On Rue Tatin

  Since there is no taboo in France on alcohol during pregnancy, it didn’t surprise me in the least when one friend set down a bottle of homemade prune brandy that was at least 90 proof. “We shall all drink to your baby,” she said as I went out to the kitchen to boil water for herb tea. Champagne was one thing, moonshine another. One friend whose husband is a baker had brought petits fours, and each woman had brought a gift. Edith gave me hers first. It was a jacket big enough for a two-year-old, absolutely adorable. “I had to get it for you, Suzanne, it’s just your colors,” she said. Magaly, who owns an antique store, offered me a vintage turquoise ashtray. I must have looked stunned. “I admit it,” she said. “I had no idea what we were doing and what this was about. I just picked this up off the shelf before I came.” Lise-Marie gave me a little cookbook from New Caledonia, where she and her husband were about to move, and Chantal gave me tiny dance slippers filled with sugared almonds. Héloïse handed me a pink and white stuffed rabbit and a small truck for Joe, and Anne-Marie gave me a stack of bibs she had hurriedly made. They were all laughing and giggling and just the slightest bit ill at ease. Finally Anne-Marie turned to me and said, “What exactly is this all about, this fête you Americans have among women?”

  “C’est une fête entre copines pour donner du courage à la femme enceinte,” I explained. I went on to give an entire cultural explanation about the solidarity of women in the United States. My friends looked blank. I could tell they didn’t get it, and from my experience of pregnancy in France I understood why. First of all, the original point of a shower was to make sure the expectant mother had all she needed for the baby before it arrived, but in France that simply isn’t necessary. For one thing, the state gives a sum of money to women in about the seventh month of pregnancy if they prove themselves financially eligible (i.e., middle class). This sum is enough to purchase almost everything needed for a baby including stroller, bassinet, bed, and changing table. If family members can’t supply everything else, friends can.

  From my point of view, showers are about friendship and solidarity among women. It is also a chance to spend time with friends knowing that once the baby arrives time will be the most rare of commodities. I’m sure this point of view is one result of age. Anticipating a baby at forty-three, I found, one needs all the courage, reassurance, and support one can get.

  In any case, little of this made sense among my French friends. Here, the older mother is a rare breed. Times are changing, of course, but my friends are still the norm, and they had most of their children in their twenties. While I was pregnant they were looking forward to getting their youngest children out of the house, and some were even anticipating being grandmothers, yet we were all, except for Héloïse, within five years of the same age. We had a wonderful time, anyway.

  Edith raised her glass and said, “Let’s drink, to Suzanne, to the baby, to all of us who have no more babies and will watch Suzanne with hers and be thankful it isn’t us!”

  We all shared a laugh and spent the rest of the evening talking and laughing some more until Héloïse looked at me and said, “All right everyone, we need to go. Suzanne is tired.” She was right, I was exhausted but I was sorry to see them go. Edith gave me a brisk hug and said, “OK, Suzanne, you can have the baby now. We’ve been here and given you your shower.” Everyone left with hugs and kisses, wishing me the best.

  The next day I was working in the living room and Joe and Michael were outside. Joe walked in, closed the door, and came over to me. “Mama,” he said, seriously. “Papa and I have decided that we like the name Fiona for the baby. We want her to be called Fiona.” I looked at him and cried. I could tell my date was nearing as I cried at just about everything!

  Less than forty-eight hours later I awoke at 5:30 in the morning with that telltale feeling that is akin to an inner earthquake. I got up, put the finishing touches on an essay I was writing, cleared off my desk, and wrote a note to Joe. I cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen and when I was certain that it was time to go to the clinic, I went upstairs to wake Michael and Joe.

  Within an hour Joe was safely ensconced at a friend’s house and Michael and I were threading our way through morning traffic to Mont-St-Aignan, just outside Rouen, where the clinic is. We’d practiced every possible route to get there and we knew the quickest way.

