The name game and fatal attraction flowers

Let's get this party started with an Assurance Maladie update. Alex went to see his favorite ASS MAL peeps and explained, once again, that his name is not David. They seemed to believe him and five minutes later, after some clickety clacks on a computer keyboard, a nice lady told Alex all was fixed and handed him a brand new official attestation.

Alex, in his excitement, did not look at the attestation before he left the office. Let this be a lesson to us all.

He called me on the metro ride home to celebrate. We rejoiced for about five seconds until I heard an explosive, "Oh my God, you've GOT to be kidding me!" My heart sank and I knew all was not well in Ass Mal land. Alex looked at the shiny new attestation and there it was, refusing to go away -- David. On top of that, they had now given ME a new name. My last name was listed as Alex's last name when in fact my last name is MY last name.

Now we both have different names! This is exciting! Alex is going to kill somebody!

Al called Ass Mal and asked those smug bastards what we should do now. They suggested that, when filling out our feuilles de soin (the papers we fill out to get reimbursed for medical expenses), we fill them out using our new fake names. We LIE! Then we'll get MONEY.

Some time ago I was detailing the troubles we were having with Assurance Maladie to my parents and my mom said, "I think I understand why France is no longer a world power."

The cafes lining our streets have turned on their heat lamps. Happy. There's nothing better than sitting underneath them and feeling cozy warm outside. The four of us, Coco chillin' in the baby wrap, went to my favorite cafe for coffees and hot chocolate. While there, Lucien took advantage of his mom and dad being engaged in deep and meaningful conversation (not really) to stealthily empty two sugar packets into his mouth. "Aw crap," thought mama as she surveyed the empty packet evidence and triumphant grin of Lucien. He then started bouncing around like a large psychotic rubber ball.

Because I'm brave or stupid, I still took Lucien on my errands, including a trip to my favorite kids' store to buy some cold weather gear. Lucien, drunk with sugar love, could not contain his excitement for slippers. He pulled pair after pair from the rack, held them millimeters from his face until his eyes crossed, and yelled, "SLIPPERS!" Then he laughed like a maniac, occasionally falling down.

It wasn't the time to dawdle. Instead of choosing one perfect hat/gloves/scarf set, I bought one of everything in the store and dragged the Loosh outside into the brisk air for some sobering up. It's not the first time he's eaten sugar packets right under my nose but apparently I refuse to learn my lesson.

I received a letter last week from the post office saying they wanted to deliver a package but were missing some address information. If I didn't respond within seven days, they were going to destroy my package. That's right -- DESTROY. Mwa ha ha ha. Mwa ha ha ha (I don't know how to spell evil maniacal laughter)

We called in the nick of time (they were not missing any info after all. Sigh.) and the package was delivered today, narrowly escaping package death. The minute I saw it, I knew the contents were in trouble. The box looked like it had been used as a substitute ball in a mean-spirited soccer game. And why did it have "fresh flowers" stamped all over it? No one would send fresh flowers via the post office, right? Right?

Sure they would. I pulled out a lumpy, wet and foul-smelling bouquet of dead flowers. Judging from the card, it had been a congratulations bouquet from Alex's co-workers in its previous life. There were baby toys and bibs stuck in amongst the flowers now coated with decayed flower sludge. For one terrifying moment, we lived a horror movie where creepy people send other people dead flowers and sludgy baby things.

Ah-ha! But now the DESTROY (mwa ha ha ha) part makes sense!

It IS almost Halloween so perhaps it's appropriate. Speaking of Halloween, we can't get Lucien to take his Halloween costume off. That's him watching television with Daddy.

Alex is currently taking two weeks off for paternity leave and Lucien has two weeks off school for the Toussaint holiday. We're spending a lot of time introducing Coco to our neighborhood and she's been welcomed by Saint Germain with warmth and enthusiasm. The man who owns the boutique downstairs, my favorite waiter at my favorite cafe, the security guard at the grocery store and even our favorite homeless person have rushed forward to meet her and give me kisses on both cheeks. This is where I say, again, that despite all the pain they've inflicted upon us, I love the Frenchies.

