A Second Tale from the Land of Potty Training: In which Brownie defeats the Merpeople

A second tale relating to our state in life. 

Yesterday, I put away half of our children's books.  They hadn't been read in weeks, and were instead being used as teetherd by the baby.   You see, Maria is in a phase where she prefers that we tell her stories rather than read them.  She enjoys giving us a prompt "tell a 'tory about ____" and hearing something tailor-made for her mood.   It's an enjoyable phase; a respite from Babar, Winnie the Pooh, and the other lovable, but eventually tiresome subjects of Maria's library.  But it requires more creative energy.  I'm not a practiced story teller and don't have much in the way of ready-made tales.  My stories are lumpy, Frankenstein affairs, often plagiarizing Maria's books or movies from my childhood.  Often,  I chose too complex a subject or go on for too long and find that I have lost my audience.  But now that we're several weeks into this phase, I do a bit better.  Let's see how I do here.

Our Story--the story of this post--is a tale about a tale.  It begins one evening about two weeks ago, during Maria's bath.   I had just acheived the rare tear-free hair washing, thanks to Maria being in an attentive mood.  She had requested and received two stories during her shampoo. The first had been an involved fable about a wealthy frog who was overly particular about the temperature of his bath water.  The second had been equally complex and had involved Mer-King Triton abducting Baby Louisa.  Now that the suds were out of Maria's hair, I was pleased with myself and rather tired. "Time to get out of the bath, Maria." 

Maria was unmoved by this announcement.  "I not want to get out of bath.  Tell a 'tory about Mommy in the bath."  She splashed happily.

Having learned from hard experience that Maria does not do well with sudden transitions (perhaps none of us do), I decided to give her one last story.

A story about "Mommy in the bath," I repeated as I rummaged my brain.  I couldn't remember having any exciting experiences in a bathtub, and I wasn't about to call on King Triton again.  Finally, I settled on a simple anecdote from my youth.

"Once, when Mommy was a little girl, she took a bath.  She was all clean.  Her face was clean, her elbows were clean, her legs were clean.  After she got out of the bath, she decided to go bump, bump, bump down the stair.  You see, at the time, Mommy lived in a house where the stairs were covered in carpent, and sliding bump, bump, bump, down the stairs was something that  she and Uncle Dan used to do all the time.  But what Mommy didn't know was that her little dog, Brownie, had left a poopoo on the middle of the stairs.  Now, doggies are supposed to put there poopoos and peepees outside, but sometimes, they forget and put them in the house.   Now Mommy didn't see the poopoo because it blended right in with the carpet.  So she went bump, bump, bump, right into the poopoo and got all messy.  So she got up and told Muschi what happened, and she went right back up the stairs and took another bath and got clean again.  That was it.  The end.  Time to get out of the bath."

At the conclusion of the story, Maria wore a blank, startled expression.  I read disappointment in it, and felt apologetic that I hadn't been a more exciting child so that I could tell her more exciting stories about myself.

"I'm sorry Sweetheart.  That wasn't a very good story.  What do you like better--stories about mermaids or stories about poop?"

There was a pause.

"Stories about poop."

"Well," I thought, as I toweled Maria off, "it just goes to show you that this kid always knows which answer will get the bigger reaction!"

But Maria soon demonstrated that her interest in the story was genuine.

"I think Bownie is a little black dog." 

I explained that Brownie had, in fact, been a little brown and white dog.  Maria continued to muse about "Bownie's" coloration, until I drew a picture of Brownie for her.   Maria proceeded to caper around the apartment, and saying things like "When Bownie comes, she can sleep on this blanket.  She can poop in the backyard."  Finally, the child was wrangled into bed. 

But her interest in the topic did not end with the evening.  She continued to talk about Brownie and about how doggies poop outside.  She also started playing at being a dog herself,  crawling around the apartment on all fours saying things like "I'm a doggie!  I poop outside!" and asking to be taken outside so that she could poop.


There are a number of lessons  to be learned from this incident.

