Day 5: Le Bateau Mouche d’Amour

Arriving an hour before our train to France at St Pancras station, we find the place eerily still. That is because everyone in the know knows that these trains are like wild beasts, impossible to predict until they alight on one particular track ten minutes before they are set to depart, and it behooves everyone to wait until that magic moment to form a mob and storm the Eurostar. Even if a certain 2 year old has decided to take his shoes and socks off but moments before.

The ride once we crashed it was enormously civilized, and we took advantage of the policy of unlimited refills of our rosé. I also practiced the address of our hotel, and what to say to our taxi driver when we arrived in Paris. “S’il vous plait, nous conduire à St Germain des Prés, à l'Hôtel du Danube, à cinquante-huit Rue du Jacob.”

Moments after we arrived at the Gard du Nord, we were in the queue, waiting for a taxi. Suddenly, there was a parting of the line, and we were ushered through, with the explanation, “You have a family.”

This, by the way, was the way we were treated throughout Paris. So much for the reputation of the prickly Parisiens.

I told the driver, “Sivoplay, noo condwere a San Germahn day Pray, ah Lotel du Danyoob, a sickant wheat roodoo Jaycub.” And miraculously, he took us there!
Hotel du Danube we picked because it offered a reasonably priced suite, but Room #16 was big (for a European hotel room) with enough space for a cot for Mikey, and a little cheaper, so we went for that. The downstairs was pale green and the upstairs was tangerine toile, patterns and colors that only the French can get away with.

Mikey was asleep, after being absolutely perfect on the train, so we waited until he woke up to begin our exploration of Paris. Despite the quality of the double-decker tour the day before, we decided to its equivalent in Paris, the tour down the Seine on the bateaux mouches. We walked from our hotel halfway across Paris along the river before giving up and letting a nice taxi driver, who didn’t have a taxi, but a bicycle with a carriage in back take us the rest of the way to the launch.

The boy did not have a lot more interest in the tour than he did in the double-decker, though he did enjoy screaming at the top of his lungs (like everyone else) when we passed under a bridge. No, what inspired him was a little girl about his age named Simone. She was cute and chic, possibly Senegalese, and Mikey followed her all over the bateau, giving her hugs when she’d let him. Ian and I took turns chasing the two around the boat.

When we’d catch them in an embrace, those around them would smile and say, “Ah, c’est Paris.”

Sadly, the relationship was not to be, and by the time we were back on dry land, the aim was to find food. In no time, we were at a café on the left bank, and Mikey devoured a plate of charcouterie and we found our way home. Eventually.

Turns out it’s really damn easy to get lost in Paris, which isn’t necessarily bad when you’re not in a hurry.

Day 4: Double-Decker

After breakfast on the fourth day in England, we decided to do the ultimate touristy activity. The double-decker bus tour.

Why? Memory fails.

Truly, to be honest, I’m not sure what we were thinking except that we understood we could get on and off, so we imagined a leisurely drive around the town, popping off to say hullo to the ravens in the Tower, or have a pint, or get knighted, and then back on. What actually happened is we passed Parliament, pointed out Big Ben, and then someone on the bus said they wanted to go see the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace, and before we knew it, we were off and far in the maddening crowd.

We were close to Hyde Park, which is close to Kensington Garden, so I suggested that we walk on and see the Peter Pan statue and the Princess Diana playground. It would have been a fine destination, but closeness is relative, and we had the bad luck to run into some police on horseback. This made Mikey remember that he had missed out on the horses in the New Forest, and all of the sudden, nothing but horseplay would do. Specifically, he wanted the policemen to get off their horses and let him have his turn.

Time for a nap came quickly and with tears, and Mikey was asleep before we were five minutes in the cab bound for the hotel. A few hours later, when Mikey woke up, we told him that we had to go to the store and get some wine and snacks because we were having a few friends over, old friends of Ian's who were dying to meet him. The prospect of having folks over he could show off to appealed to him, and before long, Mikey was singing and dancing, and doing his latest trick, drawing with his feet, to the delight of all.

The next morning, we went to St. Pancras to catch the Eurostar to Paris.

Day 3: The Cat & The Bidet

We checked out of the Mill after breakfast, and went to visit the freshly minted couple, Helen & Simon Rhodes. After some exchange of photos and some gifts of clothing to Mikey, and a few more games of “Stahp it!” with Cousin Lauryn, we were off again to London.

Our aim was to try to make it to our hotel in Soho to drop off our luggage and then the rental desk of Alamo in Euston Station before 4:00 pm. Mikey was a little upset that he still hadn’t seen any horses, but since we had stayed at the Soho Hotel before, I felt confident in making him a new promise, “We’ll try to find some horses in London, but I promise you that we will find the biggest cat you’ve ever seen right in our hotel.”

The black ten foot tall Fernando Botero bronze in the lobby was as promised.

