March 13, 2010

Miscellaneous things that I love about Paris and the kids' school:

1. Uncoached, Erin's friend Joseph rang the doorbell on Valentine's Day and handed her a single red rose.

2. The traffic report on the radio lasts about a half second; the French know how to drive and there are almost never any accidents on the road.

3. You don't have to tip or pay tax on what you buy, so you can completely forget all of the math you ever learned.

4. Elderly women dress beautifully. And they don't just pay attention to their own wardrobes; I have seen numerous women whose dogs wear coats that match their own.

5. I love watching Erin march through the metro system like she owns it, zooming down all the little tunnels, hopping on the train, finding us seats, pressing the button to get on and off.

6. Watching the girls scooter all over the city.

7. Perusing the class offerings at the gym. The latest: Sensual Moves, which is only open to women and is marketed as being "glamorous and relaxing." I don't know about you, but I think it sounds like a lot more fun than the elliptical.

8. The school, which is a little different from home. In Orinda, before school pictures are taken, you are asked to choose from among thirty possible combinations of wallet sized, portrait sized, billboard sized, etc. You can also order mugs, key chains, T-shirts, commemorative medals and the like. Then, you select a background according to your child's complexion, mood and/or the advice of the consultant you hired to do your his or her colors.

At EAB, you get a slip of paper that says: "We're taking pictures tomorrow, you get 5 wallets, three portrait sized and one bookmark. Do you want them or not?"

9. To mark International Women's Day , which was created to celebrate the increasing independence that women have achieved around the world, the school required all of the girls to wear skirts. Does anyone else see the irony here?

After our two-week break, we are back in the school routine. In the morning, I start easy and work my way up. I whisper to Claire, who leaps out of bed and proceeds to eat breakfast, get dressed, organize her bookbag, review her investments, all within about 15 minutes. Next comes Erin; a little tougher, but definitely doable. After I clarify what day it is, and which country we are in, she shuffles out to get her breakfast. She needs a few reminders, but generally keeps it moving. Then, fully caffeinated, I prepare myself for Megan. Having consulted that great parenting manual, 'The Art of War," I tell her it's time to get up. Light ground fire only. Eyes closed and still unconscious, she says "five more minutes." I leave, make the lunches, take another hit of coffee, don my flak jacket and go back in. "Five more minutes." Back out to the kitchen, tell Erin to get dressed, discuss recent interest rate and exchange rate dynamics with Claire, and take a deep breath (I've finished the coffee). I tell Claire and Erin "I'm going in," and give them a letter I've written to Rob in case I don't make it. Heavy artillery; I throw a stuffed animal at her and take her covers off. She sits up for a second, looks around, says "five more minutes," and pulls the covers over her head. Back out to the kitchen, where I start eyeing what's left of last night's wine pretty seriously. One final offensive. Shock and awe. I call for air cover. Back in, I yell and threaten. I have to say, not one of those silly parenting books I read before I discovered The Art of War mentioned these tactics. Yelling and threatening, it turns out, work extremely well. At least if the threat involves missing the bus which has all your thirteen-year-old's friends on it. I also turn on the overhead light and do a little strafing with motherly perkiness She really hates that. She finally sits up, scowls at me and says "I'm up," in a tone that suggests that I clearly lack the powers of observation to figure this out on my own. While I know I should sit down on the bed next to her, take her hand, look in her eyes and say, "when you speak to me like that, I feel disrespected," what I actually do is scowl back and retreat exhausted into the kitchen where I start eyeing the wine in earnest.

I spend the rest of the day writing. And shopping for more wine.