My in-laws left today after nearly a month here in Paris. I cannot thank them enough for all they did to help us transition into life as a family of four. The only downside is Lucien now thinks we're going to do fantastically fun and entertaining things twice a day. HA!

Those are some nasty looking flowers, mes choux,
MJ

Finally, a trough of piss!

After I stopped feeling sick from eating all those dried strawberries I went back and ate some more dried strawberries. What the hell is wrong with me???

If my weekends continue to be as lame as this one was, this blog is not going to survive the newborn phase. The past two days were spent in a fog of sleep deprivation and dried strawberry sugar shock. Saturday night, on top of the newborn sleep/cry/eat/what day is it/who am I schedule, Lucien fell out of his bed at 3:00am. He then decided night was over and it was time to get up and make a lot of noise. He was awake the rest of the night and Alex and I are none too happy about it.

Foggy brain is a familiar feeling that takes me back to our first days in France, the days of Lucien jet lag and midnight baguettes and Disney movies at 2:00am.

To fill the gap left by my complete disinterest in life this weekend, I'm going to rewind to the weekend immediately preceding Camille's arrival. There is a story there waiting to be told but it ain't the yummiest. It's therefore advisable to put down your pop-tart before reading. (Mmmmm.... pop-tarts.....)

Picture it. Paris. There we were, waiting on a metro platform, dressed in our party clothes and heading to our favorite park for New York daughter's birthday party. Alex and I were engrossed in a very important discussion (not really) and were therefore not paying full attention to Lucien who had wandered perhaps three feet from us. For the Loosh, that's a dangerous distance.

Suddenly we heard a loud, "NOOOOOOO" from behind us followed by a splash! and many groans and squeals from people on the platform.

On metro platforms, there are troughs that run along the back walls. (Those familiar with Paris metros are already cringing, I can tell) This trough is always full of suspicious darkish liquid. No one knows exactly what's in there but everyone knows it's not good. Everyone would probably agree most of it came from human bodies. Everyone would definitely agree it's not something to jump into with great joy.

Unless you're the Loosh. We turned and there he was, ankle-deep in the muck with a surprised look on his face. We were so stunned and horrified we could only stare for a second. After the wave of shock passed, we yanked him out and inspected the nastiness. Unmentionable things soaked his shoes and socks and were seeping up his pant legs.

Glancing around the platform, I saw we had everyone's rapt attention. The "NOOOOOOO" had come from a young man nearby, arms still reaching out towards us frozen-like, who saw what the Loosh was fixin' to do a split second before he did it. He looked at us apologetically. Most people looked at us with sympathy. Some smirked. Others laughed. And once again, we were the hottest show in town.

Loosh knew the situation was bad. He looked up sheepishly and said, "We're going home now, aren't we." We said yes because walking into a party with human waste crawling up your pant legs doesn't exactly scream, "Happy Birthday, cutie pie!" It's just not very festive.

Al volunteered to take one for the team since I was super pregnant and still breathing like a buffalo from the walk to the station. Before he had a chance to reconsider, I jumped on the metro with the birthday present, yelled at Alex to clean him well, preferably with something caustic, and I'd see them at the party later. I gave him a thumbs up. Then I got the hell outta there as Lucien waddled towards the exit.

I still can't, even dozens of scalding hot washes later, look at those pants without cringing.

The party was a good time, though, and I'm glad we made it because we learned an important lesson there: no guitar playing allowed in public parks. New York mom hired a singer to come entertain the kids. As he sat there strumming and doing his thing, an official park man came over and shut that goddamn guitar playing DOWN. When asked if we could sing without the guitar, he deemed that acceptable.

You are way out of line, guitar man

So for those keeping track, the following things, based on our past observations, are allowed in Parisian public parks:

1. Peeing
2. Pooing
3. Drinking alcohol
4. Doing drugs
5. Masturbating

But don't even THINK about playing a guitar, you sick freaks.