  I had received a packet of information when I registered at the clinic six months earlier stating exactly what I should bring to the birthing room. Héloïse had helped me translate it—I hadn’t been sure if I really needed a wool body or if cotton was all right, nor did I understand some of the other things on the list, but she set me straight. So I had my blue and white flowered bag with the little outfit the baby would wear after birth as well as my own pajamas and overnight things. I also had decided to read the collected short stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald while I was in the clinic, a tome that weighed about as much as a newborn, and that was tucked into the bag as well. Following directions, I had packed another bag for my stay with more clothes, bath towels, and additional baby clothes, all required by the clinic, and both were tucked in the car.

  We arrived and checked into the clinic and I was immediately examined by a midwife I had never met who looked about sixteen. “You are definitely on the way, but it’s not immediate,” she said. “I want you to wait two hours and I’ll examine you again to see if we need to keep you or if you can go home.”

  We were shown to a pale blue bedroom with two beds and windows facing a garden and a courtyard. We both rested and read, then I went in for more tests. She didn’t think the birth was imminent, but didn’t want me to go home. “I’d rather you stayed here if you can,” she said. “A drive in the car wouldn’t be good for you.” I inwardly groaned. She then looked at me seriously. “Madame Loomis, I must tell you two things,” she said. “You may not get into the warm bath we have available because your waters have broken and it wouldn’t be healthy for the baby. And I am sorry to say that our anesthesiologists are on strike so no epidurals are being administered.”

  I just looked at Michael. I hadn’t fully decided on either a warm bath or anesthesia, but knowing both of these venues of comfort were closed to me was a bit disappointing.

  A nurse came in to see if I needed anything and brought us both tea, then took our order for lunch. We ate cold salmon and salad off trays, then accepted the espresso and yogurt offered for dessert.

  As the afternoon wore on I slept and Michael went home to check on Joe and the house. At four-thirty a knock on the door announced a matronly woman who asked if I wanted a petit goûter, a little snack. I wasn’t hungry but I was curious so I ordered a hot chocolate. She brought in a big steaming bowl with several crackers alongside, and a yogurt. She set it by the bed, plumped my pillow, and whispered, “Bon appétit.” I drank the chocolate and fell immediately back to sleep, as if I were in a warm cocoon. No one bothered me. I had a button to call the midwife if anything happened, and no responsibilities except to wait for the momentous event.

  Afternoon turned to evening and I started having contractions. Michael hadn’t returned and I called home, but he wasn’t there either. I called the midwife and a new face appeared, one older and more confidence-inspiring. She was brisk and efficient, gave me a quick exam, and a knowing smile. “It won’t be long now, I don’t think. You just relax in here and call me if anything happens.”

  Michael returned and dinner was served. I nibbled, too nervous and excited to eat. There was no turning back now, the mechanisms were all en route.

  After the dinner tray was removed we were chatting when suddenly a contraction shook me from head to toe. This was serious, and from then on they came regularly and hard. We didn’t call the midwife, however, for they weren’t often. An hour later, however, the floodgates broke and I called the midwife. I was about to give birth, and I was still fully dressed. She rushed in the room, took one look, and said, “Madame Loomis, can you walk?” In the throes of a contraction I shook my head, and she raced out to ge
t a wheelchair, wheeling it in as if she were driving in the Indy 500. “MADAME LOOMIS, DON’T HAVE THE BABY HERE,” she cried, helping me into the chair and racing me back down the hall with Michael running along beside us. “I BEG YOU, HOLD ON!!!” she said. I pause here to say to all doctors and midwives it is useless to counsel a woman to hold on when she is about to give birth for no urge is more primeval, more immediate, more unstoppable. It is wasted breath.

  We did make it to the birthing room and somehow I got out of my clothes and onto a table. The room was attractive, a burgundy color on one wall, a gentle turquoise on another. The light was low, the ambience calm. An assistant midwife was there to help. Just getting settled was an immense relief and with the four of us working hard, talking some and laughing now and then the baby was born twenty minutes later. The midwife placed her immediately on my chest, a tiny, golden little thing with a halo of fuzz for hair. Fiona Rose Marie Alice Herrmann Loomis. The sister Joe had dreamed of. The daughter Michael and I had hardly dared hope for. She was perfect. She was beautiful. She had arrived very gently.

