Jet lag. Boo.

So I just finished this book about French child rearing called Bringing Up Bébé.  Interspersed with some mildly humorous anecdotes and a few thought-provoking observations, the author explains the French phrase "faire ses nuits."  The French use this phrase, which means "to do his or her nights" to ask when your infant has begun to sleep through the night.

The point in the book is that the French have enculturated themselves to pause before responding to children.  It teaches the Gallic babes to self-soothe and sleep through the night at ages much younger than our Yankee, heathen children.  Continuing the pause teaches them to be self sufficient, team players and creative problem solvers.  Not bad for a parenting style that I'd refer to as "slacking."  I'm being facetious--it does have merits--but ignoring your kid is so non-current-US-Mom-approved it's just not funny.  We go so overboard in the other direction.  Truthfully a middle ground between the Frenchies and my style would be a great solution.

Back to the topic: Helena is not faireing her nuits here in France yet.  Neither am I.  She stayed awake for most of the overnight flight and slept most of yesterday.  I slept very little on the flight, napped a wee bit during the day and then passed out, exhausted, at 10:30 PM.  She shuffled into and out of our room for a few hours until finally, I cuddled her to sleep (while completely awake) at 2 AM, about two hours ago.

So now she's asleep, along with the rest of the family, and I'm chatting with you.


Jet lag's a funny thing.  I never had it much when I was younger.  My strategy has always been to get on local time ASAP.  I used to avoid napping and stay up until a reasonable time that first day, even if it made me miserable.  Bryan takes the "sleep when you body wants to" strategy to extremes.  I always thought that counter-intuitive. 

But he's sawing logs and I'm typing, so who's the dope now?

Deja vu! (deja smelled is more like it)

One of the funniest things about our last house is that I HATED it with a fiery passion when we first moved in.  My main complaint was that it was an olfactory assault from start to finish.  The living room had a stale fireplace scent.  Something large and furry had clearly expired in the refrigerator.  The carpets were stained by strangers and smelled like you'd imagine that smelling.  The basement was a dank, mildewy stench-pit.  Lastly, the well water hadn't been used in three months and was, as you'd expect, stinky.  I remember taking a shower before bed that first night and crying because I was scared my hair would smell like well water going forward.

After about a week, everything smelled like I wanted it to--except the fireplace.  I scrubbed the fridge, we used enough water to flush the well, the carpets took on our scent and the A/C made the basement livable.

So it's with great optimism that I report the smells of our French apartment.  I hope that after three days, it'll start smelling like the Wright Family.  Right now it's got a faintly "I didn't cook that" scent.  The worst offender is, unfortunately, in the kitchen.  There seems to be a garbage chute under the oven.  The whole kitchen, well, it reeks.  We discovered that if we keep the door shut when we're not in there, you don't notice it in the rest of the apartment.  I actually am considering buying some tape to tape it shut.  I'll carry out my bags of garbage instead.  In the meantime, I breathe through my nose.

But honestly, how ridiculous to have a French kitchen smelling like that?  It's not a garbage smell--it's sort of an "interior belly of the building" scent.  Creosote, tar from roofing, old dust and heat.

Six days ago, I left that old smelly house--and was sad.  My family had inhabited it, taken over the smells and thrived there.  I hope to say the same of this apartment--and soon!

J'habite Paris!

 

When they make the movie of this experience, the montage of our arrival in France MUST be done in sped-up shots.  The only slow part was the wait when we first got to the Grand Rapids airport.  It took forever to check our bags and get our seats assigned (mercifully three together and one separate--more on that later). 

Quick #1: We grabbed a snack and made it through security in record time.  There were all of two flights leaving Grand Rapids, so the airport had an abandoned air about it.

Quick #2: The flight to Chicago was 45 minutes, so the flight attendant only offered drinks if you rang the bell to ask.  As expected, nobody did.

Quick #3: Our connecting flight to Paris left one hour to the minute after our Chicago arrival.  We had just enough time to find the gate, stop at the restroom and let the kids make friends with another girl on the flight.  Then we hopped on board.

Not-so-quick #4: 8 hour transatlantic flight.  Olivia slept like a champ, Helena evidently had an espresso while we weren't looking and stayed awake to watch three movies.  Since I seem to get sick on planes now (and I did last night), the good thing was having Bryan in a middle row with the girls flanking him.  I was on the aisle seat of the same row, but the rows were offset such that I was behind them.  The girls couldn't have behaved better, so it wasn't a big deal that I was a bit queasy throughout the flight.

Quick #5: Clearing passport control took all of five minutes.  No more stupid papers to fill out with your name, passport number and address in France.  Lovely.

Quick #6: Since our luggage was last on, it was first off.

Quick (and fun!) #7: For the first time ever, I got off a plane and was looking for someone to be holding my name written on a piece of paper.  We didn't arrange for a limo, dangit, but we did have a nice Vietnamese man pick us up.  The whole "French with a Vietnamese accent" thing threw me a bit, but we got our points across and got to the apartment.

Quick #8: While the rest of the crew slept, I walked 20 feet across from our front door into a large indoor mall area.  I hopped into the giant grocery store and picked up a few staples: rotisserie chicken, Camembert, cornichons (the girls loved them the last time we were here), Nutella (ditto), cereal, milk, salad and an inaugural bottle of St. Emilion--our favorite, nostalgic-choice wine.

Note to the Future Director of Anne's French Adventure (working title), all this should take less than a minute.  Suggested music: The Chicken Dance or something similarly frenetic.  Maybe a hora, think Zorba the Greek, that speeds up as the credits roll on the black screen.  Then as the song really takes off, we see the check in procedures begin and speed through the scene.

