I spent the bulk of the day musing through town in no particular direction in search of funny French produce fit for heart-healthy dinners. While I wasn’t looking forward to concocting an aubergine-filled quiche in the Celsius gas oven, I was quite looking forward to the grocery store outing with the kids to pick up their picnic lunch items for their annual end-of-school field day, or journées olympiques, as the French so grandly put it. I arrived a few minutes early to the school gate, anxious for our outing, right on schedule with the nanny book. As I waited, I surveyed the crowd of other nannies and mothers who gathered there, all waiting for their respective competing Olympians. How did they run their households, take care of multiple children, and still manage to look so chic and slim?
My thoughts were interrupted as my own two charged through the school gates. Constantin had mentally planned his shopping spree, and shouted out his list for all to hear before he made it out of the courtyard. “I can take the saucisson on pique-nique!” he said, obsessed with sausage like the good Frenchman he was. He ran toward me.
“We’ll see, Constantin,” I said.
“Saucisson! Saucisson!” He chanted, his eyes closed in reverie. Of course I could never let him know how adorable he was, but in my mind, he could take anything his darling heart desired.
Léonie greeted me with her signature girlish grin and more of a twinkle in her eye than usual. She was excited, too, though not as effusive as her younger brother. So we left the schoolyard and set out for the grand Monoprix. I had avoided the Monoprix because it’s simply a supermarket like ones we had in the U.S. But walking there with my two Frenchies, I felt like a Frenchie myself. I was just a local, making her necessary trip to the Monoprix after school with the kids. La vie quotidienne.
On the way, we dropped book bags at home, and the kids insisted on taking their scooters. Because the sky was looking rather dark, I grabbed an umbrella. I chased Léonie and Constantin the rest of the way to the Monoprix as they raced ahead, and I felt for perhaps the first time like a responsible, loving, reliable nanny. I was shocked and proud at the way I had pulled the day together.
As we walked, the sky grew darker and darker, and a light drizzle started to fall just as we reached the store. Walking the grocery aisles, I hoped all of the customers were equally as fond of saucisson as Constantin, who sang the word like an opera baritone. Unlike her brother, Léonie weighed each decision intensely. I understood the seriousness of the matter—this was a rare and special occasion—and let her take her time. She made several trips to and from our shopping basket, returning chosen items back to the shelf and replacing them with better choices. She finally settled on a sandwich of ham and cheese, accompanied by melon and a personal snack-sized box of Lu cookies.
At the checkout, when we gathered our bags—now filled with savory selections of sausage, baguettes, fruit, and personal-sized cookie boxes—I noticed a large group of people standing by the window, peering out. I joined them, careful not to take my eyes off Constantin, who was already prying open his package of sausage. The sky had grown so dark I had to look at my watch to remind myself it wasn’t ten o’clock or a later hour. The wind howled and a loud crack of thunder shook the front windows.
Mais oui, the umbrella! I felt a surge of pride run through me, certain I was elevated to greater nanny status with my impeccable precautionary measures. I rushed the kids out the door with their scooters and heard a man yell, “Bon courage,” as we stepped onto the sidewalk. I shrugged it off; we lived just a few blocks from the Monoprix. If we hurried, we could beat the worst of it. I snapped open the umbrella. The kids looked up at me with doubtful expressions. I smiled widely, patted their shoulders, and clutched them tighter under the umbrella.
The rain fell in drops, then in stabs, coming down harder with each step. The streets quickly flooded and the wind blew great sheets of water across the ground, making it impossible to discern street from sidewalk. I was used to flooding rains from my lifelong residence in Houston, but this was a serious storm. The kids, I was certain, had never seen anything like it. Léonie stepped from under the umbrella and became our guide, wading bravely through rushing currents. But the water was too high for Constantin. I scooped him up at the waist and carried him, his solid metal scooter, the umbrella, the groceries, and my purse as best I could. Léonie was drenched and I was sick with remorse that I had even considered asking these children to brave such a storm.