  Sometime in the middle of the night I was released from the birthing room and Michael and the assistant midwife wheeled Fiona and me up to our pale pink room. There, awaiting me, was a full three-course meal, which I couldn’t even look at. I was impressed, though. Everything had been thought of except for one important thing. There was no place for Michael to stay. I asked the nurse about a cot and she looked horrified. “Oh non, le papa ne peut pas rester.” “Oh no, the father can’t stay. That isn’t allowed.” Michael and I were shocked. He should have just slept in the armchair in the room—I’m sure no one would have thrown him out. But the nurse was so firm that he stayed for an hour or so then dragged himself home.

  Other than missing Michael and Joe, the five days in the clinic remain the most pleasant of dreams. Fiona and I had a room to ourselves, she in a clear, Plexiglas crib, me in a very narrow, adjustable bed, and the staff of nurses were there for our comfort. Each day I had a lesson in how to bathe the baby, and how to care for her and myself. They urged me to leave Fiona with them at night so I would sleep—I wouldn’t hear of it—and told me if I wanted to take a walk, or sleep, or telephone they would happily watch her. I was fed three delicious meals a day accompanied either by beer or by hard cider, and every morning a brisk efficient maid came in and cleaned the room from top to bottom. I was so thirsty I thought I would die and asked Michael to bring me Orangina, which I love. I was happily sipping some when one of the nurses came in and looked at it, horrified! “Oh, madame, ce n’est pas bon pour le bébé. Non, il ne faut pas boire ça.” “Madame, this is very bad for the baby, oh no, you mustn’t drink that.” I was so disappointed. I’d remembered from nursing Joe that there were many foods that were potentially upsetting, but I would never have guessed Orangina was one. “Oh oui, madame, tous les boissons gazeuses sont mauvaises.” She was telling me that all fizzy drinks were bad. Why then, I wondered, was hard cider one of the drink options on the menu?

  Gym classes were offered twice a week to new mothers, so two days after Fiona was born I left her with the nurses and went downstairs to “work out” with a kinestherapist who demonstrated how to get back in shape. The rest of the time I slept, read, and looked at or fed Fiona.

  Joe and Michael came every day, and visitors began arriving almost immediately. I was shocked when the first group arrived. I was barely awake and somewhat disheveled and in they walked, two children and their parents, bearing gifts. It was lovely to see them but the last thing I wanted. The stream was, however, unstoppable. Some of the people who came were close friends, others were simply acquaintances, and all were motivated by the sheer joy of seeing a new baby. It is, I learned, a French custom to visit a new mother in the clinic. It is also a custom for the new mother to call people she knows to announce the birth. How, I wondered, is a new mother supposed to work up the energy and concentration to call people and announce the birth? I certainly didn’t have it. But then I thought about the way the French social security system is set up for new mothers and I figured perhaps that was how they had the energy. A pregnant woman gets six weeks paid leave before the baby arrives and two months minimum leave afterwards. If there are extenuating circumstances—the baby is still nursing or eating at irregular hours, the mother isn’t feeling up to returning to work—the leave can be extended by two weeks. If the woman already has two children, she is allowed a three-year, partially paid leave for each successive child with the guarantee of a job when she returns.

  My room filled with the baby clothes everyone gave as gifts, which Michael would cart home with him each day. I loved seeing people but was jealous of the peace and quiet of the clinic and was tempted to press the occupé, or busy, button at the side of my bed, which would cause a red light to go on outside my door. I didn’t do that, but I did take the phone off the hook.

  Joe was ecstatic over his sister, but even more excited about the bed, which he would raise and lower with the little button on my bedside table. I got out of it while he was in the room so he could play with it at will. Fiona, the little crevette, or shrimp, in the bassinet, was a real curiosity to him, but all she did was sleep or curl her fist and emit a squeak or two. She would have to become a lot more entertaining before he’d be ready to take an interest.