1.)  children love hearing stories about their parents, especially about when their parents were young.  That mommy had a dog named Brownie and that Brownie was white and brown, is an Important Fact. 

b.) In the world of someone who is learning to use the toilet, a story about poop, especially a mis-placed poop, is indeed very interesting.

c.) More generally, simple stories about real, concrete things, can be more engaging than stories of the more fanciful variety.  (This is something I really need to keep in mind.)

But the lesson that I'm holding onto (nay, gripping) is the lesson of the story itself.  The story of me landing on the dog pile was remarkably appropriate for the state of a family in potty training.  Between Maria's mishaps and successes (we have one of those one-piece potties that requires sanitizing after each use) and the consequences of Loulou's newly hearty, fiber-filled meals (she's newly mastered getting food into her mouth), I feel like I'm dealing with a lot of poo lately.  I know that with only two young ones, my situation is in no way extreme. but for me it's new, different, and a bit tiring. 

I must remind my 29-year-old self what my seven-year-old self knew:  Poo happens; when it belongs to someone you love, it's not a big deal.   Or, more succinctly: Chin up and clean up!

A Tale from the Land of Potty Trainng

I want to tell you about a recent incident relating to our state in life---that is to say, the state of  potty training.

Now, I apologize if this post is indelicate (I see my mother cringing at the mere title), but bodily functions (and cleaning up after bodily functions) are very much at the forefront of my mind. And since potty training turns out to be something of a Big Project, it earns a bit of space on this blog.

{Now switching to the the present tense in the interest of drama.}

It is early evening. I am working on dinner. 

Maria asks to sit on her potty. (Good)

I help her get situated on her little blue potty chair and leave her to do her business. While I am out of the room, she successfully makes a #1 and a #2 in the potty. (Very good!)

(Here's where I use some imagination.) 

Flushed with success, moved by a spirit of independence and self-sufficiency, Maria decides to empty the potty all by herself, without notifying her mother.   (Maybe good?)

Alas, the potty is not in the bathroom with the working toilet! A full potty is an awkward load for a three year old.  Maria knows that mum will not be pleased with a spill.  She hatches a plan. Rather than carry it through the hall and into the neighboring bathroom, Maria opts (perhaps sensibly) to tip it into the nearest thing resembling a toilet. 

What is that thing? 

 Our non-functioning bidet, of course!

Here is Louisa, using the bidet for musical purposes.  Have no fear.  It is clean in this picture.

Seeing the story in black and white, I realize it's probably not funny for most people. For me, the humor rests largely on two point. First, we have a bidet--teehee! Second, on Bad Days, this bidet is a kind of metaphor for those aspects of life in France that confound us. Dealing with the French bureaucratic social state comes to mind.* The bidet is also a metaphor for the vague, inflated expectations that people have about what it's like to live abroad in a beautiful country; expectations that through some kind of movie magic, the country will make you happier, thinner, more stylish, and provide you with a store of anecdotes involving colorful characters who have "joie de vivre" or  a certain "je ne sais quoi."**

Like the social system and the feel-good travel movie narrative, the bidet promises much. It will wash away your accumulated effluvium in an exhilarating, hygenic whirl, leaving you cleansed and ready for the next Big Thing.

But in reality...the bidet goes unused. We're told that if we turn it on, it will flood the bathroom. It stands, gathering dust and catching drips from the wash clothes that hang from the rack above--the wash clothes that actually do, with a bit of elbow grease, get things clean.

So, to me, Maria dumping her potty into this bidet is not only funny, but rather gratifying. After all, in the clean, unfettered eye of youth, it just looks like a toilet.

_________
*
Sorry, I'm sure the French government is, in many respects, much more functional than our non-functioning bidet. It's just that we haven't yet seen those 300 Euro a month family aid payments and are beginning to lose hope....

**
Actually, to be honest, Donnie has lost weight, and I'm back down to pre-pregnancy weight. And truely, we do have friends with "joie de vivre" and/or a certain "je ne sais quoi" These are the Bad Days I'm talking about...

Quotable Maria

Doesn't Maria's determined, yet far-off expression remind you of a romantic poet?

   Check this out. 

