On our second day in Paris, I fell in love.
We spent the afternoon at Notre Dame, wandering through the belly of the church in hushed silence, climbing endless stone steps to peer out over the city, being breath-taken by it all.
To be completely honest, I was also fresh off a 20-minute crying jag after being double billed for a pay toilet and yelled at by an irate French attendant who thought me some sort of pee thief. Maybe all these ingredients are necessary to open your eyes to love, yes?
When I saw her across the room, she was not the first creature demonstrating that je ne sais quoi of eternal boredom. If anything, this fellow wins the award.
But there was that instant connection, the bond of knowing their expression like your own face:
You see it as well?
It is not the (forgive the pun) the HOLY SHIT expression of pregnancy, or the WHAT IS THIS SHIT?! of new mothers adjusting to babyhood. Her visage traverses past every parent’s occasional red faced, tear streaming FUCK THIS SHIT and into a zen place in which the truth is not masked, but accepted.
When you meet another mother’s eyes over her/your screaming toddler in the grocery isle, and she gives you this look, that says THIIIIIIIIIISSSSS BULLLLLLLSHHHHHIIIIIIT, how can you help but love her?
Lunches are ready. Cut the crusts off like you like.
(Middle kid did this one. Apparently she has different ideas about motherhood.)
My patron saint.