Emilie Johnson

Sharlie Sheen et Reeshar Jare.

2012-02-08T17:38:00.010-05:00

I came home last night and asked Xavier what he was doing. His response...hilarious, because it included two names: Sharlie Sheen et Reeshar Jare. Incomprehensible. I asked him to repeat it for me so that I could document such great pronunciation. (Please note: if Xavier chose to speak English rather than French, there would be no post to write because of course he pronounces these names beautifully in English - it is just the French version that cracks me up).

"I am watching an American film - the FBI and the CIA and all of that - with Charlie Sheen and Richard Gere."

There is a French song, La vie ne vaut rien by Alain Souchon, with the line:
"Voir le vieux sergent pépère mais ce n'est que Richard Gere" (See the old sargeant grandpa, but it is only Richard Gere).

Alain Souchon pronounces this name like Xavier did, "Reeshar Jare." When I first heard the song, I really liked the lyrics and song, but could not figure out what that word he was saying was - turned out that it was only Richard Gere.

Tuneful.

2012-02-02T13:14:00.001-05:00

A musical sensation at our house...Xavier decided to acquire all sorts of small instruments to accompany the piano. The musical parties/sing-alongs will be coming on thick and fast (so be prepared if you are a potential invitee). He trolls ebay for vintage tambourines, kazoos, harmonicas, triangles, symbols, etc. They come in the mail and then I go downstairs and find him fraternizing with the player piano, which is enthusiastically carousing as if it were in actually in a tavern and not a townhouse in Harlem.

I made it home

2012-01-30T18:08:00.000-05:00

to catch this across the street tonight.

Je me sens obligée de faire ma maline.

2012-01-29T21:26:00.009-05:00

The beauty expert. J'adore. No, I generally do not ingest Allure or other such intercommunication; however, this month's issue is special. The first reason is that a photograph I took is there. Granted, it is a small photograph - a credit photograph of the real photographer: Chris Melton, the real reason this issue makes my headlines. Chris (one of my very best friends) shot a story for Allure this month and that is worth promulgation. His photographs are clearly galactic.

(This is a photo I took while hanging out with Chris in Provincetown this summer).

And now the really impressive part:

Bravo, Christopher Melton. Here is to the start of a substantive, celebrated and brilliant career...

And, ladies, remember: seduction starts now.

Poireauter.

2012-01-28T22:12:00.025-05:00

Xavier pulled out two expressions this week that really got me - the second one made me laugh like crazy:

1. "On peut rentrer comme dans un moulin." (We can get in like going into a windmill). Xavier said this about the hospital when we were recently there for a birthing class. It is an idiomatic expression that means anyone can get in - no security, no restrictions.

2. " Je n'ai pas envie de poireauter comme ça." (I don't want to leek [stand around and wait] like this). For the life of me, I could not pick out the verb he had just used in his phrase when he said this, so I asked him to review. He looked at me like it was obvious, told me it was poireauter and when I still looked confused (I did not know this verb), he said, "You know, it comes from - poireau - the one who stands tall, is white and green and has white hair coming out the bottom." At this point, it still wasn't clear he was referring to a vegetable, but when I realized it I had to cross my legs not to pee from laughing. Apparently, leeks (poireau) have a clear relationship with waiting in French, which is not at all clear to me. Furthermore, the full idiomatic expression is "poireauter 107 ans" (to leek for 107 years) - the time it took to build Notre Dame. (Even stranger is the relationship between leeks and Notre Dame).

Also, leeks are not the only idiomatic vegetable reference in French. Carrots have their phrase too: carotter is to steal something from someone in French. Again, the relationship between carrots and stealing is flustering.

Others include:

"Je n'ai plus un radis" (I don't have a radish left) - I am totally broke.

"C'est la fin des haricots !" (I'm out of beans) - I'm in deep trouble.

Raising children.

2012-01-24T11:45:00.020-05:00

Last night, Xavier showed me a piece about the differences between French and American parents. An easily generalizable compare/contrast exercise. It goes something like this: French parents are authoritative. French parents don't allow their kids to...(long list). French parents' whole worlds do not revolve around their children. French parents often sound mean. American parents allow their kids too much freedom. American parents value creativity and expression. American parents are lax and lazy with their children. American parents allow their kids to throw food in restaurants (well, maybe not exactly that - but to that tune).

The conversation is not that simple. Individual parents act in individual ways, regardless of their cultural parameters and setting. That said, I do think that cultural differences in the way 'childhood' itself is dreamed up, conceived of and disciplined are real. I watch this close up in the way Marguerite is parented by her two French parents and in watching other French parents I know well - what is valued, what is emphasized, what is insisted on for a child.

Having lived in France for three years and watching French people raise children with whom I am close has given me exposure to real cultural differences. It is true that there is less tolerance for children in France in public spaces to behave like 'children' (as Americans might define the term). It is true that when a child in a public space behaves this way, there is quite a lot of judgement from passersby (none of which is silent). It is true that a French parent will tell a child directly that they are in the middle a conversation and will not tolerate interruption. It is also true that American parents often feel their children are incapable of 'behaving' in public spaces - that while eating, a child will be all over the place. It is also true that many American parents interrupt whatever they are doing to concentrate on a child.

While these differences may be observable, I think "good parenting" comes down to a question of what parents or a society value in their children. If the answer is compliance, how your child is perceived, or "good behavior" (however that is defined given the cultural context), then a more severe approach is useful. If the answer is something different (creativity, self-expression, liberty, etc.) that approach can be challenged.

My sister sent me this link recently on parenting - also fascinating in the context of this discussion (somewhat extreme on the other side of the spectrum).

I have thought a lot about this - being a quasi-parent already. Throughout Marguerite's life, I have had an indefinite role. I imagine many step-parents feel this way. My experience has been different than a lot of other step-parents in that Marguerite will never not remember me in her life - I've been here since she was a baby. She has two parents who have insisted heavily on the codification of parenthood - of being her "mom" and her "dad" - the nomencleture imports a lot of meaning here. This is probably largely due to the circumstances and the desire to have control over a tough situation. I have never wanted to be Marguerite's mom. It doesn't ever occur to me, but there has been a lot of insistence on the fact that I am not.

Mlle. has absorbed some of this insistence (although most of our interactions are pure and untainted by these dynamics). In Central Park recently, Marguerite made me laugh when she was eyeing cotton candy with wishful eyes and her dad was up ahead of us. I said, "Would you like some cotton candy, Marguerite." Her response, "Yes! But Papa may not be OK with that." I told her that I could approve such a purchase and snack. She said, "Yeah - I mean, you are a parent, but you are not a parent who made me - I could only come out of one belly." True. Very true. She reiterated the possession sentiment of many parents - that the child is theirs.

This naming of who is a parent and who is not has made me think hard about the approach I want to take with my children. I have a strong connection with Marguerite and feel a bond with her that parallels other family bonds I have. She has a similar sense of connection with me. I understand the visceral feelings a parent might feel may not be present for me with this little girl, but my interests for her mirror what her parents (at least what her dad) want for her.

So, then I think about little fetus and what will happen when she comes out. I have rational thoughts about it - I never want to operate under the mentality that my children are literally 'mine.' I guess, just because I made the child does not signify something greater than a responsibility for her - not something she owes me (behaviorally or in her life choices or politics or philosophy). Easy to say. I hope I'll be able to remember it since a lot of parenting that I don't admire seems to stem from the inherent insistence on possession in the parent-child relationship. In lots of ways, I feel lucky having been able to parent Marguerite since ownership has been extracted and I still have to care and mind her in a similar role. I think I will use my relationship with her as a reference point quite often as a way to stay fair in my interactions with 'my own' kids.

I also fully intend to strap this child on my back or front and travel during my time off of work (paid!). I figure I would be crazy not to. People tell me I am delirious and all I will want to do is stay home near a crib. Nuts. Seems to me that a newborn is a pretty good travel companion.

Ooooh...and on another subject entirely (but equally fascinating when it comes to raising young humans), read this on my friend Aralena's blog.

Raclette.

2012-01-23T23:14:00.010-05:00

Here is an idea: throw a raclette party. Our raclette party was both a throwback to my Swiss heritage and our days in Paris, where we had a raclette machine and would often buy a half a wheel of raclette cheese for such an occasion. Xavier recently bought a raclette machine - not with a huge wheel - but with small cooking trays, which you use to scrape off the melted cheese onto a plate of potatoes or prosciutto and ham. We couldn't find raclette at Eataly, but Whole Foods had chunks of it. And the cornichons - oh the cornichons.

Behind the scenes.

