One of the nicest Mother’s Day I ever spent was in Paris. It wasn’t our Mother’s Day; it was French Mother’s Day which as far as I can tell comes the last Sunday in May. My husband and I rented an apartment in Paris near the Place des Vosges and our daughter flew over to spend the weekend with us. We didn’t realize it was Mother’s Day in France when we made the arrangements. It just worked out that way.
My daughter insisted that we NOT meet her at the airport so we agreed to meet at the RER station near Notre Dame. The RER is the train that comes in from the airport. We spent an anxious hour when she arrived about an hour and a half later than we expected. The Paris gendarmerie were starting to look at my husband and I with suspicion because we were hanging around the square in front of Notre Dame for so long. But she got there (delay in coming through customs) about five minutes before my official panic time and we had a great weekend.
There was a little drama. Something went wrong with the bathroom door in our apartment and our daughter got locked in without having locked the door for a couple of hours. But we got her out and went for a Saturday tour of Paris on the Number 69 bus. To the Eiffel Tower and then all the way back across town to Pere La chaise
Cemetery. The bus is a highly recommended cheap tour of the city through neighbourhoods you might not otherwise see. Often the street seemed about two feet wider than the bus.
Sunday we strolled through the shopping district to the Centre Georges Pompidou and had a wonderful lunch at the rooftop restaurant. We wondered through the left bank. Tried to find all the places I remembered from my last trip to Paris which had been many years before.
The next day, when it was time for my daughter to go, we went back to the same RER station in the early morning hours. She went home, we went to London. It felt very strange. Very strange to go our separate ways.
The last entry in my diary the year I got pregnant was “Mother’s Day!!!”. That’s all it said. Although I write a lot, sometimes when things are really bad I stop. It’s just too painful I guess. My son was born seven months later. The beginning of the big silence that didn’t end for over eighteen years.
This is a day that is sometimes difficult for mother’s of the adopted. I’m thinking about all of you and hope you are spending the day with those you love and who hold you dear.