 

A few memorable lines:

While using the creamer from her tea set to pour imaginary water over Louisa's head:
  "I am bath-tizing Weeza!"

During our afternoon snack, Maria sums up the perks of being older:
"Loulou eats paper and I eat cake"

After seeing that the toilet still looks rather dirty despite my efforts:
"Mommy, you need to try cleaning the toilet again."

Donnie's beard is a little on the long side:
"Daddy, your face needs a haircut."

Upon going into the bathroom:
 "Oh-my-gosh, it is tinksy in here!"

Though Maria's rearrangement of s diphthongs probably won't be with us much longer, "Tinksy" is on its way to being a permanent part of the family vocabulary. 

Let Them Eat Cake

Maria, playing with salt dough.  Her apron was a gift that Donnie bought during his trip to Assisi. He bought a matching one for me :)

Maria has a long-standing interest in cake. Not that she has eaten many cakes in her life (until recently). We think it began last summer when she saw an older neighbor girl making "cakes" in the sandbox by our building.  Whatever it was that sparked the interest, eating cake and making cake have been recurring subjects in Maria's imaginative play.  When my parents gave Donnie some Ideal Blox, for his birthday back in November, she commandeered them and made pyramid cakes. Later in the winter, she stripped off her legwarmers to make legwarmer cakes.  Our experiments with playdough and salt dough all led to more cakes.  Some kids makes cities.  Maria makes cakes.

So it was that in late May, while scouring the shelves of our lovely, but expensive local toy store for Maria's birthday gift, I latched onto this little set.   The set includes of three mini-discs stackers, where the discs represent cake layers. The child experiments with different ordering of the layers to come up with new confections. The layers are wood and felt, but the end results resemble the exquisite creations on display at the patisseries in town.  The set seemed a little pricey for a bit of play food, but I justified the expense, saying that not only would this be a beloved toy, but a souvenir of France.

The purchase was a good one.  Maria has enjoyed this toy and still comes to me, holding out one of her creations, "Mommy, a cake for you."

Maria's birthday cake set, along with play baked goods made from salt dough

In this way, Maria had been thinking of cake and building "cakes", but her interest in real baking took off during our visit to the US.  Maria and Muschi made muffins almost every morning, to the delight of all. And once we transferred over to the Sheehys, Maria "helped" Meme and Colleen in several baking projects.

Returning to France, we've been met with a series of unseasonably cold, wet days. Baking has turned out to be a great way of keeping Maria occupied and everyone in good spirits. We've made cookies. We've made several rounds of rhubarb cake.  One afternoon, we made salt dough and rounded out Maria's  inventory of play food by adding croissants, a baguette, a boule, and a number of brioche buns.  For me and my little toaster oven, this qualifies as a streak.

And then, last week, I began reading Bringing Up Bebe, a book that has been making the rounds in the Anglophone playgroup we attend.  Bringing Up Bebe explores the differences between French and Anglo-American parenting styles, and highlights the positive aspects of the French approach.  It was with  pleasure that I learned that family baking sessions are a weekly or bi-weekly ritual for French families.  The author sees baking as one of the ways French families encourage their children to develop patience and self control:

All this baking doesn't just make lot of cakes. It also teaches kids how to control themselves. With its orderly measuring and sequencing of ingredients, baking is a perfect lesson in patience. So is the fact that Franch families don't devour the cake as soon as it comes out of the oven, as I would do. They typically bake in the morning or early afternoon, then wait and eat the cake or muffins as a gouter --the French afternoon snack.

The gouter (pronounced "goo-tay") is a facet of French life that we'd already come to enjoy.   It's less of what we tend to think of as a snack--which in my mind has a rather informal connotation.  It's more of an established mini-meal, at least for children.  It's my understanding the gouter is when many of the luxuriant, flour-rich sweets come into play: cookies, cakes, crepes, chocolate-stuffed croissants, pastries, madelines, etc.   Boxes of cookies come printed with chirpy serving recommendations:  "four cookies + half a mango + a cup of milk = a balanced gouter!"