2012-01-21T23:13:00.000-05:00

Shooting Moonmandotcom.tumblr.com

Do you see him?

Road Closed.

2012-01-16T23:15:00.010-05:00

One,

Two,

Three warnings...(Stephen and I were still pretty sure that they weren't really serious - that there had to be a passage through).

We were wrong.

These little boys playing cricket (in what had been the roadway) informed us that about a month or two ago a pipe had burst. Some Barbadian pipe. Driving adventures. One of my favorite details about Barbados was the bus stops. They were all named after women: Dawn, Sharon, Jessica, Shandra, Anita, Misha, Judy - a small, consistent sign hanging above the waiting bench. You could say to someone, "Meet me at Jessica and we'll go from there." Delightful.

2012-01-16T23:14:00.001-05:00

The other side of the island.

2012-01-15T17:56:00.006-05:00

We drove to the other side of the island - the remote, Atlantic side. Barbados is the easternmost island in the Caribbean - the next landmass sailing east is Cape Verde and the African continent. The resorts on Barbados are built on the westward facing side of the island - the calmer side of the water (and the currents here are still very powerful). The westward facing side of the island is built out - a lot of resorts and properties crowding the shore. The Atlantic side, however, is bare. It is wild. Surfers love the water here and swimmers avoid it entirely. The waves crash on layers of rock in many different places - creating horizontal stripes of parallel crashing waves - not a unified line of waves near the shore.

We hardly saw other tourists over here and driving along, we only saw locals. Everyone we passed waved good-naturedly at us with apple-cheek smiles. Barbadians are lovely folks. The beach we found on the Atlantic side is called Bathsheba.

Loved the formal-wear of these palms, swaying in the wind.

Barbados.

2012-01-14T16:51:00.005-05:00

My brother Stephen and I have been talking about a getaway for a long time. We decided on Barbados and this weekend. Barbados because last year I traveled so much for work, I acquired enough Hilton points for many free Hilton nights and Barbados has a 5-star Hilton resort. (This is not generally the sort of place I'd choose to stay for a vacation spot, but it is hilarious and has its perks). This weekend because it is technically the last weekend some airlines are comfortable letting pregnant ladies fly (~32 weeks). So here we are (Xavier is also really cool). Enjoying karaoke performances near the cabana at night (we swore Miss Piggy was up there crooning Abba last night), floating in the multi-layered pools. During the day, we thankfully rented a car to get off the resort complex and explore the island. Stephen has been doing brilliantly driving on the other side of the road...

At a resort like this one, no one is in the ocean (except these surfers) and everyone is in the pools. People are scared. Stephen and I are more ocean-ers. The tidal pull here and the waves are really impressive. One of the skills I list on my CV is "negotiating large waves," because I am very adept, having spent my first 2 years of university in Hawaii. Even 8 months pregnant, pas de probleme. In fact, I have dreams all the time about waves. Big ones. Overpowering ones. Being in water like this is really soothing at the moment because I become weightless and I can work it - swim really hard - and not feel impeded by the belly I've grown. I also feel like labor will probably be like waves - I can come up for air in between - that sort of thing. The little fetus seems to like the water too. She moves all around and kicks when I get out. Enthusiasm. She is going to be like her mother. She better be a galactic swimmer from the start to fit in.

Prénoms.

2012-01-10T16:47:00.012-05:00

Such a tricky issue. Naming. Even trickier when a lot of the people who will be pronouncing your baby's name speak one language and not the other, or the other and not the other (and even trickier still when your naming partner is Xavier Joly - you'll see what I mean as I continue). We have gone through lists of names and decided on a few, only to overturn them (maybe). Most parents probably do this. Were this child a boy, he would be Louis (likely) - a family name and a good French one, obviously. Loo-eee. Easy pronunciation. She is girl though, and I have my heart set on one name and Xavier hums and haws about it and won't agree. Before we go to sleep at night he nudges alternatives in my direction: "What do you think of Lucie?" "Madeleine?"

Associations attached to names are often forceful. Especially with a guy like Xavier. One example:

Me: "Laurence - do you like it?"
Xavier: "C'est un prénom de grosses. Tu imagines? En France, en plus?"

(Translation: "It is a fat girl's name - can you imagine? And in France on top of it!"
Please note: If your name is Laurence, don't take offense. This is clearly an arbitrary and unstable analysis of a very nice name. Jocose nonetheless.)

Some of you know Marguerite's full name:
Marguerite Kelly Maya Hätsveda Joly
(ask to see her passport if you're dubious)

Xavier had a formula for such a creation:
First name - a nice, traditional choice.
Second name - a favorite American TV show character.
Third name - a favorite cartoon character.
Fourth name - an IKEA product.
The breakdown: Marguerite (lovely), Kelly (90210), Maya (the bee), Hätsveda (wicker chair) Joly
(Our child, were this system to be applied, will be even luckier because she will also have a double barreled last name).

To give you an idea (because I think Xavier will forgive me for giving this away) - Xavier's choices for the second, third and fourth names of the little baby soon to be born are: _________ Shannon Joanne Shruvsta (Joly Johnson). That does not reveal the first name choice, but it does reveal just how weird our children will inevitably become. (For context, Joanne is a lady heroine in Capitaine Flam - French cartoon - and Shruvsta is an IKEA swivel chair).

In France, people often have two middle names. Xavier's full name, for example, is Xavier Nicolas Michel Joly. Howbeit, in France, people do not often have IKEA product or extra cartoon character names. Xavier is proud of his naming conception because there will be two important events in his children's lives where their ridiculous names will be read aloud in front of many people in an official setting: 1. The day they take their Baccalauréat 2. The day they get married. I do hope the official at these events speaks some Nordic language so that pronunciation of the various products will not be a bother.

We have seriously considered Marie-Antoinette for the first name. And then Louis-Philippe for the first boy. Royal.

A very warm January day in Central Park.

2012-01-08T13:07:00.005-05:00

January 7. A very warm day - 60 degrees in New York City. It felt like a drunk, early spring day who had landed on the wrong square of the calendar. I will take it - anytime. It was also Marguerite's last day in New York with us this round (don't worry - she will be back in February - in no time at all) and the day was a celebration of her brightness too. Here she is doing her favorite poses of the moment - her ballet salutes - she holds these for a long time:

I think we can safely decree that it is from her father that she has learned to take these dramatic poses.

8 months this next week. So, in theory the baby could come at the end of February while Mlle. is here next time...she is hoping for that. I'm open. The baby makes me smile when my belly becomes a punching bag with a small fervid thing trapped inside. Maybe she is already trying to imitate Marguerite's attitudinizing. This week I forced Xavier to watch a documentary about Russian women who give birth in the Black sea to these little dolphin babies who swim immediately and look wholly peaceful from the moment they exit the womb. I want to do that next (a trip to the Black Sea, yes please!). He was leery.

Beauties.

2012-01-07T22:19:00.007-05:00

He grew this mustache over Christmas break and looked like a movie star (the grade of the film might be disputable, but the mustache looks terrific).

La mousse à raser.

2012-01-04T21:30:00.009-05:00

We thought of a great Christmas gift for Marguerite this year - a razor and shaving cream kit for the bath. It was, of course, marketed for boys to model their dads' rituals...but Marguerite showed off how much fun it was for all when she covered every inch of her body and shaved all the cream off. She was giggling the whole time.

I sat down cross-legged right in front of the bath, ready to play a bit and then wash and rinse. The bit turned into an hour and in the time that passed, Marguerite spouted story after story and made up game after game (they largely involved bossing me around in ways that guaranteed I would get wet). One of the games was something only a French child would invent - it went something like this (translation): "OK, Mimi. You know the game where you have several silver balls and then there is a little ball you try to get the other balls as close to as possible? It is called boules. Yeah, well we are going to play that game, except this time with sponge animals and water. You are red and I'm orange." In these games, I generally lose.

She asks a lot of questions about her "petite soeur," who is starting to take up a lot of space (my stomach feels like it is underneath my ribs, maybe some of my intestines too). This time she asked how a baby actually gets inside of a person like me, anyway. Good question. I explained that all girls have human eggs inside of them and all boys have swimming seeds to awaken the eggs. I said that you have to have both parts to grow a human.

Mlle: "Well, in that case, I can have a baby very young because I have a lover at school."
Me: "Oh, really? What is he like?"
Mlle: "He looks like an eggplant. Every time I see him, I want to hug him and I don't even know why!"
** Chutes of laughter **
Me: "What is his name?"
Mlle: "Gustave"
Mlle: "Plus, even when I change schools and Gustave stays at the school further away, we are going to keep his phone number so that I can make a baby with him."
(Translated)

Gossamery.

