"Le Troisième Sexe"

My mother had told me that one of the best parts about being pregnant is how nice everyone suddenly becomes. I still wasn't prepared. For any of it. Parisian bus drivers who overnight began waiting for me with open doors, telling me not to run. Salesmen offering to carry my purchases for me. Fellow shoppers letting me go ahead of them at check-out. My mother-in-law asking me how I am.
The transition would probably have been a lot easier in the States, where people's natural kindness would simply have been super-sized. Here in Paris, it's like being in Invasion of the Bodysnatchers--only the alien duplicates are the ones with feelings. The strange thing is that pregnant women aren't even a rare commodity here. And I think I'm beginning to understand why. What's a little morning sickness and labor compared to nine blissful months of solicitude in a city where the customer notoriously counts for rien? And did I mention my mother-in-law?!

Dianna Agron as Quinn Fabray. [Online image] 2010.

No Champagne for Me, Please. Or Smoked Salmon. Or Cheese. . .

Being pregnant around the holidays in France really makes you appreciate how vegans must feel during the rest of the year. Not only do certain sights and smells (fresh fish and pungent wheels of cheese at the morning market) make you go green around the gills, but whatever tempts your palate turns out to be hiding a blacklisted ingredient (a French dessert without eggs or butter is about as likely as rum-free punch at a Christmas party). So you get used to passing on pink platters of smoked salmon on tiny toasts and doilied trays of canopés slathered with foie gras mousse. Of course, while vegans can quell their growling stomachs with raw veggies (déconseillés for femmes enceintes due to toxoplasmosis risk) and sparkling trays of teetering champagne flutes, pregnant women's safest bet at Christmastime seems to be baguette and filtered water.
No wonder why Mary's a saint.

Production drawing of Sebastian. [Online image] 1989.