When I was five months pregnant with Hootie-Hoo, Baddy surprised me by presenting me with a trip to Paris, just the two of us, to celebrate my fortieth birthday and our pregnancy.
Spring in Paris that year brought droves and droves of uninterrupted rain but I was alone with my love and that was all that mattered.
Wanting to bring back memories of a time spent roving the best hotels of Europe as a child, he had arranged for us to spend a few glorious nights at the Hotel Louvre where we ate large breakfasts of croissants and hot chocolate after long, slow leisurely mornings spent lying in bed surrounded by beautiful gold tassels hanging from midnight blue drapes and a “Merci de ne pas dranger” sign hanging from our door.
Holding our little umbrella together we left the hotel, feeling like pregnant royalty, and began our endless walking and exploring. While back at the hotel I’d comb through our Zagat Guide to Paris searching for the best off the beaten track restaurants.
Relishing his naps Baddy was so happy that I would actually lay down with him and together we’d fall into a delicious late afternoon sleep until I would wake up craving a caprese baguette sandwich and sneak out to find the nearest street vendor.
On our last day we had two more places that we both really wanted to visit before we left. We began the discussion of whether we should do my idea and sit in a quintessential French cafe in the rain in the Latin Quarters or his idea and see the Notre Dame Cathedral.
“What would you like to see? I asked him.
Treading carefully he said, “Jillian, we always end up doing what you want, so lets skip the formalities and go where you want.”
“No, I replied. “I insist you tell me what you want,” growing impatient with his constant desire to please me. Where was his backbone anyway?
The conversation went back and forth until he finally gave in and said he wanted to see Notre Dame. And so we went off to the cafe in the Latin Quarters. Pregnant woman always win, even when they try there best not to.