2012-01-02T00:02:00.008-05:00

These leaves made me swoon on a Washington walk with the Johnsons. They were like traces of themselves - in protracted form, sitting there on a bench in the woods (the kind of woods that never get brighter than a dusk tone, the trees are so dense). They looked like spiders had spun them in just the right gray tone. I found the droppings below very delicate...and the fungus looked too high fashion to be real.

Gingerbread House.

2011-12-28T14:34:00.004-05:00

I love coming home to do projects with my mom. Our childhoods (all 8 of us) were punctuated with moments of creation - guided by our mom - braided bread, cookies for each holiday, gingerbread houses, crafts, sewing projects. She is the queen of positive reinforcement. She knows exactly the moment to insert a little chime of encouragement and when to take a little hand to guide it. Marguerite and my mom have always had an immediate connection - even when they are speaking to each other in two different languages, they have their own sign and eye language that fuses them and they take each other in.

Merry Christmas Green.

2011-12-27T23:20:00.007-05:00

Merry Christmas Red.

2011-12-23T15:40:00.003-05:00

Luster.

2011-12-18T14:16:00.004-05:00

Thanks to our lovely John Derian, we found the perfect light fixture for one of the rooms in our house. It is a turn of the century piece with crazy reflectors and a germane size for the space. Xavier is pretty sure it is a chandelier from a French theater. All good things come from...

We're excited.

Rio: The beach.

2011-12-17T17:10:00.007-05:00

Rio is amazing because of the variety of beaches. Almost the entire sprawling urban area is lined by beaches (and mountains) and each of the beaches are a bit different. There is Copacabana and Ipanema, of course, but then, as the coast winds around, there are many other little coves and beaches that provide different vistas and seascapes and waves. Lovely.

While Xavier was examining beach trash and finding treasures that really suited him, I was doing yoga. Sand is my favorite surface - especially when pregnant because it gives underneath you.

Rio: Get to the top of Sugarloaf Mountain.

2011-12-15T08:15:00.005-05:00

...And from the other side of the city - Sugarloaf Mountain, where the views are equally good (maybe better, in fact). A cable car ferries you up to the top and then beauty sits below.

Rio: Do Corcovado.

2011-12-14T22:12:00.010-05:00

Of course making the trek to visit Cristo Redentor on Corcovado mountain is a requisite Rio thing. There is actually a hike you can do to get to the statue and I was pining for the hike the whole train ride up when I caught glimpses of the trail on the way through the rainforest. Not many people elect to take that route - even more reason to do it. You'll agree, I am sure, once you are on the train, congested like a snotty nose with packs of ravenous tourists. I bet you would see monkeys on the hiking trail, too. My dad would definitely take that version.

The views of Rio from the top are phenomenal.

Furthermore, there are creatures up there who await your arrival. Rather than an ice cream, candy bar, french fries stop - one of the food joints by the Art Deco Jesus is pure whole fruits. Lined up - pineapples, mangos, bananas, papaya, guava, melons. You point and then someone glibly chops and you are presented with beautifully sliced fruit. So delectable. This little one, with her nose that extended and moved up and down in her search for food was our friend. Xavier complained how much time I wanted to spend with her. She liked pineapple and mango and was so sweet and domesticated. She had a batch of babies just below. I think she liked me especially because she could tell I was going to have a baby too.

Rio: Stroll.

2011-12-12T21:59:00.018-05:00

Get a little bit lost. But only a little bit. In our wanderings, we did end up strolling in neighborhoods that changed abruptly on us - in just a few streets - and our presence was regarded somewhat dubiously. That said, I had heard so many frightful tales of villainy in Rio before coming that I was paranoid (I left my nice camera at home in fear). It turned out that, in general, and when I knew where I was wandering, I felt quite safe. I was also so charmed by the people in the city. The Brazilians we met were warm and their eyes rumple nicely when they smiled.

Rio: Visit Santa Teresa.

2011-12-12T20:43:00.009-05:00

We loved this neighborhood. It is in central Rio and houses a lot of the colonial architecture of the city, which has fallen into very stylish shambles and havoc. Romantic aesthetic, with houses like this one falling apart and you walk past wondering how and hoping no one ever actually makes it pristine ever again, it looks so good in its current state.

A great little area of the city with shops, chroma, fascinations, restaurants and magnetism.

This building is actually one of the ministries of culture and as we walked toward it, samba music was gushing from the windows. Dancing lessons. Xavier remarked that these Brazilians care more about dancing and music than renovation. I think we can safely say that they would readily agree with his statement.

Rio: Watch these dudes play soccer/volleyball on the beach.

2011-12-11T20:12:00.000-05:00

Most impressive. These guys were playing an adapted form of volleyball - with no hands. Same rules applied, except they kicked the ball to serve and then used their heads, chests, knees, shins, shoulder blades to bump, spike, etc. And they were amazing. Beaches have more goal posts for this purpose than volleyball nets. This is a country crazed about soccer, no wonder that the beaches are always cluttered with camps for 2-3 year olds, already scoring impressively.

Rio: Go to the Botanical Garden.

2011-12-10T17:57:00.002-05:00

Since we only had four days in the city, I chose an afternoon in the botanical garden over a trip into the rainforest (Parque Nacional de Tijuca is the largest area of urban rainforest in the world, which literally borders the city - full of monkeys and crazy species of plants and insects, of course - but takes a bit more commitment than a girl lazily strolling in her Havaianas. Next time). The botanical garden in Rio de Janeiro is right next to the city's lagoon - a good place around which to stroll or bike. On my way to the garden, my cab driver started beating his hands on the wheel of the car and then abruptly pulled over. I don't speak Portuguese (although it is impressive how much more useful French was than English while we were in Rio), but it was pretty clear he was upset that his car had just broken down. No problem - there are cabs everywhere in Rio. One word of caution, well two, let's say: 1). Wear a seat belt. Wow! These guys terrorize the roads - tear down the streets as they go. 2). If you don't know Rio (which, if you've just arrived, you won't), they'll likely take you on the scenic route...meaning the most circuitous route to get to a very simple place just over the hill (runs the meter nicely). By the fourth day, I had a much better sense of where we were and finally, we had an untarnished driver who kindly drove us straight from downtown to Copacabana up and over a hill we had never taken and arrived 15 minutes faster than any of our nearly identical trips! All of that said, cabs aren't that expensive and they are often the safest option. Back to the fierce and delicate awes of the botanical garden (Brazilian flora and fauna - the most diverse in the world):

Rio: Eat dinner here.

2011-12-09T20:36:00.001-05:00

Eat dinner at Hotel Santa Teresa. I guess it is a French mix more than anything else, but the views, the design and the area of town the hotel is located in are really lovely. Sleep here if possible...

Rio de Janeiro.

2011-12-08T16:22:00.010-05:00

Rio de Janeiro. For a long weekend. So far, thrilling. Space in a city completely redefined. I like the people - I swear, those perpetually exposed to beaches are just better humans.

Bathing beauty.

Birthing class.

2011-12-05T22:09:00.014-05:00

We were introduced to the birthing center last night in a four hour class at St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital, where Xavier was delighted to take the floor in a room full of people with comments like, "And I am the definitely the father of the baby," in the introductions phase, as well as, "I am fully looking forward to the 16-hour birthing course, after which I may have a career change, since I will almost be a certified midwife at that point," all the while gesticulating with his gloved hands. (Who knows where he picked up the latex gloves, but they were definitely a nice touch).

I was reassured by the center itself. We hadn't seen it before this point, but it is just a portion of the 11th floor with small birthing rooms (each containing a big tub to labor in, birthing balls, etc. and no medical equipment - you can control lights and the whole floor is very quiet and peaceful. There are a maximum of three women laboring at the same time in the birthing center, each in her own room). For any emergency issues, the Labor and Delivery floor is one floor above, but this is mid-wife and nurse territory. Some other reassuring aspects: they actually encourage you to eat and drink as you labor - which is totally forbidden if you are on floor 12. Hard to believe that they only allow laboring women to suck on ice chips in the Labor and Delivery Unit due to liability concerns (with anesthesia and other interventions). It is the equivalent of asking someone to run a marathon and not allowing them to stop for water along the way. The birthing center also openly advocates that women not give birth on their backs and for them to move around freely during labor. The birthing center agrees with the philosophy that the baby should stay with you after birth - immediately - skin-to-skin contact, early breastfeeding, etc. They don't whisk it away for tests or weighing or anything. Their transfer rate to the 12th floor for cesarean sections is 5% - which indicates that they view a cesarean as I prefer to see it: an emergency-only option (not a "you are not progressing fast enough for our hospital time table" option).

