding pro who could be deep in conversation, discreetly whip out a boob, feed my kid and not miss a beat–while talking to my pastor, no less. But not yet.

Nevertheless, a few weeks after giving birth I found myself accompanying my husband to Will Smith’s house. My husband’s friend DJ Jazzy Jeff was there and invited him to a Playstation gaming tournament. My husband was a big gamer and wanted to go, but didn’t want to leave his wife and new son at home. So he brought us along.

I can hear you gasping now: “She went to Will Smith’s house a few weeks after giving birth? Sleep-deprived, still carrying baby weight and boobs so milk-sensitive that she could leak all over his (presumably) expensive sofa?” Yeah, those were my thoughts too.

But there I was, nestled on a big sofa with Will’s friends–all guys–holding my newborn son. After the initial hellos, pounds and whatssups, everyone forgot about me and the baby as they got deep into the Playstation tournament. And that was fine with me because now my baby was hungry and I had to figure out how to breastfeed him without calling attention to myself. Asking Will–who I really didn’t know–for a private room would be calling attention to myself. Moving off the sofa would be calling attention to myself. Trying to send brainwaves to my husband wasn’t working; he was in gamer-guy heaven and oblivious to my dilemma.

I had no choice; my son was starting to fuss. I put a blanket over my shoulder (I had never done that before; at home I nursed with my shirt open), unbuttoned my shirt and thankfully my son latched on immediately and silently.

Duane Martin, sitting next to me, noticed the silence and the blanket. “Wow, he stopped crying because you put a blanket over his head?” he asked.

“No,” I said, “He’s stopped crying because he was hungry and I now I am feeding him.”

He looked confused for a minute and then I could see the lightbulb go off. “Oh!”

And that was that. The baby was fed, it wasn’t a big deal and none was the wiser except for Duane Martin (who went right back to gaming).

I learned that if I could do it there, with a newborn baby, the only woman in Will Smith’s house during a Playstation gaming tournament, I could breastfeed anywhere. And for the next several years, that’s just what I did.

© 2010, Funkidivagirl.com. All rights reserved. Republished only with permission.

*Today I am participating in Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop by answering the prompt: 4.) Write a funny story involving socks.

My husband has a thing for socks.  Really.  He buys them in bulk and often.  I don’t know what he does with all these socks, but I’ve given up trying to understand.  When we go to Target and he throws yet another bag of socks in the cart, I say nothing.  If I’ve learned anything in almost 17 years of marriage, I’ve learned to pick my battles.  And socks aren’t worth arguing about.

Except if they are holey–according to my husband, that is something to argue about.

Holey socks are the bane of his existence.  Normally oblivious to domestic affairs, the man goes ballistic if anyone in our house wears holey socks.  At first I thought that he was kidding, but he is not.  Not at all.  Unfortunately my son does not share his father’s disdain for holey socks, so you can imagine the arguments that happen in our house.  Or maybe you can’t, but let me tell you, it’s serious.   My husband will rant about how no child of his is going to wear holey socks when he works hard for this family to provide shelter, food, a private school education–and blemish-free socks.

I try to maintain a peaceful household by keeping my son in new socks, but he does his own laundry and I don’t always see when the socks are wearing thin.   And honestly my son just doesn’t care; he will just as soon wear holey socks as in-tact ones.

As I was packing for our trip to LA, I made sure all the socks were worthy.  It was the least that I could do for the man who was going to be working so hard in LA.

But I didn’t check the traveling socks.

As we removed our shoes at airport security, and my son walked through the metal detector, I saw that he had on the holiest socks ever.  With big gaping holes.   So big that there was actually more naked foot visible than sock.  My husband saw it too and his face said what he couldn’t in the presence of security guards: surprise, horror, disgust.   His worst fear about holey socks had been realized–they were seen in public.  His kid was wearing holey socks for the whole world to see!

“What?” asked my son, with a characteristic teenage shrug.

He followed his father’s glare down to his feet.

“Oops, my bad.”

Visit Mama Kat’s Losin It to write a prompt of your own.

Other posts that you may like about my funny family:

The Most Disgusting Thing I’ve Ever Done

Kickin’ It Old School: Yo Momma

© 2010, Funkidivagirl.com. All rights reserved. Republished only with permission.