Paris without Parker, what does it mean?
No, no–I’m not talking about the Grand Carousel and the pink macarons and the manicured gardens that my baby will miss. At this age, I honestly think she’d prefer to watch Nick Jr. and nibble on fistfuls of my Mississippi Mud Cake than fight the foodies in line at Gerard Mulot and freeze her fanny off in the Rodin gardens. (I however, will happily do these things because I am her mother and I am a little crazy…)
I really want to know what it’ll feel like to get in a cab (without a babyseat), hop on a plane (without pre-emptively apologizing to everyone for Parker’s potential meltdown) and do what I want (sans sippy cups, butt wipes, Elmo and enough Vitamin D milk to sustain a small Nordic nation). Hopping a trans-Atlantic flight, drinking little bottles of free Bordeaux, and blissing out sounds so lovely right now as I hear her lungs wake from their afternoon nap…
But, then, three days in, as I’m settling into the quiet and the Paris nights…
Who’s going to wiggle out of my arms and drool on the silk when I’m all dressed up? Who’ll tug on my earrings, pick at my pantyhose and beg for little bowls of raisins and peanuts at 7 o’clock?
She’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. I’ll finally get some rest. And her daddy’s going to learn the ins and outs of pantyhose, lipstick and bangles.
(The Briscione girls in their Paris finest, Christmas Eve, 2010)