All in all, it was a good session, with Xavier to keep us entertained and the center to be as I had hoped for. I am reasonable and I am not a hippie. That is one reason why the more I learn about birth, the more amazed (and baffled) I am at how few medicalized aspects of it (that often have very little research or sound medical basis) are challenged and are routinely accepted without question. Many doctors have never witnessed a fully natural birth! I am pleased to have found a place where these pretty obvious questions are addressed and an alternative is offered.

NYC last night.

2011-12-03T13:33:00.002-05:00

Vouvoyer.

2011-12-01T20:27:00.005-05:00

Concise French lesson: In French cop television series (highly amusing, Xavier loves them) the cops vouvoient (use the "vous") with citizens until they have committed some sort of "connerie" (wrongdoing), then they start yelling after the person, chasing them in the street using the "tu" - "arrete-toi !" They no longer have the right to be vouvoyed. This amuses me thoroughly.

Moon man.

2011-12-01T13:12:00.005-05:00

Stephen has a new blog. The concept is one man: a moon man (I will take the credit for giving him gift of the small figurine. I never could have imagined this little man's potential though). Hilarious and so brilliant. A sample photo of his from the site: http://moonmandotcom.tumblr.com/.

Xavier.

2011-11-29T18:04:00.016-05:00

Work on Monday was plain awful. 13 hours of sheer, unceasing intensity - with a short deep breathing session (could have involved tears) in the privacy of the copy room. Helicopters gone wrong, translations needed all over my desk, Broadway tickets amiss, incorrect lists of guests for events, invoices needing immediate approval, 87 unread emails - that sort of mixture. When my rather fervid boss questioned (an irrelevant) something in a demeaning way and I felt my pregnant belly contract in response, I think he saw a look of panic on my face and backed off. The next morning he told me it was impressive that I had survived the workload the day before.

That is the context for what blissfully came Monday night. When I walked in the door at 8:45pm, Xavier was there to fold me into his arms and coo and murmur softly. He never does that (murmurs softly). Then he drew a bath, scattered bath salts, brought in a speaker to play Rachmaninoff, lit a candle and served me dinner in the bathtub on a perfectly arranged tray. I had never eaten dinner in a bathtub. He took my phone and hid it. After one hour I was back on planet earth, where you don't need to hold your breath in between tasks due to stress. Dream husband.

Paule et Vincent Joly.

2011-11-27T20:55:00.008-05:00

Xavier is très beautiful. So are these photos. They are his parents circa 1970 taken by a talented photographer, Claude Jourdan. Xavier's mom pulled these out this summer when we were in Baugé with les Joly. I love the temper of the photos, the lighting, how he plays with and spotlights certain features and lines in their faces. These photographs make me wonder what features our little human will fall heir to...

Thanksgiving.

2011-11-25T17:18:00.007-05:00

Great start.

2011-11-24T12:17:00.005-05:00

Marc and I got up and had a turkey adventure this morning. The recipe we were using for the turkey called for a divided bird - for a more evenly cooked result. Less traditional, better taste, apparently. Well, who knew just how tricky butchering a turkey is. Marc does (I called out the instructions from the sidelines). We began with turkey yoga - I called out the postures (here performing shoulder stand with split legs) and Marc was the turkey trainer. The bird was decidedly more flexible and relaxed when we began the real process.

Franco-americana update.

2011-11-23T15:02:00.002-05:00

When we first moved to Paris, this blog was chalk-full of my perceptions about the French, Xavier as a Frenchman, French women, realizations about Americans and on and on. Cross-cultural observations (whether they are in adoration or condemnation) meet many rebuffs. Someone can always find a counter example, a better example, a contradiction, an exception, etc. Absolutely. And I love that. I love that people can't be snugly fit into their cultures and their iterations always prove general observations inaccurate and misfigured. At one point, I wished I were one of those die-hard francophiles - the kind like so many American women I met in Paris - positively dripping with praise for every aspect of the French, even when contradictions were fierce and meeting them squarely in the face. Now I find that a pretty boring assessment of any culture (your own, or one you want to adopt or into which you'd like to be adopted). But my relationship with the French remains complicated - I still find myself criticizing, bum-cheek clenching and adoring them all in the same moment.

I've actually taken so much heat for my observations about Frenchies that I've all but stopped commenting. You can't imagine the fights that have occurred in my house about my Parisian observations and the fact that I am not intrinsically a francophile. Nonetheless, the commentary runs on in my head when I observe Xavier and Marguerite in wonder. I can't help myself. Living in France for three years and being with an incorrigible Frenchman (pronounced in the best of humors) and his adorable daughter have just given me a lot of exposure.

We will likely return to France one day soon or far into the future. Regardless of where we reside on the map, the cross-cultural analysis is about to inflame. A baby is to be born and this baby isn't going to be on one clear side of the line like the rest of us. The baby will be both French and American and our sometimes divergent approaches will be in competition (to be fair, the competition part might be Xavier Joly culture more than anything else. Xavier loves to check in with me regularly to review/keep tabs on who is better at computers, bricolage, everything else). In any case, co-parenting in a culturally mixed relationship will provide lots and lots of entertaining stories to be sure.

I've addressed my cultural concerns about birth in the United States (because if I am critical of the French, I am at least equally so of my own) and recently, Xavier and I were talking about differences in birth culture between France and the US. Refreshingly, in France, midwifery is a strong and healthy practice. Most babies are delivered by midwives, with the recognition that births, for the most part, are natural affairs without a whole lot of medical intervention required. That said, most French women still use epidurals and give birth lying on their backs. One interesting hospital practice that differs between France and the United States is the treatment of the baby as an individual once it is actually born. While babies are often whisked away in both countries immediately after they are born for analysis, cleaning and appraisal, in France, hospital workers often react in a more proprietary fashion. When parents in the United States insist on keeping the not yet cleaned baby with them and ask workers to hold off on weighing the baby, etc - they often yield. In France, however, babies are often treated like state property - because, in fact, they are seen this way. I've touched on how the French view of citizenship as being primary takes precedence over other forms of identity (think of laws in France when it comes to religion, veils, sexuality - other forms of identity that get trumped by French-ness) and how French citizenship is often viewed as the keystone piece of anyone's identity. Well, this plays out even in a hospital room when the French citizen is born. The state's interests are professedly as strong as the parents'. Infant mortality rates are low in France and the medical profession will whisk a baby away to ensure its chances of being a strong Frenchman or woman. It is fascinating how views of citizenship affect practices in medicine, education - in all institutions.

Hopefully we will return to France while we are still having babies. I would like to opportunity to experience such a life event in another country.

2011-11-20T13:12:00.004-05:00

Back at Stephen's apartment, mother hen is clucking with the new time machine hovering.

The relinquishing sun ensnares - can't help mulling over compressed days and their slanted light.

Brecht.

2011-11-19T11:24:00.008-05:00

A friend, Katelin Wilcox's, one woman show last night, performed at Theater Row on 42nd Street in the United Solo Fest left me thinking thinking thinking. She was stunning in a brilliantly written piece she herself wrote of the tale of Bertolt Brecht (1989-1956), or rather, the tale of his women. She switched between the roles of five fundamental women in the playwright's life - their love, losses and perspectives. These women each not only fueled Brecht's creativity, but were often the literal composers of his work, only eventually to be discarded. It was a feminist tale and one that, unfortunately, could be told countless times across history. One of the women, Elisabeth Hauptmann, literally wrote the piece that launched Brecht's career (The Threepenny Opera) and received next to no credit for having done so. If you look up the piece, she is still often listed, at best, as a 'collaborator' - when 80-90% of the writing was hers. The women in his life were writers, actors, creative forces who were stunted merely because they were women (Brecht seized the opportunity to make use of their force and these women often saw the 'collaboration' as the only way their voices could be heard, having been rejected from publishers and industry heads repeatedly).

The performance and its story were such a great illustrative response to anyone who asks, where were women in history? Artists, writers, thinkers, philosophers - they were there. This sort of feminist historiography is so heartening. Particularly with a little girl growing inside of me.

2011-11-18T11:16:00.000-05:00

Autumn.

2011-11-13T09:35:00.007-05:00

One of Xavier's favorite cousins is visiting us in New York. He and his girlfriend live in Marseille. So we ventured out of the city for the weekend about 1 hour and 1/2 north. The place is on a big lake, surrounded by cliffs, trees and lots of nature. I want to swim in the lake, but alas, it is about this cold:

Nevertheless, we can swim inside and do yoga classes and maybe even get a massage. Pas mal.

