One Time Out

by

Closer to staying in Paris.

I had to take A. out of the bedroom and out of the action for a time out.

She was having a world-class tantrum.

Oh the drama.

Oh the tears.

Oh the unfairness of it.  I have never actually seen a five year old throw a tantrum of this magnitude.  I get the feeling it works on others, I was not budging however, I just scooped her up and took her out of the room.  I do not speak tantrum.

She wanted to be the banker in Monopoly (French Monopoly, fyi, which has different street names and everything–although the premise remains pretty much the same).

Having her own money was not enough, she wanted the bank’s money too.

I asked her what was wrong as the tears just streamed down her face.

“I want to play it my way.”

Yes, honey, we all want to play it our way.  Unfortunately, my way does not often get played.

Rather I get played by my expectations.

I smiled and let her explain herself.

“I want to own the bank,” she said through sniffles.

Girlfriend, so the hell do I.

Especially when they charge me crazy surcharges.  The “you’re not in America”treatment combined with the you no longer have direct deposit (as I no longer have a with direct deposit) so, we are going to charge you some extra fees.

Gee.

Thanks.

I wanted to throw a tantrum just like A.

However, I am taking a different tack, not throwing a temper tantrum and just accepting that money comes and it goes.  What if instead of thinking that I do not have enough, I think, I have more than enough and there’s a shit load coming my way.

I deserve to live in a nice place.

I see others doing it.

The house where I baby sat tonight.

That’s right, I am the baby sitter.  A distinction I allowed myself to get comfortable with.  I am not the nanny here, I am simply a person who feeds and watches and monitors.  I am paid for my presence, not so much my knowledge.

I do not have to get attached to these kids.

Frankly, I am not sure I want to.

It is hard when you get attached.

Although I did find myself loving on each one of them at some point or another today.  Rubbing the little boys hair, spinning around the three-year old, consoling A. when she was not getting her way and distracting her into a happier place.

I did not feel so compelled to be the GREATEST NANNY ON EARTH.

I even read a magazine and drank a cup of tea.

I also used the phone again and called my friend Alex back in Cambridge.  His birthday is on December 24th and I usually call him up and sing him “Happy Birthday.”  I also typically get the same treatment from him on my birthday.

I missed hearing his birthday song, so after waiting the appropriate amount of time, it was way too early the first time I thought of it, I got on the phone and called him.

Nobody picks up anymore.

Everyone is screening their calls.

I don’t know how the number comes up on caller id, but it has only been answered by my mom.

This is funny.

I have also waffled on calling every single person in my phone book.

I had a moment’s hesitation.

What am I going to say?

I felt as though it was time to cut ties.  Sever my relationships with San Francisco, with the United States, get more into being here in Paris.

I will not be catching my flight back in February.

I will be giving myself more time.

I have fallen in and out of love with Paris quite a bit this last week.  However, I blame that partially on the holidays and the dark weather, the short days, and the money fears.

I really do want to be here.

I do.

I have to give it more time before I decide anything.  Basically I have to give my own self a time out.  I have to give myself pause.  The only thing that I do otherwise is continue putting myself out for baby sitting gigs and working on my book.

Do the commitments I have taken on and show up for each day as it happens.

John Ater said to me last night, “honey, what you are doing is not hard.  It is uncomfortable, there is a big difference.”

Yes, yes there is.

I am not lining up for a soup kitchen.  I am not homeless on the streets.  I am not spare changing illegally in the Metro stations with a small child at my feet.  I am not sleeping on a piss stained sleeping bag over an air vent by Hotel de Ville.

I am on my MACBook writing my blog.  I have had dinner.  I am listening to music.  I had an extraordinary hot shower this morning.  Life is good.

In Paris.

Tomorrow, a walk, a bike ride, work on the book, meet with Corinne, do the deal, get the fuck out of my own way.

Pat the fear on the head and send it on its way.

Maybe I can give the fear a time out?

Say, fear, I am tired of being pushed around by your small dick inadequacies.  I am really quite fine, go harass some one else with your pushy come on ways.  I have other things to do.  I don’t find you sexy, I don’t want to sleep with you, I don’t want to be your plaything any longer.

I am reasserting my desire for abundance, prosperity, love.

I work my ass off.

I deserve them.

The first thing to change is the perspective.

Again, a time out, a stepping outside the box and seeing what is really happening.

I live in Paris.

I made this choice and I get to continuing making the choices and showing up for the work.

I envision success and stability, solvency.

And yes, paying off my student loans, even when my head whispers, “hey just default, it’ll be alright.”

Thing is.

It is not going to be alright.

It is alright.

Even when I don’t own the bank.

It doesn’t own me either.

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