58 boxes

We're leaving for the airport in 26 minutes, but I have to share the final moving story.  The take-home is that most of my earthly possessions now fit into 58 labeled plastic bins.  They are in my mom's basement along with our two dressers, a bathroom cabinet, some tools and an induction cooktop.

Packing our house was a giant pain in the butt.  Since we knew back in December that we were moving April 1, we started early.  Which was a necessity since we needed to decide what to sell and donate, but a huge complicating factor.  At every turn, I had to decide:
1.  Do I keep this, sell it, donate it?
2.  If keeping, do I store it now or later?
3.  Is it potentially going to France?

For every stinkin' item.  Cheese shredder: keeping, storing now in box to go to Mom's.  Wine opener: keeping, using now, storing at Mom's later.  Salad spinner: selling and making jokes about for weeks.

Just use your imagine and you'll know how much of a pain this is.  How much lotion do you need for three months in the U.S., two weeks in Costa Rica and then three months in France?  Dental floss?  Razor blades?  On and on.  Allergy medicine was easy.

In the end, it all fit, it's all packed and we're ready to go.  But if I ever have to do a three-stage packing process like this again, I'm just going to lob a grenade at my crap and take the insurance check.

Bombs away!

Farewell Zumba Party

Music is so important to me.  It always has been and always will be.  I am picky and particular.  I like what I like and loathe everything else.  I don't enjoy concerts unless I know the band.  Live music leaves me cold, for the most part.  I gave our wedding DJ a list of approved songs--not just bands, but particular songs.

In my defense, I like the B-52's "Roam," but if she'd played "Love Shack" the bride would have vomited profusely.  Nobody wants that at a reception.

So imagine the fun of choosing my own personal Zumba class playlist for my farewell class!  I invited all my Zumba friends, instructors and mentors.  I picked one song that I associate with each instructor and asked them to come up front to teach with me during "their" song.  I thought I'd cry the whole time, but it was exactly the opposite.  It was pure joy dancing one last time with each person: Chris, Jenn, Heather, Bill, Melissa, Michelle, Sarah,  Sony and Jeanne--the one who started us all on this path.  I'm sure I forgot someone in that list--sorry.

But you get the point.  Again, just like at the party at my house, it's the people who make the event.  I loved teaching a bit, sharing the spotlight in turn with all my Zumba girlz and boyz and then looking behind me at the big crew who came out to share in this terrific class.

If I could get married all over, I would want that class to be my wedding reception.  Yeah, yeah, weddings should be about the groom too, and Bryan doesn't Zumba, but man, that was sure a great class!

As always, thank you to everyone who has made Columbus so much harder to leave.  We love you!

Final house party

We threw a goodbye party at our house and it was terrific (if I say so myself)!  And since it's my damned blog, I AM going to say so.  It was terrific.

Many who know me won't believe this, but I'm an introvert.  Yeah, once you get to know me I talk a lot and seem like an extrovert, but truthfully, I'm the dork at the party hiding in a corner, calculating how long I have to stay before I can go home and snuggle up in my fleece PJs.  But throwing your own party is the perfect antidote to this.  You invite only people you know, so it's entirely easy and comfortable.  Voila!

The funny part was the decor--or lack thereof.  We were leaving for two weeks in Costa Rica after the party, so we had cleaned out the pantry and fridge.  After Costa Rica, we would have only a day and a half there, so we had packed up all our decor items.  We had sold most of the furniture.  Imagine arriving at a party where there are a few chairs, two couches and some pizza.  Nothing on the walls, few lamps, no fire in the fireplace....  Our theme could be described and modern minimalist/skeletal, I believe.

But the party proved the adage that it's the people, not the material crap, that make events fun.  We had such a blast talking and laughing, simply appreciating each other's company.  I wished we'd entertained more in that house, but hindsight's always like that, isn't it?

So my challenge to you, upon finishing this blog post, is to pick a date sometime in the next three weeks and invite three friends over.  It truly doesn't matter if it's for food, drinks or watching some crappy reality TV show.  Just get out there and connect--it's what's really important in life.

OK--1, 2, 3, go!

The LONG Au Revoir

First, I must thank my friends for not turning me in to the Suicide Prevention Hotline people.  Since December, I have been giving away, selling and donating my earthly possessions at a rapid pace.

Second, I must thank my friends for listening to an endless stream of potential outcomes of my life.  We leave for Paris in an hour and I still don't know where I'm living in a month.  You all know me, I'm a planner.  I make Excel spreadsheets of what to pack to go on vacation.  I like lists.  I plan for everything (but somehow find myself in Costa Rica for two weeks without a thermometer when my kid spikes a huge fever, go figure).

Third, I thank you all for saying goodbye to me for the last three months.  I have had many wonderful lunches, dinners, playdates, Facebook chats, emails and phone calls from you all.  It has made this process so much easier.

I started to feel guilty before Zumba classes.  I'd swing over to class and somebody would invariably ask, "When are you leaving?"  I kept having to answer, "Not quite yet."  It felt funny to have the date set, but to be a few weeks off.  January was the longest month of my life.  February was the second longest.  March flew by in about three hours.

My point here ("Finally," they cry...) is that getting to do this whole goodbye thing slowly has been a real blessing.  I have had the chance to meet with lots of people invidividually, get my hugs, share my stories and catch up on your lives.  It has made every one of them less tearful and more joyful than I'd anticipated.  My advice to anyone in a similar situation is to take a few months to make any major change--if you have the luxury.

Or disappear overnight so you can avoid it all, right?  Nah, I'd not trade my long goodbyes for anything.  Except maybe a job for my husband.  But more on that soon, I hope.