Great city.

2011-11-07T23:20:00.007-05:00

A New York City miracle. Reaffirmed my belief that people/places/things (nouns) are inherently good. I arrived at work, stuck my hand in my bag to retrieve my wallet to get through the security turnstiles and kept reaching - feeling all around. Nothing. Searched further, even started emptying things. No wallet. On another day I might have believed I had just left it at home. This morning though, I had had to buy a new metro card just before I got on the train. It could only mean that in between the D train and Park Avenue, it went somewhere.

I thought it had been stolen. It was there and then it was gone.

Even though I walked into a storm of things that needed to get done on the spot, I first wanted to call my bank to let them know I wasn't spending anything on those cards. I was on hold for at least 20 minutes and just when someone was about to finally take my call, someone on another line insisted that I speak to them about my wallet. Of course I picked up and breathlessly asked what it was. My wallet had been found by a person who works at the New York Times and she had called the building where I work because the address was in my wallet.

It turns out the person who found my wallet is not just some random worker at the New York Times, but one of the people involved in writing the little article written about our house last January. She recognized me from my picture on my id cards! What on earth are the chances? New York is a very very small place indeed.

Ça va quoi.

2011-11-07T10:03:00.005-05:00

All is well. Woke up to Xavier still laughing at me. I was laughing at me too. The fix is easy though - with a headband - pas de problème! (The picture below was just too blue not to have some sort of reclamation).

Bang, bang. Shot me down.

2011-11-06T22:18:00.020-05:00

I'm currently heavily into headbands. Thick ones.

Please note, this post is humorous. That is why I'm writing it. It is funny because hair grows back. It is also funny because out of all things that matter, hair isn't really one.

I went to get a haircut this weekend. Nothing major. A trim, shorten up the bangs a bit - that sort of thing. The back 3/4 of my head were cut nicely - the nice gentleman layered appropriately, nothing too short or cut with thinning shears. Then he got to the front of my head. He parted my hair and placed the section he wanted to cut shorter as bangs in front.

Then he moved in front - of me. In front of the mirror. What came off of my head seemed out of the ordinary - long and a lot. When he moved aside I looked in the mirror and immediately started to cry. He looked at me, back in the mirror, at me, back in the mirror and sort of fumbled with his tools, coming back at me for another go. There was nothing left to cut. The bangs he left me with were not even 1 inch long (too short to even clip back with a bobby pin). They almost stood straight out from my head. I was reminded of my haircut at 4 or 5 years old when I took the pair of scissors and put them almost directly against my head to make the cut. He was sort of shaking when he left me sitting there with other ladies in chairs around me, saying things like "poor girl" and "oh no."

The owner of the salon came over, brought me a box of tissues and said straight out, "of course you won't be paying for this cut," and then apologized profusely. She asked me to move to a different chair - what seemed like a totally futile action at that point. I sat there and just kept staring with big, round, teary eyes at the strange line of hair across the very top of my forehead. I couldn't understand. When the top stylist came to the rescue, I just asked her how anyone could cut hair like that? At first I think she tried to find an answer to defend her colleague, and then she could only come up with, "You're just going to have to let it grow - probably by Christmas you'll look better. Bangs grow fast." She showed me a few comb-overs with the longer hair from behind. I just stood up at some point and thanked her for the attempt.

On my way out, the owner lunged up the stairs after me to let me know that I "could come in every morning to have the bangs styled." I think she knew I would never go back there (it was an Aveda salon!). I was embarrassed to get on the subway. At home I looked in the mirror and my forehead and realized it was very comical. I look absurd and I am not about to explain the situation to everyone I see. Therefore, I will wear it like it was meant to be so.

I guess hipsters have bangs this short (too bad I work in a very formal, major financial institution - the kind hipsters generally avoid and camp out on Wall Street protesting). Scarecrows have bangs this short (similar concerns - I think they're down there too). Xavier came home and told me I looked medieval. I guess he would know better than most. He was cackling in between his attempts to comfort me. Xavier made comparisons with other occupations, telling me this hairdresser did his job like a pilot who crashes his plane.

State of shock. I'm sure I'll wake up and feel much better about the situation.

5 1/2 months | 22 weeks

2011-11-05T17:20:00.003-04:00

Outside

Inside

The Little Indian.

2011-11-05T15:07:00.004-04:00

The little indian was back in her favorite costume. She rejected the butterfly for a repeat of the indian princess. I'd do the same.

2011-11-05T13:59:00.000-04:00

Pumpkins.

2011-10-30T20:16:00.014-04:00

We took some friends and flew from the city in search of a pumpkin patch today (at the very last minute - the eve of Halloween). The wind was biting and cold, but the hay ride and tractors were still running and we found our pumpkins.

Marguerite is now an expert pumpkin carver. Last year, she still agreed with her dad when he said the guts of the pumpkin smelled bad. This year, her tune matched mine. She loved it. Pumpkin guts smell like childhood.

Our friends agreed more with Xavier (since they are French and this was their first time carving pumpkins), but soon enough, their hands were slimy and they were loving it. François even took on the seed-separater post.

Marguerite took a break outside to take a phone call (where it was quieter). It was her doudou's cousin on the line (doudou is the small white piece of fabric she is often featured carrying around). Doudou's cousin wanted to know if she could come by for Christmas. Marguerite was giving the address. Doudou's cousin also wanted to make sure Marguerite knew that she is still too little for cereal, even without milk and that at the moment, she is ill.

I took out the drill at some point and made a polk-a-dot pumpkin.

Xavier thinks that all of our pumpkins resemble their creators. The little one is Mlle.'s, who drew the face and we obediently cut (the cross nose and all). Xavier's is the demonic smiling one (carved very precisely, a la Xavier Joly). François and Elizabeth win the best pumpkin award - and it was their first go.

Red Leaves.

2011-10-29T19:29:00.002-04:00

Capitol Reef.

2011-10-25T20:26:00.016-04:00

We were in Butch Cassidy territory today and we hiked to a grand arch named after him: Cassidy Arch. Xavier, in his cowboy hat, was only too delighted to be tracing the steps of such a character and the little girls were equally inspired by the holes along the way. John D. found colors in nature he didn't know he loved and Rosie, my mama, looked radiant in every shot, while my dad slowed down just enough (or double backed on the trail) for the rest of us to keep up.

(Please do note the nostril flare). He is one good looking French cowboy.

The arch is literally hidden until you arrive upon it - the way the geography was hatched, I guess. By then you are on lunar territory and the proportions around you are mammoth - even stupefying.

Bryce Canyon.

2011-10-24T18:40:00.000-04:00

Zion.

2011-10-23T23:17:00.015-04:00

In Southern Utah - hiking in National Parks this week...with many Johnsons, Xavier and Marguerite. Today, we hiked Angel's Landing in Zion. We totaled 14 people - 3 kids under 6 years old (and one 5 fetus months old, also being toted) - on a pretty strenuous hike. The exposure on this hike is terrifying for people scared of heights, but the views are like nothing else. It is a Johnson day - no joke when I tell people we had to try out for vacation when we were growing up.

The trail was like this, until it got really steep:

Blocks.

2011-10-17T21:26:00.009-04:00

Stephen has done a project. His floor - painted cubes. I think he has always been a little preoccupied by them - I remember in 3rd grade when he would draw and shade them endlessly. They were quite good. Now, he has fashioned himself a stencil by which he has transformed his hard wood floor into a geometric kingdom come.

Stephen's little apartment in the West Village is transformed every time I go there. The classic cast of the doe and the hen preside over new foundlings all about. It is like Stephen's head: magical.

2011-10-16T23:31:00.001-04:00

The bricoleur.

2011-10-13T23:18:00.009-04:00

Xavier, the bricoleur. I often come home and find him like this - having started on a project that consumes him. Often his weekends are reserved just for that. He is currently attacking all the walls in the house with his special paper rolls (you remember, the ones transported from Paris). The house has plaster walls from the 1880s, so even with his magical dressing, they remain full of character, like the surface of a pumpkin.

He has been cracking me up lately. Today he announced he was well on his way to American citizenship. It just requires an American civics exam. I asked him if he felt he was prepared for it. "Come on babe, 300 years of history? It is a joke."

In other Xavier news, he calls me with a new plan every day - at work - to tell me we should fly to California that very weekend to drive a car back he is coveting, or he's suddenly working on a motorcycle license or, "babe, there a rugby game we have to watch at 3:30am tomorrow" (because it is live in New Zealand). Some work out, others don't (cars). He also keeps my dreams at night fascinating. He is most often the villain and says I talk out loud, bemoaning.

