midnight mommies

Fleeing the Bed Bugs

Midnight Mama — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 10:00:48 +0000

The signs weren’t obvious at first. (Or were they?) The track of little bumps across Bob’s forehead as if an ant brigade had visited in the night. Another bite here, and then there, across his forearm. His legs. His chest. Oh my God, what was happening? Had they arrived while we were sleeping? Was it spider bites? Mosquito’s munching? Or something far worse…bugs that lived in the bed. Punaises de lit as they would be called in French.

But it couldn’t be. No. Those things didn’t live in the “civilized” world…not in the West. Had we heard of an outbreak a few months earlier in New York? In Philly? (A distant memory, yes.) But not in France. Who would imagine that such creatures could outlast the chicness of the place, the sophistication.

It was our first night in a new apartment in Montpellier, France, after we had had to depart our home there of three weeks’ paradise for another vacationing family of much more organized ability–they having reserved that location far in advance unlike us who had merely stumbled upon it last minute.

The new apartment, owned by the same proprietor as our previous place, seemed solid and satisfactory, even if it was a bit of a stepchild–smaller, less airy, more beige. We weren’t expecting insects or infestations in any case. And since only Bob had gotten the red bumps–not me who had slept on the same mattress–surely they weren’t bed bugs.

We took a wait-and-see approach because, well, it was probably nothing (and, really, who wanted to move again to another apartment???).

Morning 1. Some bites, that’s strange.

Morning 2. Are there more bites? That’s weird. I think there are.

Morning 3. Oh shit. I found some bug carcasses on the floor that matched the photos on the Internet. Not just near our bed, but near Avery’s sleeping pad on the floor. An examination of her skin revealed two suspicious bites on her precious back and bottom.

“Not to my baby you don’t.” And with that it was decided–we were leaving.

As with every great escape, there were things taken and things lost. Our clothes came with us after being boiled at the laundromat for a life’s savings worth of Euros. Bob’s bug-bitten body came too, though it would irritate him for days with it’s itchiness.

Left behind? The congenial friendship we had made with the landlord, now broken after we strong-armed her into returning our money. A bottle of perfume I had bought for the nanny as a going away gift–forgotten in the chaos. Scores of just-purchased pantry items and food leftovers deposited in the trash since we’d be moving to a hotel without a fridge or a kitchen.

On our amazing trip overseas, it was the inevitable nadir to the zenith. Not that it was such a surprise, in a general sense anyway. There is always one day (or one week) where it all falls apart when you’re traveling, where the twinkling lights fall off of the trees like rotten berries.

But we survived. I sprayed some anti-itch cream on Bob’s war-torn body and he attempted to stop going to town with his scratching. We found an adorable little hotel outside of Montpelier in Carnon-Plage…on the beach, with a cool breeze that whirled through our room from the balcony through our open front door. We strolled by the sailboats outside our door, took afternoon dips in the sparkling pool, and walked the fishing pier at dusk.

And then, magic. On the fishing pier, Robert sidled up alongside a father with a basket just emptied into the sea and asked “où est le poisson?” (where is the fish?). Within moments, Robert had his own try holding the fishing line, and Bob and I stared on from our nearby perch in quiet wonder as our son spoke and didn’t speak and stood and pulled up a lawn chair alongside this French family for twenty minutes as if they were cousins.

If the punaises de lit hadn’t visited us, we’d still have been staying in a good-enough apartment in the city center rather than at the beach watching our son make himself at home–in French in France–while as it turns out, fireworks popped in the distance.

Sometimes, bed bugs are merely the price of admission.

Like a Hooker in a Foreign Land

Midnight Mama — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 11:00:18 +0000

As I walked by the grey-haired little old man with warm brown eyes and weathered tan skin, I couldn’t help myself but to say, “Bon soir” with a smile. I was a alone and so was he. I was wearing my wedge heels and short shorts and a black lacy top and a black backpack purse on my back. Oh my God–an overnight sack perhaps? His eyes seized up at me in quick confusion, then darted away. No return greeting, no friendly nod, no hint of an upturned smile.

Mon Dieu. I had frightened the moules frites out of him.