We'll try a flute next time, mes choux,
MJ

Thank you, Saint Marriage!

Sorry to disappoint but ... we're so married. And not in the awesome powder blue tuxedo kind of way, but in the priest-did-his-job way back when kind of way. A real marriage certificate for me and my Al does indeed exist in the bowels of the King County Recorder's office.

Al has now realized he can't escape from me without me taking half his stuff. Poor guy is feeling a little dejected, having tasted freedom for just one glorious moment.

However, the person most disappointed by our marital status is our relocation consultant, hired by Alex's company to walk us through the paperwork requirements for the embassy visit. She is a fabulously outgoing and friendly French woman. (We were confused by that, too, until she told us she was married to an American and lived many years in California.) She was with us at the embassy "the day it all went down" and was immensely entertained by it.

Relo lady volunteered to get on the phone with the King County peeps to find out if our marriage was real. It was obvious she wanted the answer to be "no" since she had begun talking excitedly about helping us plan a second wedding in the Loire Valley. When she emailed the following day to say yes, our marriage was indeed on record, I'd classify the tone of her email as "disappointed as hell." She then asked hopefully if maybe we wanted to renew our vows?

The strangest (most disturbing?) part is, the fake certificate is the very one we used to get Alex's green card. I'm not sure what to make of that, but perhaps it's time for some tough questions at the Department of Homeland Security.

So that crisis over. Let's sit back, relax and wait for the next one.

Speaking of French women being super friendly -- the Loosh may be the key to netting me some French women friends. I picked him up at school yesterday and as I was saying the usual, "OK, Lucien, grab your coat, grab your folder, stop jumping on that small child," etc. etc., a mother came over to me and asked, "Is THIS Lucien?" I said, yup, that's the monster as we watched him try to steal a book from the library. That's just embarrassing. She said her son talks about the Loosh all the time. Big fan of the Looshness. French mama was all smiles and nods so maybe....just maybe....

I met Virginia mom and her daughter today at the open air Raspail market. I bought half a kilo of dried strawberries and ate a massive amount of them on the walk home. WHY do I do that? Stupid! Stupid! I am now considering vomiting everywhere and don't care if I ever see another strawberry in my life. Ever.

Love ya, Al.
MJ

Hey Al, will you marry me?

Hmmm. Let's see. It's 54 degrees in Paris today. Rainy. Bit blustery. We had Cheerios for breakfast. Couple coffees.

OH yeah, almost forgot -- and Alex and I may not be officially married.

We had an appointment at the U.S. Embassy this morning to declare Coco's birth abroad and submit the application for her U.S. passport. As we approached the stately building with the gigantic American flag waving out front, I felt happiness. It was going to be like walking into a big group hug, right? My people were going to welcome me with open arms and rock me to sleep singing lullabies, right?

False. First of all, my people were nowhere to be found. Everyone was French. The security guards outside with large guns were French. The security screeners inside, who confiscated most of the items in my purse, were French. The crowd of people in the waiting room were French. The scowling employees at their little numbered windows were French. I felt sad when I realized there was no "U.S." in "U.S. Embassy."

Second, the people at the embassy are apparently in the business of shattering dreams and breaking up families. Read on.

We had every document in order and felt confident in our paper organizing abilities. We stepped up to the window, handed over a ton of documents and stood there nervously as a mean-looking lady shuffled through them, nodded, and told us to have a seat. Booya! Aced it!

We were then called to a different window to sign the papers and take the oath. I saw it was an American lady and I felt joy. THIS was where the winks and secret handshakes were going to happen, right? Right?