  Nurses stopped in at all times during the day to check on me and the baby, and they met Michael and Joe. One of them started discussing stamps with Joe and the next day brought him an envelopeful for his collection. The following day he brought her some of his. They were all wonderful, cheerful, maternal women who were so experienced they transferred their confidence to every new mother. They couldn’t get over how long Fiona was—twenty-three inches. I could hear them talking about it down the hall. Although that isn’t particularly long for an American baby, it evidently is for the French variety.

  The nursing wasn’t going as smoothly as the midwife thought it should, so she looked at me seriously and said she would not let me go home until she was sure all was well, which might mean an extra couple of days in the clinic. I was torn. I wanted to be home but loved the comfort and peace of the clinic. We agreed to wait until day five to see how it was going. As it happened, all was going well, so I prepared myself to check out. The midwife came in and asked at what time I’d be leaving. “My husband will be here around noon,” I said. “Well, then you’ll be wanting to have lunch with us—I’ll go order it for you.”

  I didn’t protest, though I wasn’t sure I’d be hungry, but when the nurse brought in a steaming bowl of fragrant pot au feu I couldn’t resist. Each meal had been better than the last, from the lentils with garlicky sausages to the roast pork. My favorite day had been Sunday, though. Instead of the usual baguette and butter for breakfast I was served croissants and a pain au chocolat along with what had become my ritual rich and delicious bowl of hot chocolate. Lunch was perfectly roasted lamb with potatoes and green beans and a chocolate éclair for dessert, which I saved for Joe. He and Michael arrived in the afternoon with brioches and champagne—it was Valentine’s Day—and we had a little party in our room. Dinner that night was fragrant brandade and a potato gratin, both delicious and comforting.

  The midwife signed my release form and gave me my livret de famille, or family book, where Michael’s and my marriage is registered and where there are ten pages reserved for registering children. I hadn’t registered Joe in it because he was born in the United States, though I’d reserved a page for him. I flipped through it to see Fiona’s page and realized that the official who had inscribed her names into the book had left one out. I mentioned it to one of the nurses who was aghast. “You’d better go to city hall across the street right now,” she said. “Here, I will take the baby.”

  As I ran out I wondered if I really had to rush to do this or if she simply wanted to hold Fiona for a while, so happy had she been to take her from me!

  It took less than a half hour to put things right and I was ready with all of
my bags packed. Michael arrived with a huge bouquet of flowers, which he gave the nurses, and I shed a tear or two as I told them good-bye.

  Michael tucked us into the car and we drove home, ready to begin our lives anew with our wonderful baby girl.

  When we arrived home from the hospital I carried Fiona inside and Joe threw himself at us, so happy to have us home. My mother and father had just arrived that same day to stay for several weeks, and it was thanks to my mother’s efforts that the house smelled temptingly of roast chicken and vegetables. They admired Fiona as I placed her in the lace-lined wicker couffin, the comfortable basket that would be her bed for the first several months.

  My mother shooed us all to the table and served lunch. Fiona slept through the festivities—my parents are a cheerful couple and it was a lively meal. In fact, she was so silent it was hard to remember she was there, though Joe kept popping up from the table to look at her.

  In the weeks that followed, my sister came to visit and friends stopped by continuously, flooding us with clothing and gifts for Fiona. Soon stuffed animals filled every available corner of the house. We had more people at the house in those first weeks after Fiona and I came home than we had had in our entire time in Louviers, as parents of Joe’s schoolmates, neighbors, schoolteachers, several of the nuns from the convent down the street, shopkeepers and friends came to see the baby. In general, we had noticed that acquaintances, such as parents who drop their children off to play, were reluctant to come into the house. Fiona’s arrival changed all that, as people came, admired, and stayed.

  It became apparent quite early on that, as Joe had been the neighborhood toddler, Fiona was to become the neighborhood baby, growing up at ease with the shopkeepers and characters of our life in Louviers.