Bringing Up Bebe by Pamela Druckerman Read Free Book Online

of a woman wanting to suffer so much to have a kid,” Eric says.
    What stands out for both Eric and Jennifer is what I’ve come to think of as the “Croissant Story.” When Jennifer went into labor, it became clear that all her birthing plans were for naught: she needed a cesarean. The doctor sent Eric into the waiting room. Eventually, Jennifer delivered a healthy baby girl. Afterward, in the recovery room, Eric mentioned to her that he recently ate a croissant.
    Three years later, Jennifer’s blood still boils when she thinks about that piece of bread. “Eric wasn’t actually physically present [in the waiting room] during the whole thing. He went out and got a croissant! When they rolled me into the operating room, Eric walks out of the clinic, goes down the street, goes to the bakery, and buys a couple of croissants. He comes back, eats his croissant!”
    This is not what Jennifer had envisioned. “My husband needs to be sitting there biting his nails, thinking, ‘Oh, will it be a boy or a girl?’” she says. She mentions that there was a vending machine near the waiting room. He could have bought a bag of peanuts.
    When Eric tells his own version of the Croissant Story, he gets mad, too. Yes, there was a vending machine. But “it was very stressful; I needed some sugar,” he says. “I was sure there was a bakery just at the corner, and the bakery ended up being a bit far away. But they took her at seven. I knew that they had one hour of preparation and things like that, and I think she came back at eleven. So in all this time, yes, I spent at least fifteen minutes going to get some food.”
    At first, I see the Croissant Story as a classic men-are-from-Mars tale. But I eventually realize that it’s a Franco-American parable. For Jennifer, Eric’s selfish pursuit of the croissant signaled that he wouldn’t sacrifice his own comfort for the sake of his family and the new baby. She worried that he wasn’t sufficiently invested in the project of parenting.
    For Eric, it signaled no such thing. He felt thoroughly invested in the birth and is an extremely involved father. But at that moment, he was also calm, detached, and self-interested enough to walk down the street. He wanted to be a dad, but he also wanted a croissant. “In the U.S. sometimes I have the feeling that if it’s not difficult for you, you have to feel bad about that,” he says.
    I’d like to think
I’m the sort of wife who wouldn’t be bothered by the croissant, or at least that Simon is the sort of husband who would hide the crumbs. I do submit a PG-rated birth plan, stating that under no circumstances should Simon be permitted to cut the umbilical cord. But since I tend to scream when I get my legs waxed, I don’t think I’m a great candidate for natural childbirth. I suspect I’ll have trouble viewing the pain as a cultural construct.
    I’m more concerned about getting to the hospital in time. Following a friend’s advice, I’ve registered to give birth at a hospital all the way across town. If the baby makes a break for it during rush hour, there could be trouble.
    And that’s if I can get a taxi. The rumor among Paris’s Anglophones (who, being here temporarily, tend not to have cars) is that French taxi drivers refuse to pick up women in labor for fear that they’ll end up scraping placenta off their seats. A backseat delivery wouldn’t be ideal for other reasons. Simon is too spooked to even read the instructions for emergency home deliveries in
What to Expect.
    My contractions begin around eight o’clock at night. That means I can’t eat the steaming Thai food we’ve just picked up. (I will fantasize about pad thai from my hospital bed.) But at least the streets are clear. Simon calls a taxi, and I’m quiet while getting in. Let the driver—a mustachioed man in his fifties—try to pry me out.
    I needn’t have worried. As soon as we’re on the road and he hears my yelps from the backseat, the driver becomes