Did he just find my manner of saying “good evening” to him–a complete stranger–as totally odd? Or was it worse? Did he feel disgusted, as if he had been approached by a lady of the evening?

Oh no, I felt myself backtracking. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just an American girl walking the plaza at Carnon Ouest (just south of Montpellier, France) at a quarter till midnight, desperately looking for a restaurant that’s still serving dinner. My kids are just over there, playing by the arcade with their father. These heels and shorts and dressy top? I just wanted to look pretty like the the other, French ladies.

But it was too late. The man was gone and I could never explain. How could I convey that this is just what we American’s do–smile and say hello–especially in a lazy beach town like this one? How could I help him to see that a smile and a greeting is an American’s way of connecting to others, if even in the simplest way? How could I tell him that I just thought he looked sweet and I wanted to send him some well wishes?

I couldn’t. I had to live instead with that momentary feeling of being seen as terribly different.I had to accept that feeling, if even for a few brief moments, of seeming like, if not a prostitute, a pariah in a foreign land.

Let me count the moments: The nanny who thought I was crazy for serving my children carrots for afternoon snack (why would I, when croissants with jam and pain au chocolat are so plentiful?) The grocery cashier telling me three times over till I understood that I needed to leave the line and go weigh and tag my own produce. Every other vendor in town who watches me sort and sift through foreign coins and bills for too many minutes at the checkout, as if I’ve been tasked with the job of counting the country’s gross national product by hand.

On some days, it is totally clear to me that I don’t fit in in France–like the evening the waiter said “hello” to me in English right off the bat. Was it really that obvious? But I had chosen to wear the strappy sandals, not the ultra-comfortable Keenes. My hair was in a pinned twist, not a ponytail.

Merd! I guess my Americanism shone right through me. Maybe I smiled warmly at him at first glance like I’d done to the grey-haired gentleman–I no longer remember. If I did, however, this time the kids were with me, and there was no doubt what it was that I really wanted.

Tarte tatin for the little boy. A banana split for me and my little girl.

So what if when the order came the waiter put the goofy ice cream sundae with it’s whimsical swirls of chocolate sauce and chantilly in front of my son and the tres sophistique apple tart in front of myself? I’m just a mixed-up American who switched the plates around before his very eyes and then giggled.

I’ve Been Cursing Like a Sailor

Midnight Mama — Thu, 07 Jul 2011 09:00:38 +0000

It was a simple statement–printed in black and white on a dittoed handout with several points to consider for those of us wanting to study abroad. I no longer remember the exact wording (from my sophomore year in college) but it went something like this:

“It is a common mistake to think that going abroad will serve as an escape from any current problems that you face. In reality, due to total separation from your support network and all that is familiar, when you live abroad any issues and challenges that you currently face will be greatly magnified.” In other words, don’t go overseas in order to hide from reality–your problems won’t just follow you, they’ll blow up before your very eyes.

I don’t think statements such as the above–albeit true from my experience–should stop any family in a solid time of their lives from jetting themselves overseas. That being said, consider yourself warned.

Each and every shrill scream that can be heard from your child’s mouth when she is angry, the “cute” tendency to knock things over and act like a lummox in a china shop, the frustrating tenacity with which he is able to continually request something to drink, rapid-fire for two-minutes straight, while you dig into your purse to find the water bottle will go–once you land on the European continent–from dwelling at the level of partially manageable to driving you totally insane.

For this reason (and this reason alone, naturally), I’ve been shuttling through every explicative known to man–and every creative dumbed-down version that I can think of–since we arrived in France. Sometimes in my head, occasionally to the side of my head (i.e., under my breath), and whoops, sometimes just loud enough that it is not totally clear whether the children have heard my exclamation of “fu-dge.”

It’s not their fault really. If I hadn’t indulged my gluten- and sugar-senstive self in that mousse au chocolat or that–oh God it was delicious if ridiculous–camembert pizza, then I would have oh so much more patience than I do today. If my body weren’t still trying to recalibrate itself to 6 hours earlier of sleeping and waking than it’s used to, I’m sure that I would have all the equanimity I needed to deal with the fact that Robert followed dinner’s Act I of knocking his water-wine glass to the pavement (with the waiter, the broom and the dustpan serving as the chorus) with Act II of sending the bottle of olive oil crashing and breaking to the pavement as well.

