Standing on Avenue des Invalides, we’d been waiting for the bus for what felt like an eternity. It was an unusually frigid day in early January, and I was anxious that my five-month-old daughter, Little One, wasn’t warm enough. Despite her snug snowsuit and the blanket wrapped around her, she resembled a miniature Michelin man. To distract her from crying, I bounced on my feet while pushing her stroller in circles.
At last, the bus arrived. I positioned myself at the back door, which was the only entry large enough for the stroller. But to my dismay, the door remained shut. A man in a business suit gestured for the driver to open it, but still, nothing happened. Confused, I maneuvered to the front entrance, signaling for the back door to open. The driver simply shook his head, indicating the bus was at capacity for strollers. “You’ll have to wait for the next one,” he said with a dismissive glare.
Seriously? On the coldest day of the year, I couldn’t stand outside with a baby for long! As the driver closed the doors, I muttered under my breath and began a slow jog down the street. The thought of being a good 45 minutes away from home filled me with dread. The metro was out of the question since I couldn’t manage the cumbersome stroller down the stairs. And a taxi? Forget it—there was no way it would fit in the back.
My heart raced, not from the brisk jog, but from panic. If I were alone, I might even enjoy the walk, but the cold air made me worry about my precious little one. Sure, we were in Paris and not the Arctic, but the damp chill felt bone-deep. I berated myself for bringing her out in such conditions, all to satisfy my own desire for social engagement. I tried to remind myself that many people live in colder climates than this—like Minnesota or Alaska—where families likely use heated vehicles to transport their little ones.
Yet, picturing tough Eskimos while racing through Paris didn’t provide much comfort. At least it wasn’t raining as I jogged in search of the next bus. Thankfully, after just two stops, another Bus 28 pulled up. The back door opened this time, allowing me to wheel the stroller in and park it in the designated area.
The bus was packed, as it was the height of rush hour. My unstamped ticket sat in my hand, and I realized there was no chance of making my way through the tight crowd to validate it at the front. This route was notorious for its sharp swerves, causing all passengers to jostle with each turn. I held onto the stroller’s handle tightly, ensuring my baby remained secure. There was no way I could leave her unattended as I fought my way through the throngs of commuters.
While I contemplated my predicament, a hand tapped my shoulder. “Madame, votre billet?” I turned to see a woman in a navy uniform glaring at me. My heart sank as I handed her my ticket, only to be met with her stern response: “This is not stamped. You have not validated your ticket.”
Frustration bubbled over. “I couldn’t validate it because the bus is so crowded and I have a baby in a stroller!” I replied in a strong American accent, hoping to appeal to any lingering sympathy.
“You are violating the rules. C’est interdit!” Her disapproving look deepened. I motioned to Little One, who was obliviously cooing at the woman. “I have a ticket! How am I supposed to validate it?” I could feel my anger rising, “The machine is at the front and I can’t leave my baby!”
She continued to reiterate the same line, and my mind raced with frustration. I envisioned a more intuitive system where ticket machines were conveniently placed near the back doors. I had to rein in my temper; arguing with the transport police would not solve my woes. So, I plastered on a smile and responded calmly, “I didn’t know it was interdit. This is my first time on this bus. I’m just visiting.”
She regarded me skeptically, as though weighing my fate. After a long pause, she finally said, “I will let you go this time. But you must validate your ticket next time.”
Relieved that we were almost at my stop, I quickly thanked her and began the awkward process of maneuvering the stroller through the crowd. Once outside, I inhaled the cold air, still shaken from the encounter.
I barely made it up the two flights of stairs to our apartment before tears streamed down my face. I felt so isolated. Why was everyone here so unfriendly? Why didn’t anyone smile? As I sat on the sofa, Little One latched onto me, hungry after our chilly adventure. I was exhausted and had hoped that the playgroup would offer connections with other moms. Instead, I felt even more alone, and the exchange with the transport officer had only added to my sense of isolation. If only we could hibernate like bears until spring.
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Summary
Navigating the challenges of motherhood in Paris can be daunting, especially when faced with unyielding public transport rules and the biting cold. The experience emphasizes feelings of isolation and vulnerability that often accompany new parenthood.