On the pregnancy front, I feel like I've been invaded. I mean, I'm sincerely excited for a baby to appear, but I have a semi-bad to pretty bad attitude about the process (said half-joking). I guess I am more custodial of my body than I suspected. It's pretty annoying to go to work everyday and be examined and scrutinized, as if every day should bring some drastic change - especially when, at 4.5 months, there is almost nothing to see. That being said, upon hearing the news, my boss did exclaim his felicitations and then promptly forgot. I appreciate that. The only sign he remembers is when he occasionally asks if I am feeling flustered (my position could be described as being endowed with so many simultaneous tasks under an imperishable time crunch - pregnant or not, genius or idiot - a permanently flustered feeling is often the natural result). When he voices this observation, I think it must be an acknowledgement of my "condition", but the remark just feels insulting. I must be giving myself away more. Xavier is good at soothing this, reminding me at befitting moments the triviality of any of that, no matter who I work for. He's right.

Sunday.

2011-10-09T22:56:00.003-04:00

La Tristitude

2011-10-09T00:12:00.007-04:00

I generally stick to original content here, but there are things worth the diversion. Xavier showed me a video today (merci Emmanuel). La Tristitude. I am going to provide a translation to this song below. The song is terribly funny, both in its type of humor and the subtlety of its production. It is so French. So very French. I think we can safely say if you think defining misery similarly is hilarious, you are French/a true francophile.

La tristitude
Misery
C'est quand tu viens juste d'avaler un cure-dent
It is when you've just swallowed a toothpick
Quand tu te rends compte que ton père est Suisse-Allemand
When you learn that your father is Swiss-German
Quand un copain t'appelle pour son déménagement
When a friend calls you to ask for your help with his move
Et ça fait mal
And it hurts

La tristitude
Misery
C'est franchir le tunnel de Fourvière le 15 août
It is going through the Fourviere tunnel August 15 (traffic nightmare in Lyon at the height of holiday season)
Quand tu dois aller vivre à Nogent-Le-Rotrou
When you have to go live in Nogent-Le-Rotrou (a place between Paris and Le Mans in the middle of nowhere)
Quand ton coiffeur t'apprend que t'as des reflets roux
When your hairdresser informs you that you have red highlights
Et ça fait mal
And it hurts

{Refrain:}
La tristitude
Misery
C'est moi, c'est toi
It's me, it's you
C'est nous, c'est quoi ?
It's us, what is it?
C'est un peu de détresse dans le creux de nos voix
It is a bit of distress in the hollow of our voices
La tristitude
Misery
C'est hum, c'est wouh !
It's hmm, it's woo!
C'est eux, c'est vous
It's them, it's you
C'est la vie qui te dit que ça ne va pas du tout
It is life telling you that things are not OK at all

La tristitude
C'est quand t'es choisi pour être gardien au handball
It is when you are chosen to be the goalie in handball
Quand t'es dans la Mercos de la princesse de Galles
When you are in the Princess of Wales' mercedes
Quand sam'di soir c'est ta fille qui joue sur Canal
When Saturday night it is your daughter who is on Canal
Et ça fait chier !
And it sucks!

La tristitude
C'est quand tu marches pieds nus sur un tout p'tit Lego
It is when you walk barefoot on a tiny little lego
C'est quand lors d'un voyage en Inde tu bois de l'eau
It is when you drink the water on a trip to India
Quand ton voisin t'annonce qu'il se met au saxo
When your neighbor tells you he has taken up the saxophone
Et ça fait mal

{au Refrain}

La tristitude
C'est quand ton frère siamois t'apprend qu'il a l'SIDA
When your siamese twin brother lets you know he has AIDS
C'est quand ta femme fait de l'échangisme un peu sans toi
When your wife is into couple swapping a bit without you
Quand des jeunes t'appellent monsieur pour la première fois
When kids call you mister for the first time
Et ça fait mal

La tristitude
C'est devenir styliste mais pour Eddy Mitchell
It is becoming a stylist, but for Eddy Mitchell
C'est conjuguer "bouillir" au subjonctif pluriel
It is conjugating "to boil" into the plural subjunctive tense
C'est faire les courses le samedi d'avant Noël
It is doing your shopping the Saturday before Christmas
Et ça fait mal-mamal-mamal...

{au Refrain}

...
Non non non
La tristitude, la tristitude
La tritri, l'attitude, te donne, la tristitude
La tristitude te donne la triste attitude

La tristitude, c'est un peu de tristesse et de solitude
C'est comme de la tristitude plus... rien
En tout cas c'est ... la tristitude

2011-10-05T21:41:00.001-04:00

2011-10-05T21:34:00.001-04:00

2011-10-03T22:09:00.003-04:00

Toasting together.

2011-10-01T17:10:00.014-04:00

I didn't go to work one day this week and found myself doing something very simple - wandering in Central Park, which is particularly marvelous and a wonder when filled with September sun and not filled with weekend bodies. Well-manicured emptiness. Green nuggets of swirly water (to a concerning point - perhaps there is an invasive algae situation here). I went to one of my favorite spots - the semi-concealed rock near the Boat House, which even on weekends stays bare. There, was she:

She was sunning. I took off my boots and sweater and joined her, sitting close and turning my nostrils directly to meet the sun's stare, in imitation. Four fixed holes (mine aren't perfect orbits like hers, but almost). She wasn't scared of me like some of her friends, who would pull themselves from the water to find me mock-reptiling and recall their afternoon plans to backtrack back into the water.

She tarried on and we sat together. She let me get really close. I admired the stripes on her eyes.

When she decided she needed to move on, she turned to face the green water and saluted, sticking her back left foot into the air - waving it to me. It really was for me. No question.

And off she went.

Zigzag.

2011-09-30T16:02:00.001-04:00

A performance.

2011-09-26T22:13:00.010-04:00

Last night I very ceremoniously sat down at the piano and performed my favorite piece. It was for a brand new, very important, audience. The baby. Apparently, her hearing apparatus is now in tact and she can hear voices and musical notes, car horns and telephones. When I discovered this recently, it made me cringe slightly thinking about the bearing of all those sounds on freshly originated ears. Then I liked the idea. So, I narrate like I'm a mad one: "Here comes a donut," or "that's laughter," or "that's my boss' voice - ignore him." Xavier has started in as well. He puts his mouth against my belly button and says things like (in a covert tone), "C'est ton papa qui te parle, je te parle en français parce que c'est une langue bien meilleure...et ce sera notre langue a tous les deux." (It is your dad speaking, I'm speaking to you in French because it is a much better language, and it will be ours).

I got a little nervous (like fluttering in my stomach) when I was playing the Chopin Nocturne because of my audience. The fluttering may have actually been the baby applauding because that is what she is supposed to feel like to me right about now when she claps her hands.

Swarthy.

2011-09-25T22:10:00.005-04:00

One night we came home and the light was just like this. I said, "turn no lights on."

2011-09-24T11:57:00.002-04:00

Goodbye summer.

2011-09-22T07:40:00.000-04:00

Bare feet: I always miss you the most.

A lady.

2011-09-20T12:00:00.006-04:00

I am fascinated by a certain woman at the gym. She is Japanese. She is sylphlike - she weighs nothing and bones seem to comprise her entire body. Oddly, last week I went to gym everyday at almost the same time exactly. So did she. I think we could safely say that for her, that is a general practice. I don't think working out is a part of her experience there. The majority of what she does is pat. Seriously, pat.

She stands before the mirror with heavy, admiring eyes - staring at herself so watchfully and shy at the same time, it is like she is getting to know herself, or at a being she's recently discovered. Towel on head, white skin glowing - the thin vaulting of her bones, she begins the ritual before I leave the locker room. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, go her hands on her cheeks, while applying some sort of liquid cream. Must be magical. She takes the task very seriously. She is still standing there - hair wet, out of the towel now - patting, when I re-enter 30 minutes later. Forehead, nose, chin, but especially the cheeks, she is patting. In the time it takes me to enter the locker room, work out, come back to shower and get ready, she doesn't move from her vigil. So impressive. And crazy.

2011-09-19T22:09:00.000-04:00

Alexander Hamilton.

2011-09-18T22:19:00.008-04:00

It was his day this weekend. It was also US Constitution Day and the day that Hamilton Grange opened to the public. We were awoken yesterday and today by the festivities just across the street - Caribbean music (you know, this founding father grew up in what was the Caribbean slave island of Nevis and came to the United States as a young man to go to King's College, now Columbia, and then became Washington's right hand man in the Revolutionary War), hymns, gospel music and grandstand speeches. The enormous task of rennovating his house was finished and was being celebrated. He built the Grange as a country estate for his family and it was finished in 1802 when all of Harlem was still pastoral.