We dropped off our luggage, and zipped over to Euston station just in time. The Tube ride back to Soho was loud, and Mikey sat through it in stunned silence. When we finally got out, he said, “We do it again now?”

Later, we promised, we had to rush back to the hotel, drink some champagne, and explore our room. Of course, the bathrooms at the Soho are gorgeous and well-appointed, by which I mean they came with a little more than Mikey is used to at home.

“What this?”

“It’s called a bidet,” I said.

“Bidaydo?” he repeated back, curious why a potato, which he had eaten before fried, mashed, diced, and riced, would be ceramic and toilet-like in its natural state.

“Just bidet,” I said. “It’s to wash your bottom.”

Of course, he had to try, and let's just say he found it delightful. I think he’d still be on it in a state of ecstasy if we didn’t drag him off.

Day 2: Two Ducks & A Wedding

In a reply to my Day 1 description in this blog, my friend Maryanne Stahl, a teacher, novelist and passionate devotee of waterfowl, said that she was pleased that I finally posted something nice about ducks. Usually I reference ducks and geese only in the context of foie gras. Maryanne, with that in mind, you may want to avoid the bit of this update.

Our second day in England began with full English traditional breakfasts. If you’ve never indulged (and no one except very fat English people indulge in this very often), it consists of bacon, sausage, fried eggs, grilled tomatoes, and optional fried bread, beans, and/or black pudding. Black pudding is not to be confused with the common American Kraft chocolate pudding, but is basically blood and fat congealed into an attractive splat. I know, and it’s yummy. So there.

Mikey ate all of that, and then demanded some tea. Of course, he gets what he thinks he wants, which we decided was milk warmed with a few dribbles of tea.

After breakfast, we were told that the hotel resident tame duck, named by her owner Crispie, had arrived. Crispie was happy to meet Mikey, which she showed by nibbling on him, which most of us decided was more than fair for being poked in the eye "gently."

The wedding was at 2 o’clock, about an hour away in Lyndhurst, so at 1 o’clock, our niece Lauren tore through our hotel’s parking lot and we roared after her. Through tight forested roads we raced, by in large remembering what side of the road to be on, until we arrived at the city hall with a minute to spare. Once again, Mikey had fallen asleep before he had a chance to see any of the New Forest ponies he was desperate to see, and he stayed asleep all through the ceremony, where his Papa accompanied Aunt Helen down the aisle to give her to Simon Rhodes.

The reception was at a huge hotel another half an hour away, and by then Mikey was awake and ready to party. The back lawn was vast, and while Helen and Simon tried to get pictures taken, Mikey and Cousin Sapphire-Jade chased after each other. We were brought inside for dinner, and Mikey found his place in the receiving line, hiding behind the curtains to avoid the tickling clutches of Cousin Lauren.

“Stop it!” he would snarl from behind the curtains.

“Stahp it! Stahp it!” Lauren would tease in perfect imitation of his American accent, which he thought was hilarious. This interchange became the repeated game of the evening. Even days later, Mikey would ask to play “the game,” where I would be Cousin Lauren and say “Stahp it!” and he would call me “Crybaby!” and then eat me.

After dinner, the dance floor came out and Mikey and Cousin Sapphire-Jade danced for approximately four hours straight. Occasionally, they let others, like the bride and groom, out on the floor.

Finally, we dragged Mikey home, back to the hotel. Despite his obvious exhaustion, Mikey did not want to sleep. We felt like a snack too, so we went down to the bar and ordered the special, which was duck rolls.

Mikey took a bite and said, eyes widening, “This Crispie Duck who bite me?”

“I think it’s a different duck,” I assured him.

Mikey still had his revenge.

Day 1: LAX to Lymington

On Thursday, August 25, 2010, at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, we tip-toed into the dimly lit preschool room, where soft music was playing, being careful not to step on any of the little bodies of the sleeping children scattered on mattresses across the floor. Mikey was sound asleep when I picked him up, but he opened his eyes to ask, “We go on plane now?”

Yup. We were off. On the way down, we told him what we were going to do. We were going to drive our car to JohnnyPark, take the bus with our luggage to the airport, get our tickets, check in our luggage, get on a plane, and fly high in the sky until we landed in London, England. It all went according to plan, more or less (Johnny Park is temporarily a two-bus trip to the airport which is a little exasperating to those of us schlepping big suitcases but not to Mikey) until we checked in our suitcases and got our seat assignments. Mikey’s understanding of the arrangement was that next we go to the airplane and fly.

“But Mikey, we have to wait because the plane isn’t ready yet.”

“We go to plane now!”

We tried another tact, telling him that even though (God knows) we weren’t flying First Class, by hook and by crook, we could get into the First Class lounge at LAX where we could mingle with movie stars. That held no charm. Finally we got him up there by explaining that we could watch the planes from the lounge. Unfortunately, it turned out that the lounges, while still lovely, have changed since the last time we were privileged to visit and don’t afford views of the planes. More disappointment.

