Anyone who knows me knows that my usual habit when in a new and exciting city is to immediately start making plans to move there. And Paris was no exception: one bite of a chocolate croissant fresh out of the oven and I was apartment hunting in my mind.
While such dreams are mostly just thought experiments, integral to the experimental procedure is the vague possibility that the dream might come true, and having a job that I can perform anywhere and a partner who’s open to crazy ideas makes that possible.
That is until I waited long enough for Oliver to put down roots. Damn.
When I broached the idea of up and moving to Paris with Oliver yesterday, the scent of chocolate croissant still on our lips, he shut down the whole experiment immediately.
I’ll miss my friends! I’ll miss the market! I’ll miss Kennie and Winnie! My teacher! Prince Street School! Ann! Gary! Sydny! My room! Owl’s Hollow! Music lessons!
Any window shopping in front of flat rental places was forbidden and all crazy talk shut down.
Two years ago we could have pulled this off and Oliver wouldn’t have noticed. But then he had to up and develop his own identity. Kids.
I have moved my kids a couple of times (aka “ruined their lives”); it always turned out surprisingly well eventually, and they have been gracious enough to thank me later on. The two years I lived in Paris (pre-kids) were among the best of my life. Don’t toss the idea too quickly.