This dog was totally fascinated by Hamilton's getup.

The house's details have been beautifully restored.

All around outside the house were characters from ~1800. They were great - the lady spinner, the blacksmith, the harp and guitarists, the chocolate makers (apparently, Hamilton and others at his time, only drank chocolate) and Xavier putting a sword up his nose.

911 Memorial.

2011-09-15T07:55:00.013-04:00

Avid, lovely Chris got us tickets to view the 9.11 Memorial as soon as it was opened to the public (9.12). Monday night we headed to the southern end of Manhattan to get in. Normally, the Memorial is still closed to the public because there is construction on all sides of it, making it dangerous to be a viewer, but they've opened it for specific groups for the 10th anniversary. You can go online to get the required tickets. Stephen remarked that he couldn't believe how physical the impact of the memorial is. It is true - the depression space is the same as the towers occupied (there are two fountain caverns) and it feels like empty space in your core when you stand on the side of these pits. The most aching part of the memorial is the middle square in the fountain, which extends down 30 additional feet (appearing bottomless) - that feels particularly mournful.

Chris was highly knowledgeable about every choice of stone and grass plain at the Memorial. He knew that this tree (with the blue remembrance ribbons) was a Callery Pear tree, which had existed on the grounds and had survived the attacks.

Still my favorite

2011-09-13T08:48:00.002-04:00

reason to come to work early...

2011-09-11T00:34:00.018-04:00

So, here she is. The ultrasound is, for now, the only real way she is making a visible appearance, since I look pretty normal and just continue to feel seasick. About 14 weeks now. The process of finding where and with whom to deliver is a tricky one in NYC. Maybe everywhere, but it seems even more challenging here in the big apple. My sister, Julie, is pretty brilliant (doing a double PhD in Anthropology and Communications at Indiana Univ. with 2 children under 3) and she has helped me to think through a lot of questions about birth. She had both of her girls at home.

We are looking at the Birthing Center at Roosevelt Hospital with a group of midwives there. I can't figure it out though. They are largely unreachable - they do not pick up the telephone (not ideal for a care provider). They do 20 births a month, so if your baby is born outside of its designated month, they won't take you...well, it is not like that exactly, but they have a strict range of dates and if your birth falls outside of those, even if still considered pretty safe, I guess it is the hospital for you. Care, as I imagined it, is hard to find.

There is a growing body of people in the US who are challenging the practice of birth and how it currently happens, often without any question from the women and men going through the experience. One book Julie recommended is "The Thinking Woman's Guide to a Better Birth," by Henci Goer. So far, crazy. You open the book and the author lays out some astounding facts about how birth gets done at the moment in the US. Things like:

- Cesarean section is the most common major surgery performed in this country...The consensus of medical literature is that half of these operations were not needed.
-Nearly half of women giving birth vaginally still have an episiotomy...Reserach proves that, with rare exceptions, this procedure does no good and often does harm.
- Virtually no pregnant women manage within the conventional medical system escape without having tests, drugs, procedures or restrictions that studies show offer little or no benefit when used indiscriminately but which introduce risks.

Alarming, because going into this experience, I don't trust the people whose hands I may end up in. The medical world often views birth as something to deliver a woman from; the doctor must intervene. Yet, what I like about this other way of thinking about birth is that a woman's body is trusted, the woman is the actor - who delivers the baby - not the doctor, and birth is seen as a natural process. All of that makes sense to me. I remember watching "The Business of Being Born" and hearing that, physically, lying on her back is the worst position for a woman to labor and deliver a baby. Made me really doubt a medical establishment that insists on a position for its own convenience.

Anyway, so we are meeting with the midwives this week. I have a long list of questions. My nightmare is that I will end up on a hospital bed with an IV in my arm, epidural in my back, fetal heart rate monitor hooked up, my legs wide open - at the mercy of some doctor who could decide to intervene in any number of ways - all in a process I believe my body capable of handling without intervention at all. I'm not interested in a painless birth - in fact, I think that pain will be useful in understanding my role in how to best get a baby born - if I assume the role of primary actor. I'd like to work with someone who trusts my body as much as I do.

More Cape Cod.

2011-09-05T22:17:00.004-04:00

Look at how cute John is.

One of the neatest things in Provincetown is a beach/marsh that fills in when the tide comes in and then when the tide goes back out it vanishes and the sand magically appears completely dry within almost seconds. When the marsh fills in, you can swim all along it and get towed by the tidal motion.

2011-09-04T19:36:00.004-04:00

On Friday, I took a train, a plane, a taxi and a ferry to get from France to Cape Cod. One spot commensurate with the other. Not always the case. The light here may be even better, even if the chateaux are not. Beaches prevail here, though.

And no one can beat John Derian details.

b&w in Provincetown.

2011-09-04T10:45:00.001-04:00

These too.

2011-09-03T23:19:00.005-04:00

Other French things. Twisted steeples, town hall/school in one, grain huts, lovely Baugé.

Château hunting.

2011-09-01T14:08:00.012-04:00

Xavier and I went château hunting today. It is much easier than it sounds when your starting position is somewhere in the Loire Valley in France. There are châteaux hidden all over the place. Down this road, we saw some telltale signs:

The first dead give away. The sign read: "Château" (You know, CHau is short for château in French road sign speak).

Traps. Do not enter. Private Property. (Note to self: never put up a sign that says, "traps" to keep people out. It was a direct invitation. Who would not want to know what sort of traps the owners of this modern day château had devised to keep people out? "We have to go," I said and Xavier pulled over to park the car.)

Through the trees, we spied it and it was a big one. Xavier corrected me when I whispered this - almost spitting on him with excitement, saying, "It is actually a relatively small one." Killjoy. Cynic. Frenchman.

So we took this path. The most apparent trap was spiderwebs - everywhere, with large arachnids. Then, my feet started to itch in my sandals and I was convinced they had implanted the trail with poison ivy. (I'm less convinced now).

We made it through those traps and then there was the château, in front of us. We continued furtively, thinking from that point it would be smooth sailing, but alas, first we had to make it over the spikes in the ground. (This was a real trap - for the tires of cars who tried to venture onto the property). Nice.

I expected a concealed pitfall at some point with some sort of wild animal at the bottom, but we never fell into it.

Surprisingly, Xavier was more intimidated by the traps than I thought he would be. I was almost climbing on the château itself while Xavier stood there with a furrowed brow, a bit distressed about our situation. He encouraged us to get going.

L'île de Noirmoutier.

2011-08-31T07:53:00.018-04:00

Toward Nantes, from Baugé, 3 hours toward the Atlantic Ocean prevails L'île de Noirmoutier. We wanted an outing, a trek to the sea - to build a sandcastle or two and eat ice cream cones. We ate les meilleurs moules-frites this side of the Atlantic.

Marguerite was the choice model today in her Marine stripes. This is one adorable French child.

As we approached the beach, Jules saw all of these beach changing houses and said, "Oh regarde ! Tu as vu, il y a plein de toilettes sur la plage." (Oh look at all the bathrooms on the beach!)

Xavier spent the afternoon constructing a classic sand castle. He toiled and toiled, his dad pitched in and Marguerite cheered them on, danced about with pointed toes and decorated with seashells, feathers and sticks. He was quite dispirited when the tide came in and despite his efforts to build a wall of sand to protect his sweet chateau, the water crashed it down.

We had matching post-beach wear, without even planning it.

Baugé.

2011-08-29T16:10:00.003-04:00

La beauté.

2011-08-28T17:50:00.002-04:00

A lovely day.

2011-08-28T17:39:00.008-04:00

Today was a really lovely day. It included a long game of Monopoly (French style - no Boardwalk or Park Place, instead Avenue des Champs-Élysée et Rue de la Paix), which I happened to win despite Xavier embezzling 100,000 French Francs at the start of the game (an act to which he confessed only after he had lost). Also, the best kind of cake - one with lots of cream from a French patisserie in a little French town. And, my socks were pretty much knocked right off when my mother-in-law gave me her engagement ring, which dates to the 18th century. This is a family piece and so while it is undeniably beautiful, more fundamentally, it is such a generous and symbolic gift.

His face when losing.

Baugé avec les Joly.

2011-08-27T17:54:00.008-04:00

We ran away from New York at just the right moment, I guess - Irene was on our tail. We hope that our house withstands the storm - my brother Marc is there to keep watch and to bail out the backyard if it floods - thank goodness. Meanwhile, we jumped on a plane before they all stopped flying around NYC and made it to Paris this morning and then to Baugé by this afternoon. There we found les Joly already convened, ready for a week of relaxation, meals in the garden, trips to the market, books, books, books, walks in this tiny French village, and lots of rest (on va faire la grasse matinée tous les jours !).