I love that in French eating culture has a special, ritualized place for this type foods, where they take center stage and are not tacked on the end of a complicated meal.  If the French are any indication, giving cake its due place on the weekly menu--if not daily menu--seems to encourage moderation.

So I'm delighted to find that Maria and I have happened upon a pastime that ties in with an aspect of French dining culture.  I'm looking forward to trying the carrot cake we baked yesterday during today's gouter.  Yes, it's lovely to eat cake.  Now the challenge is not over-doing it...

Maria enjoying her apricot and rhubarb yogurt cake

***

Pamela Druckerman writes that the first cake French children learn to bake is gateau au yaourt, or Yogurt cake.  Yogurt is added, then the empty yoghurt tub is used in lieu of a measuring cup.  The recipe is simple and forgiving--very nice for young children.  We've made it once, adding fresh apricots and chopped rhubarb to the basic batter.   

Gateau au Yaourt (Yogurt Cake) from Pamela Druckerman's Bringing Up Bebe

2 tubs plain whole-milk yogurt (the individual portion-sized tubs, about 175 g/ 6oz)
2 eggs
2 tubs sugar (or just one, depending on how sweet you like it)
1 tsp vanilla essence
just under 1 tub vegetable oil
4 tubs plain flour
1 1/2 tsp baking powder

Preheat oven to 190 degrees Celsius. Use vegetable oil to grease a 9-inch round pan (or a loaf tin).

Gently combine the yogurt, eggs, sugar, vanilla and oil. In a separate bowl, mix flour and baking powder. Add dry ingredients to wet ingreidents; mix gently until combined--don't over-mix!
You can add 2 tubs fozen berries, a tub of chocolate hcips, or any flavouring you like. Cook for 35 minutes, then 5 minutes more if it doesn't pass the knife test. It should be almost crispy on the outside, but springy on the inside. Let it cool. The cake is delicious served with tea and a dollop of creme fraiche.

Face It/ 7 Quick Takes (Vol. 1)

A friend once proposed a rival site to Facebook, called Face It. People would only post when they were having a bad day and wanted commiseration. No vacation photos or cute children's antics allowed. Face It posts are written in that spirit. They are "complaining songs" to put it in the parlance of Winnie-the-Pooh.

Beloved Readers, Please regard this as an epistle from the Land o' Jetlag. I'm also joining in on the 7 Quick Takes Friday link party over at Conversion Diary.


--1--
We're back in France after our month-long sojourn in the U.S. Actually, The girls and I are back in France. Donnie is in Scotland, hopefully buying a kilt--wait, no--I mean making friends in the Computational Topology Community and marching forward in the vanguard of Science.

--2--
June has 3o days. We realized this last Saturday, as we made our way to baggage claim after our overnight flight from the US. I had Maria riding on my back in the ergo carrier with Louisa in my arms. Donnie was lugging our formidable array of carry-ons. Maria was exhausted after sleeping only one hour during the flight, and intermittently broke forth in great, reverberating wails that carried through the terminal.

Don: So, I guess I coming back here tomorrow.

We had had it in our heads that Donnie would have two days at home before flying off to the Topology conference. We forgot that, though our flight was leaving the 29th, we'd be landing on the 30th, and....you got it....June has only 30 days.

--3--
Our summer calendar is honeycombed with workshops and conferences, when Donnie will be away. It's important at this stage in Donnie's career that he get out there and meet people, and it's a great blessing that his work provides the travel budget for him to do this. But we do miss him. With this latest trip in particular, I'm gritting my teeth, waiting for his return.

--4--

Indepedence Day was low-key. I dressed the girls in their patriotic Osh-Kosh-B'Gosh outfits (thank you Auntie Ci-Ci!) and we visited my Aussie friend Marisa and her baby, Chloe. Chloe was also dressed in red, white, and blue, which was surprising and rather touching. Marisa fed us wonderful rhubarb cake (made from home-grown rhubarb), which in my mind, stood-in for the traditional strawberry short-cake.

