I stood at the kitchen island, elbows tucked in as I chopped vegetables. My sister was on my left, her six month pregnant belly getting splashed by the dishes she was washing. My mom stood on my right, shucking corn and tucking the scraps into a large metal bowl.
The three of us seemed to hum together as one, as if the universe was telling us that when we were together, we were powerful, loved, synonymous. I felt this energy suddenly, and it filled my heart with gratitude. I looked up, caught off-guard by the sudden flood of emotions.
I peered across to the dining room, where my 14 month old son was being tended to by both my father and my father-in-law as he played with his food in his highchair. Cackles from my toddler filled the room as my brother-in-law crawled on all fours, chasing him to the living room. My husband and mother-in-law were bringing in groceries from the car, smiling at their treasure trove of Aperol Spritz ingredients. Music played, and my eyes filled.
I placed my hand on my heart. “This,” I said. “This is what we came back for.” My sister and my mom stopped their tasks abruptly, sweeping me in their arms, their adoring eyes sending even more love into my already full heart.
There is something about being back around family that makes me feel more like myself – more able, more confident. Looking back, though surrounded by incredible moms and friends and people, its true that there was some form of isolation in another country which is hard to admit until leaving.
It was hard leaving Paris after nearly three years. We had only been back in the US for about a month or so, but parts of it were already feeling very normal. The first couple days were strange. We ate food that made us feel groggy and sore, people spoke English to us, and the casual dress of Americans felt foreign. We expected to see people constantly smoking - which was a relief when we remembered this wasn’t the case here in the US - and we enjoyed not constantly looking out for dog poop on the sidewalks, as one does in Paris.
We noticed that the causality between customers and professionals seemed to teeter on unprofessional compared to our Parisian standards, and we marveled at how big everything was. The elevators could fit our luggage and a stroller. The portion sizes were enough to feed a family. Coffees would no doubt go cold before I could finish them.
Our children became confused by the seemingly constant availability of food, yet they grinned at cement fairies in flower beds (“Statue!!!!”) and made requests for museums, baguettes and croissants. Our toddler, now two and half, asks for his daycare worker by name daily, and still calls “cow” by its French name, “vache”.
We were terribly worried about the transition to using a car (vs walking everywhere), but were happily surprised when our son’s car sickness magically disappeared once we hit US soil; both babies eventually agreed that cars were the perfect place to nap.
At the same time, we continue to use strollers (“pousettes”, the French word for strollers, has stuck in our family as our go-to word) to get groceries as we walk to the store a few days a week. Other moms have commented on how content the children seem in their strollers compared to other babies, and its easily to attribute this to the consistent stroller walks.
Though I was a bit scared of being home with the kids (we could afford full time child care in France, but barely afford part time here), it has felt like the comfortable, slow-paced life I dreamt of. We walk to the library at the end of the street, we plant vegetables in our garden, and we explore the local parks. We visit grandma and grandpa every day and there’s usually a few visits a week from my sister and brother-in-law. Our toddler knows that the animal crackers are from Nana (my grandma), and he knows that “Big Grandpa” (my grandpa) plays cards with my dad once a week.
We found a French-speaking babysitter, and our toddler’s French seems to spring back every time he sees her. I start my French lessons this fall through a local college with the hope to return to Paris one day, whether to live or to visit. Bon courage to me!
While we miss the fresh baguette from our local Paris bakery, my mom has nearly perfected the technique (over many hours) due to her immense love for us and her desire to help us feel a smoother transition back “home” (we feel we have a few homes, now).
Friends in the US are so glad to see us, yet also give us welcomed space to reintegrate and settle. Friends in France send voice notes which bring physical relief to my body and kisses to my soul – their voices are like hearing an old song which brings comfort and cheer.
We are so, so grateful for our last three years in Paris – they have shaped us as humans and as parents, and our lives are forever pivoted because of it. As a nurse, I also feel the new burn inside which reminds me that a better life is available for us all, if we can agree to share resources and demand more from those in power (be it healthcare, cost of living, childcare hosts, housing, public transportation…but more on that another time).
For now, we are satisfied with playing in the backyard, people watching on the front porch, and reading books with each other. Our family hopes to incorporate the things we loved about European living into our life here (which could be a whole additional discussion and is always on my mind).
We are grateful for our support systems; they held us from afar while we navigated parenting in Paris, and can now give us real, in-person hugs. At the same time, I ache to hug my best friends in Paris, yet I still feel their support from here.
We are still navigating so many things, but the most important reason we came back – family- has been so fulfilling. In fact, I haven’t laughed so hard in so long… but that’s what happens when I get to spend time with my sister!
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