Delighted to find Jules (above) and Louise again. When we lived in Paris, I would see these guys a few times a week, so seeing them only once every few months simply does not suffice.

Xavier's parents.

This is Xavier's resting facial expression (here he models Louise's new watch).

Fabien.

Ma Marie.

Mlle. in some of her best forms.

At this moment she was rushing to get to her rabbit's picnic and the idea of pausing to document the occasion was not her thing.

Hairdo.

2011-08-26T18:24:00.002-04:00

I came home and found someone working very hard to make her dad look as pretty as possible.

The end result was really quite stunning.

Marguerite took the time to write down the instructions so that I could reproduce the look when she returns to Paris and won't be around to guide me. She wants to see photographic proof of the results.

New Camera.

2011-08-24T23:04:00.017-04:00

I bought the Sony NEX-5. Thrilled. So excited. Tiny body, huge sensor size. Paired with various lenses, it takes a comically absurd look. Very nice to shoot with - I think a new generation/way to do cameras.

Here with the 16-55mm lens.

Here with the (!!!!!) 18-200mm f/3.5-6.3 OSS lens. Makes me crazy.

Here is very low light (the large sensor). The camera has a great feature - it shoots HDR (creates a composite image from 3 almost simultaneous/different exposures - shooting for color/contrast/tone differently, but then melds them to create one image. Photographers have done this a lot in photoshop. Opens up possibilities - often useful in a very sunny/shady situation, because it will expose for both).

It also shoots HD video.

Disagreeable.

2011-08-23T12:30:00.006-04:00

The biggest pregnancy surprise for me has been just how disagreeable I've become. On a simple walk to work (punctuated by a short surrender to a garbage can for my breakfast to make a reappearance), the list of things that grate on my nerves is long:

- My tongue (feels too big for my mouth - it is, but it has never presented itself that way before)

- Food trucks (a personal attack from the city of New York)

- How short the person is walking next to me

- People walking next to me generally (sound thoughts, I know)

- People asking me questions (I generally like strangers, not now)

- The noise of the bus letting off steam when the stop light turns green

- Certain types of dogs (cocker spaniels and little poodles especially)

- The announcement of a noontime concert in the courtyard of the building where I work (could anything be more aggravating?)

- New York smells: tar mixed with urine and coffee and smoke, heaps of garbage bags, ladies' perfume, (they were all there, but mostly dormant before, but now it is like someone is brewing them just for me)

So, I walk around holding my breath, cringing and scowling. I look amazing.

Lots of people will make you feel guilty - like by saying that your mood will determine the baby's, or other such nonsense. Well, if that is true, this baby is going to be pretty unlikable and obnoxious.

Upward trends include the fact that I don't care about things that would have really bothered me before - like in the past, I would have been mortified by throwing up in a garbage can at the Rockefeller Center at 8am in public.

From our roof.

2011-08-22T22:50:00.009-04:00

We had the good fortune of moving into a house where the space across the street has been transformed into a National Memorial - Hamilton Grange. The house of Alexander Hamilton was originally completed in 1802 - shortly before his death by duel in 1804 (poor guy, didn't get a chance to enjoy it at all - we promise to, in his honor). After 3 years of renovation and a total relocation of the house, the memorial will open again in September. Before it was moved here, the house was squashed between a church and a building up the street, with no space and stripped of most of the restored exterior detail/terraces which have now been re-affixed to the home.

Also from our roof is a view of our little garden. My brother Stephen had the brilliant idea of planting white impatiens in the circular bed and they are now a perfect orb of green and white - a hovering halo in the backyard.

Here is lovely Marguerite demonstrating the dimensions of the house out front. She and I took a walk over there and she bent down to collect every acorn in "Mr. Washington's" yard (she is mostly French at this point, so I can't expect her to distinguish all the Founding Fathers without a bit more time in the USA).

2011-08-20T23:19:00.003-04:00

Lately, it seems that my inspiration has taken flight. Don't know where. Perhaps very near - it is hiding in my uterus, hopefully. Clouds and sky always spark something though.

It is true.

2011-08-19T11:35:00.007-04:00

We are hoping for something new. Looks promising so far. Due March.

Marguerite is super enthusiastic. She wants us to bring the baby to Paris. I want Mlle. to be relocated to New York! We'll find a compromise. After we told her, we were walking down the street holding hands. She told me she hoped she would have dreams about her new brother/sister that night.

Les crocodiles.

2011-08-16T23:15:00.002-04:00

Ah ! les cro cro cro, les cro cro cro, les crocodiles
Sur les bords du nil ont disparus, n'en parlons plus !

2011-08-15T22:38:00.000-04:00

To the beach.

2011-08-14T13:28:00.004-04:00

Went to a beach in Connecticut with some lovely friends.

The ice cream was delectable, if a bit sandy.

And Marguerite discovered the wonders of a ring pop.

Marguerite!

2011-08-11T21:28:00.006-04:00

(We're pretty happy she is here).

Au revoir St. Tropez.

2011-08-08T11:19:00.005-04:00

Port Grimaud.

2011-08-07T09:04:00.008-04:00

Port Grimaud is just down the coastline from St. Tropez, towards Nice. Just a scooter hop away. It is the unique sort of town where roads are waterways and when a family goes to get their bread and croissants every morning, they jump on the boat to reach the boulangerie. If you go, there are the main thoroughfares into town for visitors - across bridges and then along the waterways with shops/restaurants, etc. However, there are many winding routes that seem off-limits to outsiders. Gates, etc. If you can squeeze past one to continue walking along the water - along boat after boat parked with no space in between it and the next one, the view of Port Grimaud becomes much more charming.

Pas n'importe où.

2011-08-04T18:06:00.014-04:00

Yes, it is true, I often sing Serge Gainsbourg's Sous le Soleil aloud - to myself or others. That song was made for St. Tropez. Find it and listen to it.

Sous le soleil exactement (Exactly under the sun)
Pas à côté, pas n’importe où (Not to the side, not just wherever)
Sous le soleil, sous le soleil (Under the sun, under the sun)
Exactement, juste en dessous (Exactly, just underneath)

So, as inspired as the song is when the sun is directly overhead, not to the side, not just anywhere (glorious), the light when the rays are gone and no where to be sung about (except in their lingering aftereffect) - that light in St. Tropez is to be praised. Every night. For the 6 weeks I have been here, I have felt pangs of shame, almost sinfulness, the few times I missed its nighttime farewell.

Squaw Peak.

2011-08-03T17:45:00.000-04:00

While in Utah, Stephen and I woke up early on Sunday morning and went for a favorite hike: up Squaw Peak in Rock Canyon. One of the things I miss the most and crave in NYC are big overwhelming outdoor spaces like this, where the smells hit you - plants, rocks, dirt, water in streams, just the plain air.

My brother's wedding.

2011-08-02T16:22:00.000-04:00

I flew far away for just the weekend (Friday, St Tropez--->Salt Lake City | Sunday, Salt Lake City--->St Tropez) to make Paul and Caitlyn's wedding. It was worth it - they are so lovely.

Four brothers.

Three sisters, a mother, a grandmother, two nieces. (My dad is always snapping pictures of everyone, but he's featured above).

Paul is a crack up. He bought a zip-up tie for his wedding.

The rest of the weekend included snowcones.

and babies.

And a shake shop in Ephraim, Utah, where Xavier found a family of cowboys and was overcome with delight.

There was also a jukebox that was tricky to figure out.

When it started playing, Marc and Joyce broke it down.

And not to diminish any of the other events/happenings/sitings of the weekend, but perhaps best of all was this. The Second Wife's House - just down the street from the jukebox. The current owner (whose marital arrangement wasn't entirely clear, nor was the setup or purpose of this shop/perpetual yard sale situation) explained that the first wife's house was located just next door and the third wife's house on the other side. There used to be polygamist raids at the beginning of the 20th century and, at that time, these three wives (and their husband, presumably) built an underground tunnel connecting the three homes (for hiding/escape). They also connected the tunnel to the town's bank vault, just next door to the first wife's house. Convenient and safe hiding place. I come from polygamist stock. Amazing. (Please note: polygamy has been grounds for excommunication in the Mormon church since 1890. Some folks carry on notwithstanding. But remember, Paul is only marrying one lady).

St. Tropez Medley.

2011-08-01T16:50:00.000-04:00