Wrong. She shoved our marriage certificate back at us and told us she couldn't accept it because it wasn't official. Al and I stared dumbfounded at her, then at the piece of paper, then at each other. "Huh?" was all I could muster. She then, in her huffy wasting-my-time voice, explained it wasn't an official marriage certificate. The priest had signed it but hadn't dated it AND it wasn't the official copy from the county -- no embossing, no seal, no nothin'. It's nothing but a decorative marriage certificate. It's as legally significant as a gum wrapper.

My countrywoman turned on me. No hugs for her.

Al and I don't remember the details of our "marriage" all those years ago. I thought it was our priest friend who filed the marriage with the county. Alex seems to remember we did it. It is quite possible no one in the whole damn world did it because bottom line -- we never received an official marriage certificate from the county. The little useless piece of paper in our hands is all we've got so we may now be living a giant LIE.

We don't remember where the faux certificate came from though our current theory is a gumball machine at Target.

After the abrupt end to our meeting, Alex and I walked to the metro together in silence, strangers really. We tried some awkward small talk. Alex asked, "Hey, so if we're not married, what are your plans?" I told him I really wanted to get out and travel, maybe trek across the world with nothing but a backpack and a dream. He said he was going back to Quebec to live in his parents' basement. We both agreed we couldn't wait to try internet dating and headed home to set up our online profiles.

(OR Plan B .... if we're really not married, I'm going to propose to Al again and we can get married in Paris wearing powder blue tuxedos and riding Velib rental bikes. And wearing top hats, of course.)

We will now attempt to get Camille her Canadian passport so she is not a girl without a country. Thankfully the Canadians don't give a rip if we're married or not. And that's good because I'm not sure if I'm a happily married woman or a single mom of two living with a decorative French Canadian.

You'll always be my heart husband, Al,
MJ

Wake up, Coco, or you'll never get into the U.S. of A.

Lucien is experiencing a few undesirable side effects from the antibiotics. He can't stray too far from home. School is out of the question. He's climbing on me with boredom. Coco has chosen today to start yelling at me. I'm eating Honey Pops by the fistful. I haven't showered in three days. My in-laws went to Versailles today.

The life of a mama is not always glamorous, despite what you've heard and despite where she lives.

I was able to get into the pediatrician's office Friday because I've become a wiser ex-pat since our last appointment. Sometimes there is one crucial button all by itself at the bottom of the number keypad. Pressing it will unlock the door, no code necessary and no questions asked. That makes the existence of the rest of the keypad confusing for some of us. So confusing, in fact, some of us throw ourselves against doors in futile attempts to open them without a code.

Our pediatrician is special. When I asked him what he thought about vaccinating the Loosh against H1N1, he said yes, of course, our whole family should get the shot to protect Camille. Agreed. Then his face took on a hard edge, his voice turned angry-like, and he told me he thought Paris was going to be hit especially hard with the virus. "Why are you saying these scary words?" I asked, my voice trembling as I eyed my two little vulnerable munchkins.

The Frenchman's response? "The French are dirty. The French care for no one but themselves and do not care if they cough upon another. The French are stupid. They say they do not want the vaccine. Every country in the world says they want the vaccine -- even Australia wants the vaccine. The French are very stupid."

Whoa. French people just got their asses handed to them. (As did, I think, the Australians, in a passive aggressive kind of way?)

He then completely changed the subject and told me all about his upcoming vacation -- a fancy sailing regatta in Turkey where he would be sailing on his friend's boat and wearing a team uniform composed of a bright blue button-down shirt and a white captain's hat. I was having a hard time switching gears from terrifying pandemic to Regatta! Fun! and continued to sit there, mouth hanging open, clutching my babies and shaking uncontrollably.

Paris is glorious in the fall. The weather is crisp and cool and the sidewalks are scattered with leaves. The air smells like FALL. We took a lovely walk on Saturday with the end goal of getting Camille's passport photo taken. The address we were given of a passport photo store turned out to be, of course, a residence. No photo place in sight. This made us stomp our feet and yell things into the wind such as, "WHY IS IT SO HARD TO GET ANYTHING DONE AROUND HERE???"

