Stranger

Stranger

From London to France we were still changing underpants.

In a desperate plea to satisfy my suddenly picky toddler I found and made him chicken nuggets which resulted in him sleeping happily and satisfied as I gripped the “toilette” for 48 hours because I am quite certain I got the only sour one in the bag. As food poisoning overcame my body I felt that I had been severely cheated in the situation. It was only day two in our apartment in Provence and the land that I had been dreaming about was right outside my window but it felt so far away as the room spinned endlessly for two days. Cheated I was- at least only for two days. I think it's safe to say I will be avoiding snacking on any chicken nuggets for the rest of this trip.

I day dreamed for three years about the day I would return to Provence with my baby. Last we were here, we were only accompanied by a little flutter in my tummy rather than a speaking, opinionated, running, toddler. It was a bit calmer then, and through all the heat, fluster and curveballs (and temporary food poisoning) we are soaking up all these amazing moments with him.

Some days it is hard to see through the whirlwind of toddlerhood as a parent- the light at the end of the tunnel seems far. The recent heatwave in France has intensified some of the struggle but as I remember to slow down- wipe my brow of sweat and remember to try and look like all the provincial women walking around seemingly unaffected by the heat- I feel overwhelmingly grateful to be here in this magical place with him, almost as overwhelmingly as my body is hot.

Since leaving to embark on our international journey I have noticed so many parents being tested in the ways we have experienced. I can't say I noticed this before Fynn during my travels because as prepared as I thought I was about having children- I was completely, utterly and blissfully unaware of the amount of work it actually takes to be a parent. No matter what country, what language- it is a universal struggle of pure love, it's the universal struggle of parenthood. It is the highs of great days and lows of very hard ones. It's the roller coaster of wanting a break but missing them terribly when you finally break free. It's the wanting to eat them up and debating if you really want another one because that would be crazy. It's a constant back and forth of bartering and making deals. Snacks suddenly become precious currency and don't you dare get caught on the train without them.

I will be honest-before kids I was all about the tablet free, non negotiating- shoes on outside kind of mom. But that's all out the french shutters now and if he wants his shoes off at a restaurant and I negotiate 10 minutes of tablet time so I can eat my meal in peace I am 100% for it. Some days it works and some days it doesn't. Any parent understands that sometimes you have to survive with what you got. Snacks are in great commodity and the tablet is always charged for those surviving moments. Fynn has been so amiable on this trip and has gone with the flow 90% of the time. He has learned to nap in the stroller on days we didn't make it back in time- shared meals with us of things he has never had before. He has navigated playing with children speaking in different languages, made friends and had fun. He has soaked in our day's adventures and then incorporates them in his bedtime stories at night. He says “Merci Beaucoup!” and enjoys using his french as we visit shops and cafes. His comforts of home, his toys, his familiarity, his friends have been left behind. As we are on this journey together we couldn't be more proud of how much he has adapted, learned and reflected back to us in his joy.

I regress back for a moment on the universal struggle of parenthood. Sometimes in hard parent moments with Fynn I almost feel like a stranger in the situation. The struggles are new and we haven't navigated them before. So as we try to interpret how to take care of them I almost feel as though I am a complete stranger to this little thing giving me a hard time- I think to myself “this is not what I taught him”?! But in some ways as I observe others, strangers, working through these hardships I somehow identify myself through their struggle and I remember that I am a Mother, I am a parent.

Nice

Walking through the promenade in Nice, I see a young family seated at one of the Cafes spilled onto the street (trying) to enjoy dinner. I can see the Mothers plate still full of her food as she has yet to have a moment to take a bite- something I can completely relate to. The son sitting across seemingly unaffected by his fathers threats moments away from giving the restaurant a full show. The father gets up and aggressively tosses the white napkin in the empty stroller sitting next to the table- scoots his chair back and walks around the table with gusto to prove to his 10 year old that he means business. The father is met with that millisecond we as parents have all experienced. That millisecond we had to compose ourselves, to remind ourselves that they too are learning, the reminder that we to as parents are owed the grace not to experience a bigger scene. He kneels down slowly and quietly educates him. Everyone seems to be settled. The mother finally takes a bite of her food.

London

Both parents' hands are full, baby squirming, sweat rolling and sweet satisfying lunch desperately waiting in the bag barely being held by the last little finger they had left as they board a train that is now moving. They made it on, the things put away, they sit and breathe. The mother and I made eye contact and we smiled and laughed because at that moment we had just related to each other in the biggest of ways- the universal struggle of parenthood and starvation. I watched our experience getting on the train replay moments later in front of me. I knew she was hot, hungry and quite frankly just wanting the train ride to be over. Long story short- we exchanged phone numbers.

Barcelona

A mother says in spanish to her two year old son “make sure to share” as my son takes an uninvited turn with his dump truck. She smiles at me and apologizes for her son not wanting to share. I told her it was absolutely no problem at all and Fynn too was learning to share. She smiled with relief, happy to run into a non judgemental mother. We shared stories of our same aged sons playing with others as well as the recent “testy two's” as we are calling it. We related to each other as our sons decided they both wanted the dumptruck at the same time. As we let our guard down, let them sort it out we enjoyed great conversation about our babies and quite refreshingly about our breastfeeding journeys. Fynn and I having just recently come to the end of our breastfeeding journey, she was just approaching hers. She asked me for advice and I returned her questions with encouragement and support. Here we were two mothers from different countries, different languages talking about this experience that is not divided by culture but was intimately understood by the both of us because we were Mothers, we are parents.

I say universal struggle of parenthood but I don't mean this in a derogatory way. The moment of the struggle is hard but in the wider landscape the struggle of being a parent is beautiful. It is what connects us on an emotional level as parents across all cultures. You don't have to speak the same language to understand the emotion, the struggle, the wins. You don't have to be from the same country to understand and recognize one parent having a win day and another desperately trying to survive another. It is what makes us grow to be better versions ourselves and most importantly better versions for our children.

So as I walk with Fynn like a sheep herder in a crowd of people, I catch a fathers eye also steering their little in the direction of safety. He speaks French and I speak English- both of our children do not listen to our advice, we smile at each other in understanding- we are no longer strangers. We are friends in this universal struggle of parenthood.

Blessed be the struggle of parenthood because without it there would be no childhood.