Our correspondent Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years. When she’s not busy trying to figure out what the French are saying, she’s busy trying to figure out what to say to the French. She posts frequently at An American Mom in Paris.
Forget April in Paris; December in Paris is best. There are lights strung between buildings down the lengths of narrow streets. Tartiflette and vin chaud are consumed in large quantities at outdoor holiday gift markets. The frosty air makes stopping at a crepe stand for a hot oozy Nutella crepe all the more magical.
In December, French people wrap even larger and more intricately tied scarves around their entire heads. Many slip and fall on the sidewalks, partly because the sidewalks are icy and partly because the people insist on wearing fashionable footwear year round. When it snows, all the notorious mounds of dog poo are covered; this leads to unwanted holiday surprises as you stumble down the icy street with lots of shopping bags and a giant scarf completely blocking your field of vision.
As much as I love the melée of Paris in December, we’re off to Quebec for the holidays. Before I go wrap myself in bear and moose skins in my husband’s homeland, I’m going to share a story from last year’s holiday season. The story happened here in Paris, though it could have happened anywhere parents insist on acting crazy in the name of Christmas.
I have a friend, Hilary the London mum, who has a five-year old son, Harry. Hilary and her husband bought Harry a very large pirate ship bed for Christmas last year. After Harry fell asleep Christmas Eve, Hilary, her husband, and Hilary’s family visiting from England started building the bed.
Large pirate ship beds being what they are, assembly took hours. Around 2 a.m. the bed was assembled and an argument had broken out between Hillary and her husband. Hilary’s husband wanted to push the bed into Harry’s room so he saw it first thing when he woke up. Hilary wanted to leave it in the dining room, where it had been assembled, because she wanted to see his face when he saw it. She was also afraid moving the bed would wake Harry, thus shaking his belief in Santa Claus at the too-young age of four.
(For clarity’s sake, Harry’s bedroom is next to the dining room, accessible through a set of large, classically Parisian double doors.)
Hilary’s husband threw open the double doors and started pushing the bed into Harry’s room. Resigned, Hilary and her family threw themselves into the task as well. They heaved and grunted and the large bed slowly slid across the floor. As most anyone could have predicted, Harry woke up. And there, standing before him, was the silhouette of a man (Dad), perfectly framed by the window.
“Mummy!” screamed Harry at the top of his lungs. “It’s Father Christmas! Father Christmas is in my room, Mummy! It’s him! He’s here! Mummy, IT’S FATHER CHRISTMAS!!!”
Hilary’s family panicked and crawled out of the room. Hilary’s husband panicked and ran around like a witless chicken. Hilary ran into the hall and yelled, “Uhh… Daddy’s coming, sweetie!”
Daddy ran over to Harry and did what any freaking out father would do; he put a pillow over Harry’s face. He then motioned frantically for Hilary’s family to drag the bed back out of the room. Harry, stunned, started hollering, “Mummy, why is Daddy holding a pillow over my face? He put a pillow on my face, Mummy! He has a pillow on my face but I want to see Father Christmas!”
Hilary’s family dragged the bed out of the bedroom and back into the dining room. After they closed the classically Parisian double doors, Daddy removed the pillow from Harry’s face and tried to convince him he hadn’t seen a thing.
Harry wasn’t buying it and was now wide awake and hysterical. His dad scooped him up and took him down the hall, quickly past the darkened dining room where relatives were cowering silently with a large pirate ship bed, and put him in their bed with them. They kept him pinned there ’til morning as he hollered, “I hear him! I hear him! Let me go! He’s in the next room!”
Harry will probably remember Christmas 2009 for the rest of his life. He may also think his parents are total bastards.
Happy Holidays, Seattle. I’ll be back writing in the New Year, if my fingers don’t freeze off in Quebec which they probably will.
