By: Sarah Thompson
Updated: November 12, 2020
Originally Published: November 6, 2011
It was an unusually frigid day in early January as we stood on Avenue des Invalides, waiting for the bus. With my five-month-old, whom I affectionately call La Petite, bundled in her snowsuit and wrapped in a blanket, I couldn’t shake the worry that she might be too cold, resembling a tiny Michelin man. To keep her entertained and stave off any tears, I bounced on my feet while pushing her stroller in circles.
Finally, the bus arrived, but when I approached the back entrance—designed for strollers—the door remained stubbornly shut. A well-dressed man gestured to the driver to open it for me, but still nothing happened. Confused, I wheeled La Petite’s stroller to the front, only to be met with a firm shake of the driver’s head. “No,” he said, indicating that two strollers were already on board. “You’ll need to wait for the next bus.”
Frustration surged through me. It was the coldest day of the year, and I couldn’t possibly stand out here with my baby. As the driver closed the doors, I muttered under my breath and started jogging down the street. Panic bubbled within me; I was a good 45 minutes from home. Taking the metro was out of the question—there was no way I could navigate the massive stroller through the stairs and turnstiles. Even hailing a taxi was futile since the stroller wouldn’t fit in the trunk.
My heart raced with anxiety rather than the exertion of running. If I were alone, I might appreciate the brisk walk, but now I was desperate to keep my baby warm. What kind of mother was I, exposing her to such biting cold? True, we were in Paris, not Antarctica, but the damp chill pierced through me. Yes, she was dressed warmly, but what about her little face? I felt like a terrible mother for dragging her outside on such a bitter day, all for my own need for social interaction.
I reminded myself that many places experience harsher winters, like Minnesota or Alaska, where parents might drive their children in heated vehicles rather than brave the outdoors. But thoughts of those conditions did little to soothe my anxiety as I pushed the stroller down the freezing street.
After two stops, a new bus pulled up, and this time, the back door opened. I carefully rolled the stroller inside and parked it in the designated area. The bus was packed as it was peak commuting time, and the ticket validator was at the front. I glanced at my unstamped ticket, realizing there was no way I could navigate through the crowded bus while balancing my baby and the stroller.
As the bus swerved dangerously, I clutched the stroller’s handlebars tightly. I couldn’t risk leaving La Petite unattended while I squeezed my way to the front. I decided to wait until the bus cleared out a bit before attempting to validate my ticket.
Suddenly, a voice interrupted my thoughts. “Madame, votre billet?” A stern woman in a navy uniform stood beside me, her expression disapproving.
I handed her my unstamped ticket. “But this is not stamped. You have not validated your ticket,” she replied curtly.
“I haven’t been able to leave the stroller while the bus is so crowded and swaying,” I explained, switching to my American accent for clarity.
“This is an infraction of the rules. C’est interdit!” she retorted, her scowl deepening.
I motioned toward La Petite, who was cooing at the woman, seemingly unfazed by the tension. “I have a ticket. How can I stamp it when the machine is in the front, and I have a baby in a stroller?”
“You must validate your ticket,” she repeated monotonously, pulling out her ticket pad. My heart sank; was she really going to write me a citation?
“Must I leave my infant unattended in a moving bus?” I asked, my patience fraying. I was on the verge of exploding when I took a deep breath and forced a smile. “I didn’t realize it was against the rules. This is my first time on this bus. I bought a ticket, but I didn’t know it had to be validated right away.”
She scrutinized me as if weighing my fate. Finally, she relented. “I will forgive the infraction this one time. This is your warning. You must validate your ticket next time.”
As our stop approached, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. I hastily unlocked the stroller and maneuvered it through the crowd, finally stepping onto the pavement. I inhaled deeply, still shaken from the ordeal.
Once home, I collapsed onto the sofa, my emotions overwhelming me. Why was it so hard to connect with people here? I felt so isolated. Looking down at La Petite, her sweet face now latched onto me for nourishment, I felt a mix of exhaustion and vulnerability. I had hoped to find camaraderie at the playgroup, but instead, I felt more alone than ever. The encounter with the transport officer had been the last straw.
In that moment, I wished La Petite and I could hibernate through the winter, emerging in the spring when everything seemed brighter.
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Summary
A mother struggles through a cold day in Paris with her infant, facing challenges with public transportation and feelings of isolation. Despite the harshness of the weather and unkind encounters, she seeks solace in her role as a caregiver, hoping for a better connection with others in her new environment.