We made it home. I fished in my purse for the key, praying it had not spilled out. Got it—whew. I stripped the kids at the door and left their sopping clothes in a puddle on the front entry steps to start a hot bath upstairs. The phone rang, but I ignored it, unable to deal with the idea of carrying on a conversation in French. Then I saw the kitchen. Water was everywhere. It dripped from the ceiling, where I assumed there were a number of leaks. I turned to the kids and motioned for them to hurry up to the bath. But Léonie, now safe from danger, burst into heaving sobs.
“I want Mommy!” she cried, standing alone in the center of the front entry.
I know, baby, I thought. I want my mommy, too.
Before I could comfort her, the phone rang a second time, and for the second time, I ignored it.
I held Léonie and dried the tears from her honest brown eyes. I sent the kids to take their baths, even though it was only six o’clock. I placed buckets under suspected drips in the kitchen, but the rain had mostly subsided. Léonie the Star, living up to her self-proclaimed nickname, padded into the kitchen freshly bathed and in her pajamas, to bring me the mop from Maria Celeste’s closet downstairs. I wanted pizza for dinner—and no guilt about it. After surviving the monsoon, the thought of making a quiche was just too much to bear. Afterward we would watch movies in our pajamas until we fell asleep. Movies were pretty much off limits in the Vladesco household, but how could I expect the children to concentrate on their homework after surviving such a traumatic event? Besides, what Estelle and Alex didn’t know couldn’t hurt them, and I promised myself that I’d get the children back on track the next day with a healthy diet and a lengthy homework session.
Diane came home too, which lifted about thirty pounds of worry from me. She stumbled in, stunned and no doubt freezing, drenched to the bone in a chic, but very see-through, all white ensemble. I prayed silently that she had not been in coed company as she unstuck her thin, cotton shirt from her torso and told me about splashing through the streets with her friends, then racing home. It wasn’t until we’d towel dried her hair and she’d changed clothes that I remembered the nanny book. We missed Diane’s dentist appointment. We missed Constantin’s judo practice, and we missed Léonie’s piano practice. And of all the kids, did I really have to ask Léonie to go upstairs and practice piano? It didn’t seem fair. We were all in our pj’s in the kitchen, rattling the oven knobs to heat the pizza when I heard a noise at the front door. And then Alex walked in.
Apparently, a neighbor had called him, urging him to rush home and make sure we were okay. She’d called the house several times to check on us, but was worried when no one had answered.
Oops.
Alex had barely even entered the kitchen before asking why the floor was wet. I told him about the leaks, but he looked at me with an almost pitiful glare as if he were sorry I was so stupid.
“Why in the hell didn’t you shut the skylight?” Alex said.
“I didn’t know how,” I said. Did the skylights open? Until that moment, I had no idea the house even had skylights. I looked up, but couldn’t see anything resembling a normal skylight in the ceiling. And if I couldn’t even see the skylights, how could it possibly be my job to know whether they were open or shut? Not to mention, we were caught in the storm when the majority of the water poured through the roof. But Alex didn’t want an explanation. He pulled out some remote controls from the same drawer that contained the nanny book and house purse. Remote-controlled skylights. Bien sûr—how foolish of me to not have instinctively assumed chez Vladesco came equipped with r
emote-controlled skylights. He explained how to use them, perturbed that we interrupted his career for such menial tasks. I nodded and smiled in my typical fashion though I wanted to explain that I couldn’t possibly have known about the skylights.
Nice, Alex. Really. I’ll keep these handy the next time Paris has record-breaking precipitation.
After he left, the kids and I had our dinner and movie time, and I tried to put the whole wretched day out of my mind.
In the words of Scarlett O’Hara, tomorrow was another day. And I was more determined than ever to make sure things went smoothly.
The next few days passed without much incident, and I finally felt as though I was adjusting to my routine in the Vladesco household. I was actually quite lonely while the children were away, and in my short time in Paris, I’d grown rather fond of the hour at which I picked them up from school. I arrived early once again, and as I stood waiting on the sidewalk outside the school gate, I resumed the examination I’d begun days before of the many French women around me.