In the afternoon, I googled "patriotic videos for kids" and ended up showing Maria the Peanuts Mayflower Voyagers on Youtube. Not seasonally appropriate, but once I found it, I couldn't bring myself to navigate away. We went on to watch several other Peanuts videos. Maria was enthusiastic about "Noopsy" (yes, the rearrangement of s diphthongs is still with us--but wouldn't "Noopsy" be a great name for a cartoon dog?).

Perhaps it's that Maria is now old enough to appreciate holidays; perhaps it's that being in France has me feeling tenderly about my nation's traditions, but I have a distinct feeling of having missed the boat. After reading this wonderful post on how to celebrate the 4th of July, I'm hoping for some meaty Independence Day celebrations in years to come.

--5--
Bibliodefense

Louisa reached a number of major milestones during our time in the States. She learned a proper belly-off-the-ground crawl. She also learned to pull to a stand. She's faster and stronger and grabbier than when we left.

Now that we are back in the confines of our small apartment, Maria is not so pleased with her sister's new level of mobility. A while back, we told Maria that she should keep her books away from Louisa so that Louisa wouldn't chew on them. It seems Maria took our words as a kind of mandate. She goes into alarm mode when the baby nears her books, yelling "I need some help!" (That phrase has become a great catch-all for Maria. ) Or she takes matters into her own hands, and tries to push or pull Louisa away. We've had some talks about how the baby's safety is important than that of the books.

So far, we've been incredibly lucky in how well the girls get along with one another. I don't see this lasting long (fingers crossed), but I think it's funny that Maria is so protective of her books.

--6--
As the first sentence of this post suggests, Jetlag has been a big thing this week. I didn't manage to get Maria to kindergarten even once because we've all been sleeping in so late. The girls have actually (sort-of) been going to bed at reasonable time. They're sleeping late because they've been skipping naps.

I've been staying up into the wee hours trolling blogs, reading Agatha Christie, and doing other things that fall into the category of "quasi-worthwhile." My Jetlag has been exacerbated by Donnie's absence. It's always harder to settle without the mate close by.

The thing about being up at night, is that it's easy to mistake the cause of the wakefulness. Is it jetlag that has me blogging at this time of night or some manic, unfulfilled desire? What am I doing with my life anyway? Commence existential crisis.

I'm rather good at ascribing deep emotional causes to my physiological states. Let me give you an example. Once, I was in the kitchen preparing a meal, and I suddenly began to feel all teary. I ransacked my brain. Was I sad? Was I anxious? Was this a tide of suppressed pain brimming over my subconscious, at last making itself known? I pulled all kinds grievances out of the closet of my mind, and tried them on for size. It wasn't until after I'd gotten myself into a foul mood, that I looked down and saw that I had been cutting an onion.

Even being aware of this tendency, I still fall pray to it, and the creeping neurosis of the early morning hours.

--7--
BABIES. Two of them!

That is, two of my greatest friends from childhood are each having a baby, both due in December.

I found this out is on Sunday evening, and then didn't fall asleep until 7:30 am. Joyful news to be sure--but in my tired, yet woefully awake brain, the good news underscored the how far I am from my two friends, and how long it has been since I shared in their day-to-day life. It seemed vaguely tragic that they could be a third of the way through their pregnancies already.

Blubb. Blubbbbb.

This goes to show you...If you find yourself awake with Jetlag, go ahead and watch a movie or two. Otherwise you'll take the best possible piece of news and find something to get all mopey and sad about.

But seriously----BABIES!

On that wonderful note, goodnight!

Ongoing and Outgoing

I have a few posts stuck in the queue.  Rather than take on some of the more demanding overdue ones, I thought I'd write a bit about what's going on now.

We're counting down days until to our departure to the US on June first.  We'll be spending a month in the States.  Donnie is will be away at conferences for a ten-day chunk in the the middle. The girls and I will stay with my parents for two weeks and then with Meme and Grandpa for another two.  We're looking forward to time with family and friends in our native land.  We're so very excited to introduce Louisa to her great grandparents, aunts, and uncles.  Of course, there are lots of things to do in the next nine days, but at least we now have Loulou's passport in hand. 

