… but I don’t want to. I want to sit here, with my dog snoring behind me, and type on the computer.
It’s strange to be home. Home feels unfamiliar, actually. Steve left at 8:15, to take my parents to the airport, as I was walking Bini over to meet up with the walk pool. I offered to walk the kids, but my neighbor told me to go home and “rest.” I’d slept 11 hours, and it was 5:00 p.m., Paris time, but I appreciated the sentiment.
As I walked down the sidewalk back to my house, kicking wet red leaves, I felt a stab of intense sadness. After being in a big, dense, lively city for a week (and on a big, dense plane for 11 hours), I was suddenly quite alone.
I went to class at Bar Method, just to be around people, and that may have been a mistake. Jet-lagged + tough workout = Dazed. Now I’m surrounded by mounds of laundry and stacks of mail. All of the things I was going to deal with post-Paris are coming due now.
Still, despite my melancholy (an unofficial side effect of jet lag), I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. That neither plane crashed. That we didn’t get killed in a freak Metro accident. That I have friends who took Bini for play dates and to soccer practice and kept things normal for him. That we were able to go and have a wonderful time in a beautiful, vibrant city while people we trusted took care of our little boy. That’s a huge gift. Also, my mom cleaned out my pantry. My dad fixed things around the house. I’m not sure how best to thank them.
the swift kick 