What’s more, I’d be able to bear the embarrassment of hearing the neighbors close their windows in the middle of the night to Avery’s shrill cries and screams of “MOMMY – I CAN’T FIND MY BUNNY!!!!” I wouldn’t mind either that Robert shouts “AVERY, LOOK AT THIS” so loud each time we are in public that there’s no doubt why the locals jerk their heads toward us in realization that we are not just tourists but foreigners. Nothing like being outed for the the day.

But alas, I can’t. I can’t say no to drinking wine on the beach (a visitor’s adaptation of local culture, perhaps), biting into a soft baguette, or crunching into a deceivingly simple but delicious sesame biscuit–half cookie, half cracker. Gluten and sugar, come and get me. I’m far from cultural proficiency and steeped deep in the shock of store clerks who herd people to the door ten minutes before closing time (note to self: remember to weigh and tag your own produce before checkout). But I’m loving every minute of it.

So the kids will just have to get used to me turning my head with a cough and a muted expletive until our bodies get this all worked out and we feel like ourselves again. And if such a moment of normalcy shall not arrive, that will be okay too.

We will be going back to the United States eventually.

We Summer in France

Midnight Mama — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 12:00:59 +0000

The journey started something like this–a family of four, sitting on the floor of the Air Mac terminal at Dover Air Force Base, with one suitcase, one traveler’s backpack, two laptop cases, and a slim backpack of toys. The pizza Bob would order after we hadn’t made it onto the first two Space-Available military planes would come two hours later, as would the gray-haired lady who barfed in a tiny little bag next to us when we had finally found ourselves some real seats in the waiting room.

The start to our trip to France for a month couldn’t have been less glamorous, but I was willing to suck it up. We were going not just to Europe, but France. Birthplace of impressionism, a culture where a glass of wine cost less than a glass of juice, home to camembert and the nutella crepe. The place I had fallen in love with 16 years ago, when I studied there in college.

I’ve read the books and heard of the people–those people–who renovate a palazzo on the Almalfi coast or spend a summer touring the wine region by unicycle (and go on to write a best-selling travel guide about it). Who are these people and where do they come from? If the pass to entry for this kind of adventure is ancient pedigree or family wealth, I am not one of them.

But this summer, as our C-5 cargo plane descended into Ramstein Air Base, Germany, and I looked over at my glowing husband of almost fifteen years and the two sleepy, red-headed children we made between the two of us, I was reminded–not that I am one of those people–but that anything is possible. You too can summer in France.

We are not here because we are rich (although I am thankful for our resources). We are not here because we are lucky (although I am grateful for all the times that circumstances have gone in our favor). We are here simply because we had an idea and we went for it. What does it take? First, the vision, then lots of determination, plenty of faith, and of course a dose of foolishness. For what parent cannot be considered foolish for expecting to live in a student dorm as a family (only to be kicked out three days later) or to find a nanny for one’s children within 24 hours of arrival?

Friends, we have arrived in the South of France. We drove through the night from Germany to get here and we spent two hours cursing and “navigating” the windy unnamed streets of Montpellier in search of our bed for the night. We slept our family of four in one twin bed and one half-inflated twin air mattress for two nights and would have done it for the duration had we not been asked in French by the mean British lady to leave that afternoon. But we found a new place to live within a few hours and found an angel of a French-speaking nanny. Have we landed? Could we finally be ready to settle in?

There were no towels in the student dorm room and so it was two days before we broke down and showered anyway. (A small, lightweight Nike athletic shirt would do the trick as a drying aid.) We knew how to perfectly time our interest in meals and purchases at exactly those moments when the French restaurants and stores would be closed. (Sunday fermetures? Monday closings? Pentecost? Cafes that only served drinks? Waiters that were going on dinner break or who brought one fork to the table at a time?) Ah, yes, it’s all coming back to me.

We are in Europe now–where “customer is king” does not mean you will be served on time or that you have access to what you need at any hour of the day. When you are served, however–eventually–you will be treated to the most delicious meal you can imagine, of crisp-ish lettuce and finely sliced red onions–cherry tomatoes that are plump and juicy and redder than red. The little muffin on the side of your plate will not be bread, in fact, but instead an egg-bread-quiche concoction spiked with red and green peppers and browned to soft-crisp perfection. The 2 euro (3 dollar) Chardonnay you order will be the smoothest you’ve ever tasted–all wine and no bite, no extra bitterness or sweetness.

