![]() ![]() This “holiday” seals the fact that life as we knew it eighteen months earlier has officially vanished. On the walk back to our hotel we swear off travel, joy, and ever having more kids. We leave enormous, apologetic tips to compensate for the arc of torn napkins and calamari around our table. While my husband has a few bites of fish, I make sure that Bean doesn’t get kicked by a waiter or lost at sea. We order while we’re being seated, then we beg the server to rush out some bread and bring us all our food, appetizers and main courses, simultaneously. Our strategy is to finish the meal quickly. Then she demands to be sprung from her high chair so she can dash around the restaurant and bolt dangerously toward the docks. But within a few minutes she starts spilling salt shakers and tearing apart sugar packets. ![]() Bean is briefly interested in food: a piece of bread or anything fried. We quickly discover that two restaurant meals a day, with a toddler, deserve to be their own circle of hell. But we have to eat lunch and dinner at the little seafood restaurants around the old port. She’s our only child at this point, so forgive us for thinking: How hard could it be? We pick a coastal town that’s a few hours by train from Paris, where we’ve been living (I’m American, he’s British), and we book a hotel room with a crib. When my daughter is eighteen months old, my husband and I decide to take her on a little summer holiday. ![]()
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