We walked and grumbled a little more until we found our own darn photo place. And this may be hard to believe but taking a passport photo of a newborn is challenging. Camille didn't want to open her eyes. She wanted to sleep. We tried prying her eyes open. We tried taking off her socks and tickling her feet. We drenched her face with a cold, wet cloth. We picked her up and tossed her back and forth like a pink baseball. These tricks woke her up but also pissed her off. She scrunched up her face and howled, which also doesn't make for a great passport photo.

As customers continued to come into the tiny store, they joined the effort. Pretty soon it was Al and I, four other customers and the photo lady hovering over her making kissy noises, jingling keys and repeating "coucou!" ad nauseum. When she fleetingly opened her eyes everyone would get really screechy and excited but the camera lady would usually miss the moment by a split second. Then the camera lady would hop around yelling "Merde!" for a little bit.

When we finally got the picture! an unmentionable number of minutes later, a loud cheer went up in the tiny photo store. Coco looks groggy and a little pissed off but we did it with a little help from our French friends.

We will not be surprised if "merde" is her first word.

These people may be dirty. They may be self-absorbed. They may even be stupid. But they're pretty wonderful, too, and we like them.

Coucou, mes choux!
MJ

Boring. Don't bother.

Not gonna lie. This week, from a blog standpoint, has been the most boring since the big move. I can't even drum up enough energy to post a picture. I spend most of my time nursing a newbie and staring at walls. Sometimes I shower. Add a hearty BONJOUR! to the first illness of the season -- the Loosh is home from school with a cough, fever and suspected dual ear infections yes! -- and the potential for leaving the apartment, not to mention seeking adventure, is nil. Zip. Nada.

It's not so boring to live it. Just to read it. Honestly, the current combo of sick Loosh and fragile newborn is causing a little too much heart-pounding excitement for my taste. When Lucien coughs, I grab Camille and sprint down the hall where I feverishly nurse the hell out of her in the hopes of imparting some immunity to her tiny body. Lucien thinks this is a helluva game and runs after me, coughing and laughing as I duck and weave and holler. If anyone is looking in our windows, we must look like the strangest family ever.

Camille's first pediatrician appointment is today. I'm going to drag Lucien along and try to get a two-fer. Fingers crossed we are able to see the doctor since this is the doctor's office I can't figure out how to get into. My mother-in-law is coming so she can help catapult me through a window if necessary.

I've been watching a lot of TV lately thanks to my captive status (most of it without sound) and saw a segment on a local TV show that celebrated Frenchie sexy time. There was a sex toy convention in town and some reporters went to discover what the hottest new items of the year were. The hottest of all, for those who want to start their holiday shopping early, was a little somethin' somethin' called The Sextonik.

The Sextonik didn't look too special to me -- seemed to be your everyday bright purple fake vibrating phallus -- but for some reason it's special and Frenchies were rushing about with sextonik focus and determination. It reminded me of the Cabbage Patch Kid craze of my childhood only way dirtier. (There's probably not an adoption process involved but you could probably name it if you wanted to.)

The camera crew stopped people as they left the convention and asked them, "What did you buy?" The casual manner in which people opened their bags to show off their adult purchases was delightful to see. There was not a hint of self-consciousness or embarrassment as they pulled out "special" beads, blow-up dolls, and, of course, the Sextonik.

One man, when asked if he had purchased the ole ST as a gift for someone, replied, "Oh no. It's for me!" with a happy smile. I had to turn the channel then because as much as I am entertained by the openness of the Frenchies, I didn't want to picture that specific man with that specific toy. He looked like a yeti. And I've always said there's nothin' sexy about a yeti.

So hey, this post wasn't as boring as I thought it would be! Way to rally 'em, Sextonik.

Wait for me, Paris and blog friends. I promise I'll come back to you.