One by one, the slew of nannies and mothers arrived, some pushing strollers, some carrying shopping bags, and some walking alone. I had no way of differentiating mother from nanny—they all looked so young and so French. And they all seemed to know each other. Mingling in the schoolyard was as much a part of their daily routine as anything else. They chatted and generally kept their distance from me. So I stood, friendless and fashionless, on the opposite side of the sidewalk. It was fine with me, though. I was perfectly content staring them straight down to their DNA.
I searched for the gene that made them all so ridiculously thin. No lumps to be found—not a single swollen belly among the group—and I wondered who served as the surrogate mother to all their multiple children?
From the looks of it, I did.
What is it about French breeding? I read French Women Don’t Get Fat before I came to Paris, in an attempt to morph my mind and body into the French culture. But best-selling book or not, something told me it was way more than a state of mind that allowed these women to pop out one baby after another and still stay thin enough to glide along all smiles in their ballet flats and pleated skirts.
In addition to the thin gene, I also suspected there was a gene for sophistication. It wasn’t about matching clothes or color coordinated purses and shoes—it was an overall air of coolness and careless style I just couldn’t seem to put my finger on.
There’s also a gene for ungreasy hair, which must be somehow connected to the no-sweating gene. Most Parisian women, I’d learned from Estelle, washed their hair a maximum of twice a week. My unruly American hair, on the other hand, became limp and heavy with residue after a mere half day roaming the city streets.
And then there’s the mystery of all mysteries—a perkiness gene, on peut dire, that allowed the women (mothers!) to go sans brassière whenever it suited them.
As I watched them from afar, I re-evaluated my pre-Parisian standards of motherhood. Prior to my trip, my plan for having babies had always been to get really skinny beforehand so I could afford to get fat during and after. But in Paris, the term “baby weight” was seemingly nonexistent. Not only must one remain ridiculously thin after childbirth, but ridiculously trendy as well. Got it. Will do. Even without babies, and despite my efforts at nanny chic, it was obvious I had a lot of work to do on my nanny appearance. Léonie and Constantin never hesitated to let me know when they thought my clothing was inappropriate. One day, when I thought it was okay to run out to the bakery in my sunwashed kelly green cotton capris, Constantin stopped me dead in my tracks at the front door and said something along the lines of, “No. Don’t wear that.” It’s amazing how intimidating a seven-year-old fashionista can be.
Léonie was less materially observant, but not less blunt. One evening after dinner, I asked the kids what they remembered about Sarah and if I reminded them of her.
“You have the same face,” Constantin confirmed.
“Except for the nose,” Léonie added, pantomiming my nose with a long, sloping motion and a slide trombone sound effect.
“Yeah,” Constantin agreed. “It goes like Pinocchio!” He cooed with laughter. I couldn’t help but laugh in amazement—the children were more aesthetically astute than I was. C’est la vie, I guess.
In those moments, I wondered just how I must have looked to those around me. In America, my J. Crew–laden wardrobe had seemed cute—casual, yet feminine. But whether I was in the Vladesco house, which was filled with Armani and Hermès, or in the schoolyard, surrounded by nannies and moms who looked as though they stepped straight out of the pages of Vogue, cute or feminine were far from the appropriate descriptions.
Léonie and Constantin saved me from my pity party, bounding through the school gates swinging their medals and awards from an eventful and hard-earned field day. It was finally the weekend, and just one more school day on Monday.
“Les vacances! Les vacances,” all of the school children proclaimed to the sky, to the tree tops, to anyone who would listen. I smiled, remembering the excitement that always came with summer vacation, and ushered my two darlings toward home. For me, summer vacation meant the kids would be home all day, taking my nannying duties from part time to full time. I was just getting used to one schedule, and now I would have to make yet another adjustment. But I had big plans. I’d saved Le Louvre, Le Musée d’Orsay, shopping at l’Opéra, cruising along the Seine—all the touristy things—to do with the kids. And most pressing, I wanted to take the kids to Notre Dame. It felt like forever since I’d been to church. But ritual and religion aside, it was Notre Dame, for crying out loud. I couldn’t wait to take them with me, to a morning mass perhaps, or a vigilant hour of prayer. I knew it would be sacred and something we all would remember forever. But for now, I wanted to go to sleep for the forty-eight hours until that Sunday morning time.
