Vacation has found me.

I came into this trip expecting it would be fun, but that it would not necessarily feel like vacation. Flying to a foreign country across several time zones with a three-year-old is not anyone’s definition of relaxing. Parenting in public places with a big audience, parenting while jet-lagged in the middle of the night, parenting while subject to the whims of a foreign transit system which may or may not decide to close every stop you could conceivably get off at on New Year’s Eve (for instance): these are stressful things. At the same time, though, living in the not-quite-real world of Paris for a not-exactly-brief time - two whole weeks - is working its magic on me, because outside of the strict non-negotiable of parenting, there is actually nothing, and I mean nothing, that I have to do.

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