I'd name mine Mr. Pickles,
MJ

!@#----?(+++)

Alex would like to share a few things about our French birth experience:

1. Natural childbirth is no big deal. He didn't feel a thing.

2. Despite sending in the attestation de grossesse (confirmation of pregnancy from baby doctor) three times, meeting in person twice, and me giving birth in glorious fashion, I am still not pregnant in the eyes of Assurance Maladie.

3. Camille has a hyphenated last name. When Alex went to register her birth at the local mairie, he was told they do not use a hyphen here. They use a double dash. So instead of her last name being Awesome-Name, her legal name is now Dumb--Name. If we want to request an exemption to this rule since we come from a country where a single hyphen is the norm, we must request a “ déclaration de coutume” from the U.S. Consulate.

The entire procedure -- both the consulate appointment and the registration of the name at the mairie -- must be completed within 48 hours of the birth. Since Mama was laid up in a hospital bed, it would have been up to Canadian Dad to go to the U.S. Consulate and beg for a hyphen. I would have paid cash money to see their faces when the crazy canuck started talking hyphens and double dashes.

We decided to go with the double dash for now and will have to legally change her name when we return to the States. In the meantime, so she doesn't feel self-conscious, the rest of us are modifying our names to include superfluous punctuation: M!J!, Al-----ex, and Luc(i)en.

That's all Alex wants to say right now. His head has started to rotate Exorcist-like and there is foam coming from his mouth. I think France has finally made the boy lose his dang mind.

Camille's arrival has brought much joy to the residents of our building. Neighbors are stopping by with presents and grinning like fools when they see us in the stairwell. We haven't received a congrats from Mr. Crabby Pants upstairs yet but his toilet seems to be acknowledging her arrival by leaking into our bathroom again. We like to think of them as giant joyful toilet tears of happiness.

I made my first trip to the grocery store today with Coco in the baby wrap and holy crap -- navigating those narrow aisles with a baby in a carrier was more difficult than I thought. Instead of bumping into people with a big pregnant belly I instead bumped into them with a sleeping Coco.

But they love me! As I came through the checkout, all the checkout women who have gotten to know my bright-red-with-embarrassment face over these many months clapped their hands together with delight and beamed and waved. This attracted the attention of every single Frenchie in line and before long they were all smiling and cooing at the little girl. I know I swore I'd never, ever be pregnant again but if that's the key to love around here, I'm going to keep popping these suckers out.

I think Al---ex just fainted.

Happy one week all together, mes choux,
M!J!

Camille "Coco" Elizabeth -- girl in a hurry

Although I'm tempted to go back and revisit the Lucien stepping in a trough of piss story, I've decided to focus on the birthing a small human story. Perhaps it's the wrong decision because stepping in pee is funny and birthing is more, well, painful and full of screaming.

I woke Alex at 6:15am Monday morning with his favorite words of all time, "Honey, we have to talk." I could see in his eyes he felt disoriented and nervous. When he heard my crazy rambling about suspected early labor, he looked relieved. Labor was no biggie -- he had been worried I woke him up just to give him a talkin'-to.

We immediately set about dashing. If this was indeed labor, girl was in a big damn hurry, eleven days early and whatnot, and we were not ready. The grandparents so desperately needed for Lucien care were not "here" in the strictest sense of the word -- more like "on an airplane headed for here but might as well be sipping margaritas in Mexico." We left our key and a Europe-friendly cell phone down at the boulangerie, asking them to kindly keep an eye out for French Canadian grandparents wondering where the hell we were.

Alex took Lucien down to school a little early at my urging -- or more at my hanging over the back of the couch panting as I dealt with rapidly escalating contractions. By the time he got back, I bellowed, "Call a goddamn taxi NOW, you mother f!@$&*." Then I said some stuff like, "!@#* and @#!*! and followed it up with a passionate round of @#!$s. Alex got the message and called a taxi. We've gotten good at "communicating" over the years.

