Paris in Love (20 page)

Anna and I were in a department store, weighing the merits of a stuffed penguin over a stuffed possum, when we were accosted by Santa Claus. This skinny, insistent Santa just wouldn’t quit; he wanted a picture with Anna. Having been a micro-preemie, she’s quite petite. But in her head she’s a young lady of eleven, and young ladies do not sit on the laps of strange Santas. “You know what, Mama?” she said when he was finally banished. “That man was weird.” And, a moment later, “I bet French Santas drink too much wine.”

The rain comes down every day here; my umbrella is as crucial as my wallet. My favorite adaptation to the wet weather is babies in bright red backpacks that have four posts to hold little red canopies over their heads. They look like plump Indian rajas swaying along, atop paternal elephants.

Anna and I walked past yet another homeless man and his dog today. “He’s a wiener dog!” said Anna. One look and I said, “No,
she’s
a mama wiener dog.” A wild scream followed. “Mama! She has puppies! Tiny puppies!” Sure enough … nine—
nine
—tiny, tiny puppies were inside the box on a warm grate. Two days old, according to their owner. We gave him all our change.

We went with friends to the Champs-Élysées tonight for the first time since Christmas lights were put up. Trees all the way down the avenue are lit with tiny pale blue lights that slide downward, as if a lazy, bluish rain were falling.

Back in the States, we had a terrible time getting the kids up in time for church, often ending in most impious battles. Here we employ the mighty power of chocolate. I announce that if they rise immediately, we have time to go to a café for hot chocolate and croissants … then we walk through the chilly morning to a café and sit, fingers curled around big mugs of sweet chocolate, before we run to Saint-Eugène–Sainte-Cécile.

Our comfort food after a tough day at school is Japanese curry—specifically, Golden Curry made with five onions microwaved into pale, translucent, lettucelike pieces, as taught by my Japanese sister-in-law, Chiemi. The children gobble it the way a fat Frenchman gobbles foie gras: with concentration and delight.

At fifteen, Luca has left “Mama” behind and now calls me “Mom,” whereas Anna still howls “Mama!” across the whole apartment. It occurred to me yesterday that the day will come when no one will call me “Mama,” and I won’t realize it that day, or even the day after, just as I have no memory of Luca’s last “Mama.” There are so many Last Times in parenting—the last book read aloud, the last nursing session, the last bath.

We have guests visiting from Florence, so parts of the family trekked to the top of Notre-Dame, about 380 steps. I stayed at ground level, tucked into a café, watching rain splash on chilled tourists. The children descended again very excited: on the very top of the cathedral the first snowflakes of the season had drifted into their hands, although down below there was nothing but rain.

A few days ago, Anna’s Italian teacher burst into tears, which Anna credited to general class naughtiness. So today Domitilla showed up in a dress, according to Anna, and presented the teacher with a fancy notebook and three pencils “from the class” to make up for their misbehavior. Anna is very scornful of this effort.

Window shopping today at Nina Ricci: cream-colored silk pumps, with six-inch-high cork heels, from which pearls dangled. The shoes reminded me of a Christmas ornament I once made as a child, with stick pearls and a Styrofoam ball. A Kmart special for the very rich.

I have figured something out about living with a teenager: most conversations will not be successful, if that definition implies a meaningful exchange. If I snap, my fifteen-year-old son snarls back at me. If I’m in a good mood, I’ll coax a sentence out … though if I ask what’s happened at school, the answer is always: “Nothing.” Leonardo da Vinci High School, otherwise known as the Black Hole of Paris.