“But, look, a buffet! Pizzas and mozzarella! Can we interest you in the gin and tonics which look really good to us right now?”

He was mollified with playing with the ipad until we got the word from the hostess that our plane was boarding. As we left, we saw another family being escorted out of the lounge because their child’s crying was disturbing the other travelers. Coulda been worse, we said.

The plane ride itself was great. Mikey’s flown a couple times before and has been great except for the time when he had a cold which turned into an ear infection at 10,000 feet. Still, this was an 11 hour flight in the middle of the night. We had the ipad, and British Airways had inflight cartoons. After a couple hours, the cabin lights dimmed.

“It’s night-time?” Mikey asked. We told him, yes, it was, and he curled up on his seat and went to sleep for 8 hours, until we were about ready to land.

London greeted us with the traditional August chill and rain. When we made it through customs and got our luggage, Alamo greeted us with the news that their power was off and they were confirming registrations and credit cards using their cell phones. So it took forever, and Mikey spent his time jumping in mud-puddles.
We told Mikey that we were driving down to the New Forest to see Papa’s sister, Mikey’s Aunt Helen who he had never met, getting married. He’s been to two other weddings, and while he loves parties, he was more interested in hearing about the New Forest ponies. Traffic was rough, being a bank holiday weekend, and by the time there were any horses to be seen in the forest, loping idyllically through the banks of ferns, Mikey was fast asleep.

We checked into our hotel, the Mill at Gordleton, which we never would have found except by the power of GPS in our rental. It is a beautiful old converted water mill on the river Avon, surrounded by fish ponds and duck ponds, and modern sculpture. We had the Miller’s Suite, so Mikey had his own room and we had a living room. Mikey was the only one of us not in danger of banging his head on the low rafters.

We had cream tea in the garden, and then Helen, Cousin Lauren, and Cousin Sapphire-Jade came over. They were still finishing arrangements for the wedding, but they wanted to see us and let Papa wrestle with Sapphire-Jade, who is 5, and Mikey. Afterwards, we drove into town to see the ferry to the Isle of Wight and have some fish and chips.

Mikey fell asleep around 10 o’clock and it was the end of our first day in England.

Lesson Learned

Mikey started at preschool last week. There are dozens of daycare centers in walking distance, including the one he attended for the last 9 months, but the shortcut for finding a quality preschool is to go to the website for the National Association for the Education of Young Children (http://www.naeyc.org) and do a search for the schools that are accredited by them in your area. We got this from Jenifer Wana’s book “How To Choose The Best Preschool” where she writes “Because the process is so rigorous and time consuming, fewer than one in ten preschools has NAEYC accreditation. If a school has this accreditation, you can be pretty confident that it’s a high-quality program.”

Of course, this insider tip is not exactly on the QT, and the NAEYC-certified school in walking distance from our house turned out to have a 9 month waiting list. So, while we waited, Mikey went to a fine but not outstanding daycare, and we hoped he would get enough education from home.

The second best way to educate is to model expected behavior. The best way to educate is to say no. As in, “No, this is all my broccoli, not for you!” and watch as your child sneaks giggling into your lap to eat your broccoli off your fork before you make it to your mouth.

The lessons learned are seldom the ones you tried to teach. Over and over again, Ian in his British way will tell Mikey, “No, eat properly with knife and fork.” “Don’t chew on your brush. Brush your teeth properly.” “No, Sprog, you’re scaring the cat. Pet him properly, please.”

Mikey listens sometimes and obeys, and sometimes doesn’t. Tonight, however, he demonstrated that he learned his first adverb. We were playing cars together on our bed, and I was slouched over the pillow.

“Sit up, daddy, like this,” he said, getting into the position what the yogis call sukhasana, and we call “criss-cross applesauce.”

“OK,” I said, half-propping myself up.

“No, Daddy,” he sighed. “Sit properly.”

Lesson learned.

A Bad Dream

Mikey had a nightmare this morning. He’s had nightmares before which woke him up and made him scream or cry, and sometimes required him to run to our bed in the middle of the night, but this is the first time he articulated what scary thing had happened to him.

“Papa! Papa!” Mikey called. Papa is Ian. I don’t take it personally anytime Mikey calls for Papa instead of me, Daddy. I’m mature that way.

“What is it?” Ian asked him. “Honey, Papa’s here.”

“No!” Mikey was still asleep and screaming. “Papa ate my foot!”

With that, Mikey fell back asleep. Ian and I slept for a while ourselves, and then started getting dressed. Mikey is starting preschool next month and we talked about Ian taking him there this morning, for a special event where they’re bringing in sea creatures for the children to see. Then I couldn’t take it anymore, and started laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“’Papa ate my foot!’” I said.

“You’re mean.”

“If I’m so mean, how come you were the one eating his foot, hmm?”

Like I said, I’m mature that way.