Here in Paris horror stories abound regarding laboring ladies and evil taxi drivers. You cannot tell the taxi driver you are in labor nor tell him you're going to a clinic. If you do, he may refuse to drive you for fear of possibly delivering a baby in his cab. You have to walk out calm and in control, gliding effortlessly, and give him the address in your normal, my-body-is-not-trying-to-destroy-itself-from-the-inside-out voice.

I got in the cab as I fought through some of the toughest contractions without a whimper trying to keep up the ruse, all while sitting in Paris morning rush hour traffic and wanting to die a little bit. Of course our driver was no idiot. One look at my face in the rearview mirror and the jig was up. Much to his credit, he did not dump me alongside the road but instead drove like a bat out of hell, terror in his eyes, swerving and weaving and nearly killing myriads of pedestrians in nice suits to get us across town. He was REALLY anti birth-in-a-cab.

We made it to the clinic but were told to "have a seat" in the waiting room; there were no triage rooms available at that moment. My response to this was to hold onto the counter and sway and moan. And sway. And moan. Then I swayed a little more. Moans followed accompanied by some grunts. I sounded like a grizzly bear -- then like a grizzly bear who had been kicked in the nuts.

The happy little couples in the waiting room stopped talking to each other and stared at me in horror. Yeah, that's right bitches, enjoy your comfy cozy little early labor contractions. They tickle compared to the hell you're about to experience. So feel free to gawk at the crazy grizzly lady but know that I AM your not-too-distant future.

A midwife appeared as I continued my bizarre labor song and dance and said, "Madame, perhaps you should come with me." She got me into a "pre-labor" triage room not yet ready for the next patient and she and Al pushed me up on the bed. She checked the progress and her eyes bugged out of her head. Running from the room, she returned with three more women, all quickly donning gowns, dismantling the bed to get it ready for delivery, and ripping open packages of stuff, contents flying everywhere. I stupidly demanded an epidural to which the midwife laughed and said, "It's much too late, madame. The baby is coming right now." Mama didn't like those words.

Five or six pushes and she was here. Eleven days early, me still in my street clothes, in a triage room not meant for delivery, two hours after I called my mom and told her I thought I was in labor but wasn't sure. Camille "Coco" Elizabeth, 7 lbs 4 oz. and 19 inches long, was indeed in a big damn hurry.

After she was born we were left completely alone, just the three of us, for hours and hours before being moved to our private room. Moving to our private room was perhaps one of the most ungraceful things Al and I have ever done as a couple. They put me in a wheelchair and left Al in charge of driving me which is just a stupid idea. Al was preoccupied with Camille, who had gone ahead of us with a nurse, and was so flustered trying to catch up he banged me into a few walls and managed to turn off the hallway lights with his elbow. He gave up all together at the elevator so I had to shuffle myself in and out then drive myself down the hallway using my feet.

Al, Camille and the nurse way ahead of me, I wrestled with a door that kept swinging closed on my wheelchair. You may ask why I didn't just stand up and walk but that's not the point here, people. The point is I don't feel I was properly respected in my postpartum state and now Alex must hear about it, preferably in a shrill tone, for the rest of his life.

It is customary in France to stay in the clinic for three to five days after a birth but Al and I wanted the hell out after one night. This made the staff very grumpy because we were "rushing" them down their checklist of to dos before we could leave. But really, grumps, how long does it take to give a baby a bath? (Answer -- in France, apparently three to five days.)

The clinic pediatrician who examined her was absolutely batshit crazy. His "exam" of the children involved poking them hard in the belly and tossing them around like bean bags. A bunch of newborns get examined at the same time in the same room. As he moved down the line, he left a trail of screaming newborns and ashen-faced parents in his wake. I'm pretty sure Camille flipped him the bird when he was done with her. Atta girl.

I'm sleepy so the rest of this bizarre experience will be saved for another day. For now, we're home. And my in-laws are a gift from God. And Lucien, thus far, is being a gentle and sweet big brother. And we are enjoying staring at Coco. Sometimes she looks like a little old man, sometimes a garden gnome, and sometimes she is 100% turtle.