One of our recent ongoing projects been potty training Maria.  We didn't embark on this earlier because a.) M didn't seem very interested and b.) I thought it would be good to wait until it was warm.  I imagined things going better with the trainee running around in a near-naked state.  But it has been a cool spring--we're still in long-sleeves over here.

At last, we decided that potty training is probably one of those things for which there's never an ideal time.  With our flight looming, and with the knowledge that an airplane is a bad place to change a dirty diaper (I'm not sure even Louisa will fit on the in-flight changing table), it seemed best to start the process.  On Saturday, I sat Maria down in front of the Elmo potty training Dvd.  Meanwhile Donnie went on a special shopping trip, returning with juice and special pink Disney princess pull-ups.   And so we began.

It has been going well, though I don't foresee doing away with pull-ups for some time.  It isn't very often that Maria tells us she wants to go on the potty, but she is usually okay with trying when we suggest it.  And she successfully completes the business much of the time.  She certainly seems attracted to doing more of the dressing and undressing herself.  Funnily enough, she's completely uninterested in the whole flushing the toilet ritual.  I was under the impression that was a big motivator. Not with Maria.  She's all about the princess pants.

Meanwhile, after weeks of having a baby who could not crawl but could wriggle and roll her way across a room, we have decided to call it.  It's crawling.  It's a belly-on-the-ground slither, flip-over-and-stretch-to-get-the-thing-you-want kind of crawling, but it's crawling, and it's dangerous to our Internet router.  Of course, now I look around the apartment with new eyes, seeing all the things that Loulou will soon be getting into.  It seems like everything is either a.) pointy b.) festooned with wires, or c.) so flimsy that she'll be able to pull it down.  There is baby-proofing and increased vigilance in the forecast.

Lastly, the girls have what is either a mild case of Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease or a serious case of mosquitoes (or other critters?) finding them delicious.  The doctor is unsure.  You'll see that Louisa has some spots on her cheeks in the following picture.   The picture actually looks milder than real life.  Maria has had big bites that she scratched.  They end up looking rather awful and huge on her pale skin.  The thought of little beasties repeatedly feasting on my girls makes me a little crazy.  We've put netting over Loulou's bed, and I've had bug-repelling essential oils wafting through the apartment.  It makes me miss insect screens--just a little.

Now for a dramatically lit picture of Loulou.  Sorry, none of Maria.  She's just that much quicker, and that much more bored with being in front of the camera.

Trip to Brittany and Normandy: First Three Days

At last, here's the write-up of our Easter vacation (April 6-11).  First of two posts.

Last month, we had a wonderful vacation with Meme and Grandpa.  They rented a mini-van and took us to Britttany and Normandy. It was so good to spend time with them and to see a little more of France.

Here's an account of the trip:

Holy Week

Donnie is away Monday through Thursday at a workshop in Cluny. I'm home with the kids. I'm still not used to managing on my own with these two girls! The days are so full. In the evenings, I work on the labels for Bridget's Apothecary.


Good Friday

On Friday morning, we make a family trip to the market to buy supplies for a welcome dinner. Mom and Dad arrive at our house in the late afternoon, after hours of "exploring" the Paris area. (I won't go into gory details, but the short of it is, if you're renting a car in France, don't use Hertz!) We have a dinner of salmon cooked in parchment paper with lentils and rice and cut veggies on the side.

That evening Donnie and I pack. The children seem to sense our excitement, and wake often in the night.

Saturday

Mom and Dad arrive at the apartment. We load the car and make it our of the house only an hour and a half behind schedule. There's some crying a Louisa falls asleep for her nap, but the rest of the ride goes well. Mom valiantly rides in the seat furthest to the back---a position that induces immediate car sickness. We have a picnic lunch out of the back of the van in a parking lot--cheese with sliced veggies on baguette. I feel vindicated for having bought an absurd amount of cheese at the market the day before.

