That frequently used Caroline O’Shea mantra is half the reason I ran to Paris. My diagnosis was an impediment our mother/daughter relationship could never overcome. It was a unique gift of hers to cycle any conversation back to where she thought my value lay and how I had somehow managed to diminish it.
Sharing I learned how to make macarons turned into the shame that I’d probably never have a family to enjoy them. Visiting the Eiffel Tower for the first time resulted in uncontrollable sobs because how could I ever know the joy of hearing such a happy story from my child when I did things like go to the Eiffel Tower alone?
All of it was stupid.
Yeah, endometriosis and my uterine fibroids put me at a higher risk for complications with my fertility. Sure, it meant it would probably be more challenging for me, the odds were lower, and I considered the possibility of infertility more than a person without these conditions would. And yes, the actual act of procreating was rather unpleasant for me. But still, nothing would be certain until the future became the present, so why worry now?
And second, I am and would always be so much more than my ability to create tiny humans inside of me. Separation from her hysterics had proven as much to me.
Sure, I need to dosomething,but if it’s not bringing life into the world, that’s okay.
Though lately, doing something—anything—has become equally tricky.
In my introspective trance, Liam turns his back to me, sneaking another bite of his whole sandwich.
Oh, hell no. He can’t hide away I clearly won.
Resting my elbows on my knees, I stare at him with a teasing smile. “Told you,” I sing.
He drops his shoulders. “You were right.”
“Of course I was!” I shout, eyes still laser-focused on this momentous occasion. “It’s bread. In France!”
“What are you—” He glances down at my cocky smile, back at the sandwich, and then at my face. “You’re going to stare at me eating this whole thing, aren’t you?”
“I’m savoring the moment.”
He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a brown bag. “Why don’t you savor this instead, weirdo.” He smirks, tossing it at me.
“What’s this?”
“It was supposed to be a peace offering tonight with the cheese, but I’d rather use it now.”
I peek in the bag, and a pink frosted donut with rainbow sprinkles greets me. My favorite. I hazard a glance back at him and then back into the bag.
The Admiral Ackbar alarm sirens in my head.
It’s a trap.
He snorts. “I didn’t poison it.”
“Oh, I wasn’t—I didn’t—”
“That’s exactly what you were thinking,” he mutters, like he’s irritated my brain ventured in that direction.
“Thank you, Liam. This was really nice. Peace offering accepted.”
Left leg still bouncing, he shrugs it off with a bite of his sandwich.
“You know, Castelblangeois is one of my favorite places, actually,” I say, ripping off a piece of donut. The pink icing melts in my mouth, and I close my eyes, reveling in the overwhelming sweetness. “It’s funny. I usually stop and grab a jambon-beurre before coming here on days like this.”
If you’re feeling down and out or need a place to think, there is precious little a sandwich from Castelblangeois and a park bench at Place Dauphine cannot cure.
Oh—my eyes snap open.
“Blog thirty-six,” I blurt.
He arches an eyebrow and wipes his hands.
