Change doesn’t didn’t used to phase me. I even welcomed because it brings adventure and rewards. But relocating to Paris had me flailing. Word on the street was that I’d feel settled after 3 months. Hmm. Then I heard 6 months. Nope. And then recently, I realized that I’d stopped wondering when my sea legs would arrive.
In reflecting back on what the tipping point might have been — that 5th trip to the ER (the EMT jokingly asked if I had a frequent flyer card) or having finally grown a tomato from seed or having learned to make palmiers in 5 minutes (no joke — best party trick ever — shared by a fiercely fabulous Parisian friend — Bringing Up Bébé must have been written about her). Well, community was the reason — more specifically, a network of local and expat moms. A “village”.
The “Mardi Gras” themed medal from 2016’s La Parisienne that easily made the run well worth the effort.
Before leaving Los Angeles, I asked our daycare’s director how to talk to my son about the move. She sensed my anxiety and said we could literally tell him the night before — knowing him/me/our family, he’d be fine. So when he said “I want to live in an apartment, not a house.” I said, “Done! Let’s learn French and find the best pain au chocolat while we’re at it.” She was right.
She predicted that my husband would be drinking from the firehose for quite some time but would likely have his own support network and resources (which he did) and that the kids would undoubtedly assimilate the language and culture without skipping a beat (which they did), but that I’d need patience, acceptance, reinvention, persistence, enthusiasm, humor, and grit. I’d feel our displacement the most. And for a long stretch, I did. I added a considerable amount of navy to my wardrobe, but unbelievably, this zebra couldn’t hide her non-Parisian stripes.
When meeting someone new, I am unaccustomed to them jumping straight to the topic of my husband’s career on the (albeit true) assumption that it had brought us to town. I wasn’t in a place where I found the humor in others’ self-deprecating jokes about “trailing spouses”. I was beyond grateful for the opportunity of it all, and was sure to preface anything I said with this statement for fear of what felt like inevitable judgment, but was struggling to keep my ego in check. Running my shrinking consultancy at half speed with clients/vendors many time zones away was (obviously, to everyone but me) incompatible with my new role of primary caretaker. I had to let go, to mourn the loss of what it had been, to acknowledge what it was evolving into, and to move on. It was my first baby — before my two kids — so hard to let go, but necessary.
Eventually, things started to click. People…specifically women…specifically moms… popped out of the woodwork. I began benefiting from the fabulous information-sharing that can only happen when someone has not only walked in your shoes, but done so just before you so they are still warm….especially those who value paying it forward…having benefited in this way themselves. Sororité. Through language classes, friends of (personal and professional) friends, the kids’ friends’ parents, online expat mom resources, a network started to take form. I have that community of ladies to thank. This summer, I attempted to enlist friends in an all-female run (La Parisienne). Success! A few weeks later, 40,000+ Mardi Gras themed participants/spectators ran and danced and laughed and high-fived along the Seine and through Paris. I happily and gratefully accepted the rose and the fabulous medal and the confetti at the finish line. And what they represented to me: having arrived.
