Paris Traffic with Kids

Alarms sound in my head. “Warning!  Warning! Two year-old meltdown eminent. Alert! Alert! Baby has surpassed the scheduled feeding time!”

I grab my husband’s phone and open the alternative route-finding application, Waze. Our 20 minute car trip into the city from the suburbs has turned into an hour. Afternoon  has faded into early evening.

We sit, motionless on the four-lane highway encircling Paris. It is called the périphérique or simply as the périph by the locals.

The application says that we can get into the city faster if we take the next exit. The next exit is only a kilometer away, but here on the périph, it is a lifetime away.

My French husband says that I should just feed the baby in the front seat of the car, it’s not like we’re moving. No one would ever do something as dangerous as take their baby out of its car seat to feed it. Then, I think of the woman we passed earlier. She was driving while smoking a long, skinny cigarette and talking on her phone. There was also a man Skyping.  I could clearly see his friend on the phone screen as he juggled holding on to the steering wheel and his large phone.  I guess the French view highway safety differently as I, a cautious Minnesotan, do. And you clearly need something to do to pass the time when you are stuck in Paris traffic.

 “I WANT PUPPY!” the two year-old, screams from the back seat, interrupting my thoughts.

It’s time to parent.  I’m currently reading my sixth toddler-parenting book, which comes in handy for stressful situations like this.  First, connect with the feelings of your child.  I crane my neck to look back at our son.

“You seem mad.”  Explain why:  “Because I took away your stuffed dog?”

“Yes!” He whines.

No need to remind him that I took the stuffed dog away after he threw it on his sister’s face for the fifth time.

Brainstorm an alternative together: “Would you like your whale book?”

He agrees by saying, “whale.”

Whale, it was one of his first words. Of all the words in the world, he picks that one.  Probably thanks this beloved book with a huge picture of a whale on the last page. It is a good thing that I remembered to bring it, along with snacks, water and toys because we have a lot of time to kill. 

We enter a tunnel where there is a graffiti tag on the wall that seems to be in the shape of a pair of women’s panties.

Pierre attempts to get into the right lane to get to the short cut. He preforms a break-accelerator jig mixed with a hand wave to the car that lets us go in front of it.

Our son rips out a page of his whale book and throws it on the floor.  The baby’s face is bright red. He screams, “Mama”, extending the “a” sound longer and longer until all that remains is a painful moan.

Pierre puts on noise blocking headphones, and I tighten my fist around the handrail above the window like we are driving up a mountain. I see a similar graffiti tag and realize that the tag is defiantly supposed to be a pair of women’s panties because this time they are decorated with arching lines that are meant to looks like lace.

It took me over a year to get pregnant with our son because of a miscarriage. During that time, I thought if I ever get pregnant, I would cherish the baby so much.  Everything and anything that the child needs, I will provide. The baby’s happiness will be my happiness. Now, here we sit, in Paris traffic, with our two little children strapped down as if they were in electrical chairs awaiting execution.

             I packed everything I thought we needed, there was enough water, I fed the baby right before we left, I brought his favorite book, I tried singing, I popped the pacifier back in as many times as I could, and I even twisted myself around to hold their hands. Now there is nothing more that I can do besides listen to their screams.

Pierre is finally in the right lane and the exit is approaching. High and low pitched cries blast from the back seat in stereo. Our car inches forward as we pass a small billboard that reads, “The highway is not your garbage can” complete with a picture of litter piled up on the side of the road, a discarded toilet crowns the pile. Despite the warning, the side of the péripherique looks just as littered as the billboard minus the toilet. I am also reminded that at one point during this trip I had to go to the bathroom, but that need has been fully suppressed. I can only think of our poor kids stuck in their car seats.

Then, there is the disturbing sound of silence. The baby is no longer crying.  She sits motionless and looks utterly abandoned.  Our son is also quite.  He has his fingers in his mouth.

The car lurches forward as we escape the highway.  This is the short cut!  We will now have time to stop, and I can at least feed the baby.  Maybe we will even have a view of the Eiffel tower as it lights up for the night. We have been here so long that it is starting to get dark outside.

A busy intersection is in front of us, and we must wait at a long stoplight. Then, we parallel the highway moving faster than the cars on it. Ha! Those poor souls stuck in Paris périphérique purgatory! We pass a small city park perched on the tunnel above the highway.

The application tells us to take a slight left. We are slowly guided toward an entrance.  It is an entrance back onto the highway! I look closer at Waze. All we did was exit the highway, cross a stoplight and re-entering the highway. Estimated time saving: one minute.

Our son coughs, and I turn around to see him stick his fingers even further into his mouth until a small blob of vomit comes out. He starts screaming. The baby joins him. We nestle back into our spot with the other cars, moving like escargots. We enter another tunnel where the graffiti tag to my right reads, “sory” with only one r, and I imagine that a family in the park above us can see the Eiffel tower’s twinkling lights for the first time that evening.