Weekdays in the Vladesco home may have been for working, but the weekends were all about family time. On Friday night, Estelle and Alex arrived home at their earliest hour yet, and Diane even abandoned her busy and very mysterious social life to have dinner with her family. With family time in full swing, I was relieved of my duties and left to unwind after my whirlwind first week on the job. Inspired by the chic schoolyard nannies, I donned my favorite pink jacket and new blue jeans—the best attempt I’d made at fashion since my disastrous first day—and set out for an evening walk. I should have been thrilled to have the free time and the gorgeous evening. It was Friday night and I was walking the streets of Paris.
But each time I caught my reflection in the passing shop windows, I looked larger and larger. This was not only due to the lithe French women surrounding me on the streets, but also to the fact that the summer heat was causing me to bloat. My fingers were turning into sausages. That, in combination with my disastrous first week, left me feeling exhausted, irritable, and more than a little homesick. The verdict was in: No matter what country you’re in, if your alone, Friday nights are fuel for depression. I just needed a little something to take the edge off, and a therapeutic American romantic comedy was my only hope for salvation and rejuvenation.
And so, on my first free night in the City of Light, I did not visit a museum, or watch the world pass by from a quaint outdoor café. Instead, I headed toward Fnac—a French store best described as an upscale combination of Best Buy and Barnes & Noble. Since I had no girlfriends to gossip with or love interest to pine for, I decided to buy my company for the evening, preferably of the Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan falling-in-love variety. Nothing gives the illusion of comfort and home like a favorite movie.
But when I arrived at Fnac, the building was dark, and I felt a familiar dread settle over me. It can’t be closed! It can’t be! But it was. And thus came my second lesson in Parisian business hours: In addition to being closed on Mondays, local shops and businesses close down early on Fridays. Lovely. Every café was bursting at the seams, but there was no hope for a lonely traveler seeking comfort in electronic media. I tur
ned toward home unaccompanied, discouraged. In the cafés, the tables were dressed up in pristine white tablecloths, and just hearing the laughter and chatter from the dinnertime crowds made me feel swallowed up by my own loneliness. Nearing home, I passed a video rental shop but I didn’t have the energy to (1) wait to complete the rental membership and (2) think, speak, and write en français.
But then, a few doors down, a sign on the dirty sidewalk caught my eye. It was a logo I’d cherished on many a lonesome Friday night . . . a sweet, sweet lullaby that had often sung me to sleep.
Ben and Jerry’s.
I almost wept with relief. I was saved by my own personal pint of strawberry cheesecake ice cream. Seven euros or not, it was priceless.
I spent the remainder of the evening in the nanny room, listening to the sounds of Friday in the city all around me. With every luscious spoonful, I felt more accompanied until there was no place I wanted to be more than in my bed eating ice cream. I was just drifting away on a cloud of sugary bliss when Estelle poked her head in to tell me she was leaving for her hometown of Beaune tomorrow, and would be back Sunday night late. In the meantime, I would have to watch over Constantin while Alex, Diane, and Léonie were at scuba lessons. Could I do that? Yes, Yes. I made sure to smile and nod in all the right places. She also informed me that Tuesday she and Alex both would be leaving for Normandy for a short vacation. Something about Alex wanting to skydive over the countryside. Bien sûr.
The thought of full-time nannying with Estelle and Alex out of reach was not as sweet a reality as my strawberry cheesecake ice cream. But cocooned in my nanny room with the entire weekend ahead of me, Tuesday seemed a billion days away. Besides, I still had half a tub of ice cream left so I decided to forget about it and indulge in the moment.
Au Paris Page 6