Yes, we have landed in France. Last night, when we finally arrived at what will likely be our home for the next four weeks, I knew we had everything we needed. A petite kitchen–a “closet” that will most certainly do. A bathroom with a shower that will break the children of that silly bath habit. A nook with a bed for the kids to feel they have their own space, and a futon in the living room for the parents. White tile floor, white walls, and a window looking out on green trees that shimmer in the light (Monet himself might have painted them); an open, endless esplanade; and a cream-colored elementary school. Windows to let in the sounds of the schoolchildren and the scent of grilled meet from the restaurant below. Yes, we have everything we need for our little séjour (stay) in France.

Well, almost everything. It should only take a few more days to figure out when the stores are open so I can go buy that little luxury called toilet paper.

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The Ant Parade & Other Reasons I Suck as a Housekeeper

Midnight Mama — Mon, 16 May 2011 06:01:57 +0000

There were ten of them, maybe twenty, walking in a fine delicate line across the counter top as another group of four or five worked mightily on picking apart a flake from a piece of bread in the corner of the windowsill. How’d that crumb get up there? More important, how did those ants get in?

No matter that it’s spring and it really must be that time of year when not just the plants start thriving but the insects do too. No matter that every house has some vulnerabilities and is bound from time to time to catch a critter from the outside world that’s all the time banging to get in. Those ants were there because I’d failed my duties as housekeeper (for if not me, then who?)

Just as I am certain that most other parents at 7:30PM are wrapping their warm, bubble-bathed little cherubs in freshly laundered doggy-hooded towels while I am standing over the Belgian waffle maker with my kids putting the finishing touches on “dinner,” I am sure that other parents the world over have sufficiently caulked, sealed, and stuffed every last opening in their home to prevent the influx of unwanted visitors brought about by spring sunshine and rain.

Why is it that my mind’s reflex is to see disorder in the world and internalize it, as if tidiness is a sign of my success, and disarray–or life sprouting in its own uncontrollable form–is a sign of weakness?

God doesn’t care if my house is clean, so why do I?

But back to the ants. They are my fault, you see. Because for one week, I left little wisps of grated cheddar cheese and cereal dust and edges of chopped onion to make their rounds across the floor as little feet (and mine) tracked dust and dirt and debris from this corner to that. For one week, I let all that sit, only to sweep it up right before we left on a five-day vacation.

But it was too late by then–a small pocket of the ants had already sprouted. A few mean sprays of RAID put them back in their place temporarily; a clean floor kept them gone during our absence.

But when the humans and their crumbs returned, so did the tri-segmented critters.

Their copper-colored bodies marching across the countertop with guiless precision and the efficient line that they formed as they followed their prescribed path up the side of the window frame (to who-knows-where beneath the curtain rod?) assaulted me with a sort of “A-ha!” (The guilty, I-caught-you kind of aha–not one of Oprah’s cool little lightbulb moments).

“A-ha!” the voice said. “I knew you couldn’t keep a good kitchen.” Bottom line, the ants had me beat, as they were far more effective and tidy.

Pardon my language but there was only one thing I could possibly say to myself in response to this voice of criticism.

FUCK IT.

So a few ants got in? So there are still breakfast pans and dishes on my countertop–from three days ago. So there are paper shopping bags all over the house in different nooks and crannies stuffed with clothes to take back, belated birthday gifts to wrap, laundry that never got folded, and broken sunglasses from last summer.

What matters is the journey, right? The love and the good-memory-making. Tonight my daughter told me I’m her “really good buddy” as I kept her company near her blue plastic potty (not glamorous but heartwarming nonetheless). My four-foot tall son still gives me hugs and kisses. His requested reward for having practiced piano tonight? That I would lay in bed after lights out and cuddle with him. When I wake on Saturday mornings, my husband tells me I’m beautiful. Really! With that kind of love floating around this household and all this good living, how bad could a few ants really be? (But just in case, I’ve laid the traps.)