I've got two choux now, mon chou,
MJ

I will now force you to look at pictures of my baby. Indulge me.

Here we go, peeps....

Oh, I had such a good post planned for today. We did some really f'd up things over the weekend and I was so eager to share -- Lucien stepped in a trough of piss, I got stuck in a metro gate, and we were yelled at for illegal guitar strumming in the park.

It was going to be my best post ever.

BUT.... crazy baby has other plans and Mama is in labor. Not the best timing in the world, as my in-laws don't arrive until this afternoon (but as Alex pointed out, not the worst timing either!)

So far we're keeping our cool and have kept the swearing to a minimum. That won't last long, though, because I am a total potty-mouth when I'm birthin'.

If it happens to be false labor, I will update again so you all can stop praying for my lying bum. But if it's false labor, my body is just cruel.

Lots of love, and please send us some positive juju for a healthy birth in this strange land,

LOVE YOU, mon chou. You'll always be my firstborn,
MJ

You say "face" -- I say "fesse"

That's another picture of the Loosh as he continues to describe how he falls down at school. This display went on for quite awhile. He is a very, very intricate faller downer.

Mme. Kickmyass showed up for our French lesson yesterday in a foul, dark mood. I felt afraid, wondering if this was the day she would finally kill me.

During our discussion about reality television, I meant to say it would be hard to live with cameras in your face all the time. Unfortunately, the French word, "face" is similar to the French word, "fesse." In my hurry to get the words out, I got sloppy with my pronunciation. Instead of saying "Gee whiz, it must be tough to live with cameras in your face all the time," I said, "Gee whiz, it must be tough to live with cameras in your buttocks all the time."

Maybe it wasn't the word I wanted but I made a darn good point! That WOULD be tough! I dare anyone to argue. Cringe-inducing as it was, it made Mme. Kickmyass laugh so hard it shook her right out of that terrifyingly bad mood and I no longer felt afraid. I bet she made fun of me later with her friends and a nice bottle of wine, though.

But back to reality television. Unfortunately for the U.S., one of the few reality TV programs from the States that made it over here is The Swan. For those who have completely forgotten this show (good for you), it was about "ugly duckling" women who receive dozens of plastic surgeries to make them "beautiful." Then they compete against each other in a beauty pageant.

Ack, just writing those words makes me feel dirty. Mme Kickmyass has seen a couple episodes and asked me questions such as, "How can those surgeons sleep at night, knowing they disfigure women to the point their own children don't recognize them?" (She had just seen an episode in which the woman's children ran crying from the room and were comforted by... producers. Not even mental health professionals. In the show's defense, when my mom turns up looking like a transvestite, I, too, only want to be comforted by producers.)

When I told her the surgeons probably not only slept well but attracted a bazillion new patients to their practices thanks to their appearance on the show, Mme. Kickmyass looked at me like I was the devil and came from Devilland. "You're telling me they weren't vilified? Condemned by society?" Nope, I responded, they probably bought new private jets. Then I gave her a bright smile, hoping to reassure her this was not a sign of impending apocalypse. But it probably is.

Al and I watched a show on TV about the firemen/policemen trained to rescue people out of the Seine, usually drunk people who fall off the quai. We learned it is forbidden to swim in the Seine because the amount of rat droppings in the water has rendered it a serious health threat. The men who are trained to jump in after stupid, drunk, sometimes naked and always skinny people need special vaccines just to swim in it.

I didn't think it was possible but I think the Paris plage just got even more un-enjoyable.

Due date is two weeks from today. I'm at the point now where movement is awkward and, at times, painful. Sometimes, if I have to bend over to pick something up, I just stay down there for a minute, dangling, convincing my fatigued muscles it's worth it to pull me back up again. This is fine at home but today I dropped my wallet in line at the grocery store. I dangled for a minute (check-out lady probably wondered where the hell I'd gone) until our favorite security guard came to my rescue.

It would be hard to live with cameras in many places, mon chou,
MJ