Ketch has decided that his favorite city is Paris. To be expected I guess from a kid whose most frequently requested food is muscles in butter sauce with frites and who has been obsessed with the seeing the Eiffel Tower since we put together a 3D puzzle of it one day after preschool.

I will not say it’s been an easy place to navigate with children. Clumsily pushing the kids down ancient sidewalks that slope horizontally at a 45 degree angle while attempting to avoid the giant cobblestone curbs fit to knock a two year olds teeth out. Surprised at both the number of people who offered to help me lug the stroller down the three flights of stairs to the metro while trying to hold the hand of an unsteady toddler and keep eyes on a quick-to-dart-into-crowds big kid…and the number of people who did not. The intimidating feeling of requesting a table at a corner restaurant filled with rows upon rows of glassware, easily tipped chairs and even more easily annoyed French people with two wild banshees at my side. The hour train ride back to our Airbnb at rush hour each evening smushed like sweaty sardines in a small smelly box, everyone overly tired and cranky.

But as tough as it has been to get around this city, it has also been equally freakin magnificent. Listening to the boys giggle with glee as they chased pigeons around the courtyard of the Luvre. Watching them devour crepes in the Jardin du Luxembourg, sticky Nutella smudged all over their fingers and smeared from ear to ear. Rowing about in tiny boats in the Bois des Vicenesse, making shapes out of clouds and marveling at the giant swans passing by. Delighting in the accordion music wafting through the underground tunnels and the ever so fascinating feats of street performers. Experiencing the all out astonishment and wonder of riding to the top of the Eiffel Tower through the giant eyes and hand-cupped-over-mouth’d expression of a five year old.

Throughout the week I developed a personal set of rules of sorts for survival. Each day should be started with a chocolate croissant. The number of historical sites visited must be equally balanced with the number of parks galavanted through (this is quickly becoming a world playground tour). Expectations of appreciation should be kept low - after all, comprehending the significance of what happened at the Notre Dame or the feats that it took to build it cannot be imposed upon a five year old. I had to laugh the day we took the kids to Versailles and Ketch took one look at the giant palace, immediately took a big huff and blurted out “looks like a long boooring time.” Fill them with pasta at every opportunity. Ride a carrousel whenever one is spotted. Try not to give a fuck about what anyone thinks of you or your parenting (easier said than done than when you can feel the eye rolls from onlookers being burned into your skin as you try to prevent your boys from pulling each others hair and screaming whilst squished together in the aforementioned sweaty sardine box). Relish in the moments your children are overcome with happiness and discovery. Quickly brush off the ones they act like little shits. And when all else fails there is always ice cream.

I love that you never feel rushed at a restaurant here. That you are expected to linger and savor and practically have to beg to get your bill. I love watching French women out of the corner of my eye on the metro, effortlessly beautiful and confident in their impeccably paired trench coats and scarves. I love the streets lined with small cafes, their waiters all scurrying about balancing trays of beautiful food in their in their black vests and bow ties. I love that every strawberry or peach you purchase from a produce stand is the best you’ve ever tasted - perfectly sweet and sticky, leaving a taste that lingers on your lips. I love the way the limestone buildings glow a burnt orange as the sunset crawls down their sides in the evening. I love that when you get home and shower at night, you can feel the city dripping off your skin.

We’ve had a couple rather memorable hair pulling moments here. First when we arrived to our VRBO after yet another exhausting travel day to find it abandoned and under construction. Thankfully a kind neighbor invited us in off the street and filled us with espressos and small talk for an hour and a half while we got it all sorted. His older children got quite the kick out of our kids crocs…really glad we could represent Americans with our classy footwear choices. West also decided it was time to make his foreign emergency room debut, by proclaiming in the sweet little way that only he could “I swallowed a penny!” at lunch one afternoon. Brad had a work call he couldn’t miss that day so I had to take him by myself which at first felt rather overwhelming - especially when trying to find the damn entrance to the hospital on foot, but I’m happy to report that aside from awkwardly attempting to communicate with the non English speaking nurses in my high school French, the experience was totally positive and felt a lot like being in an American urgent care.

One of the best things Brad and I have started doing is swapping one day a week to explore by ourselves, and my God is it wonderful to spend a morning in Paris alone. I’m writing this blog from a tiny table on the sidewalk in front of the St. Regis - one of those perfect little cafes, with beautiful gold French words and roses scrawled upon on the walls. Out of the corner of my eye I can see a fashion model strutting down the opposing street, a photographer running after her snapping away as she purses her lips and takes a puff of her cigarette. I’m sipping on a flat white and spooning runny egg yolks and salty bacon onto a warm and squishy-just-out-of-the-oven baguette and listening to a language that I cannot understand but find wildly beautiful float around me in conversation. Sunshine is warming my cheeks and I am trying my best to soak it - and everything else about this moment - in.

When we were talking to Ketch about our departure he said “it’s fine because I’m going to come back and live here someday when I grow up.” Then he asked if we’d come live here with him, and all I have to say is “kid, if the offer still stands in 15 years, we’re in.”