We arrive in Dinan. Our hotel (the Rue de Jerzual Best Western) is located on a bank of the river Rance. From outside the hotel, we can see the port of Dinan and the town's dramatic viaduct arching over the river valley. I attempt to get the children to a nap. Loulou dozes while Maria warbles and jumps around in her cot. Donnie, Mom and Dad explore the town and find coffee. They return and we slowly make our way up the medieval thoroughfare, Rue de Jerzual, to beautiful restaurant, Creperie de le Artisan.

The ambiance of the Creperie is nothing short of perfect. The dining room has craggy stone walls and timbered ceilings. There are model frigates hanging from the ceilings, and a merry fire in a blackened hearth. At the head our our table there's an oil painting of a genial Breton grandmother, watching us benevolently from her canvas. We choose our crepes. Brittany is famous for its thin buckweat crepes with simple and utterly delicious fillngs. In an adventurous leap, Dad abandones his resolution to never eat tripe, and orders Andouette avec fromage. (Andouette is a sausage from the from linking of a calf's stomach.) We order the children's menu for Maria. Unfortunately, it includes a tri-color cocktail---sugar and dye with a little water added. Before long, Maria drains the glass and is talking in long, incoherent, sugar-charged spurts. Donnie and I share a caramel crepe for dessert.

When we return to the hotel. Meme and Grandpa watch the kids while Donnie and I try out the hotel hot tub. The massage settings are so forceful and create such a roaring froth, that we end up sputtering to keep the foam out of our eyes and mouths. We can't help but giggle, imagining the view the people manning the security camera are seeing. When another couple arrives at the hottub, we intentionally refrain from warning them, wanting to see their reaction to the maelstrom. All four of us have a hearty laugh.

Perhaps it was the three-dye cocktail, or the German cartoons before bed. That night, Maria sleeps terribly, crying in her sleep.

Easter Sunday

After a terrific breakfast the a the hotel restaurant, we set out for Easter Mass at St. Malo Church in old town Dinan. After giving us directions to the church, the concierge tells Donnie: "I appreciate your dressy-casusal outfit for Easter Sunday." Such a funny compliment.

Maria and Louisa fall into deep sleep early during the Mass. Mom and I remain seated, not wanting to wake them after our difficult night. The church is beautiful. It's gothic with a sparsely decorated interior. There are some gorgeous windows, including some showing the transport of St. Malo's relic's to the church in Dinan, and another incredible window showing Our Lady of the Rosary. There's also an ornately painted organ.

After Mass, we set out into town, and eventually plop ourselves down in a restaurant named something like "Maison Fruit de Mer". I order whelks because I'm sure what they are, and ordering them seems like a good way to find out. Turns out they are a sort of sea-snail-type mollusk and are  delicious dipped in mayonnaise. We have oysters and a number of other treats. The meal drags on because our waiter forgets about us multiple times (it was a very busy restaurant). He gives us a round of chocolate mousse to make up for his negligence. We emerge from the restaurant a good three hours after we entered, stuffed to the gills and very happy. A fitting Easter feast.

We return to the hotel and attempt to get the kids to rest, but it's already after four--no dice. Meanwhile, Meme sets up an Easter egg hunt. The tradition in France is that on Holy Thursday, the church bells fly to Rome and return on Easter Sunday. During their return journey, the bells deposit chocolate eggs, bunnies, and hens in the garden. We love this version of the story since it ties in better with religious tradition than the Easter bunny.

After Meme gives the signal knock on our door, we tell Maria that the Bells have passed by. A trail of plastic eggs leads through Meme and Grandpa's room and into the hotel courtyard to a stash of Easter candy and gifts. There are chocolates, new pajamas, some Easter-themed books, and a new game. Thank you, Meme for bringing all the Easter goodies for the hunt!

That evening, Donnie and I explore a little more of Dinan's medieval quarter. We walk on the ramparts and see the statue of Betrand de Guy. What a lovely thing it is, to walk through an old city at night! There are wonderful smells, and our appetites finally reawaken after our Easter gorging. We stop into a tiny pizza parlor, and in less the ten minutes are walking back down Rue de Jerzual, pie in hand. When we return, the children are still awake. We have a late night pizza and clementine party. Then it's lights out for everybody.