Just the thought of moving back to France nearly gave me a panic attack. All the work I had done over the past two years, living on our homestead in Virginia, raising chickens, Square-Foot-Gardening, being the PTA president of my kids’ school—all I had built with my hands and heart were supposed to have healed the gaping hole with which I left France. France is a baby killer. I knew it was melodramatic to think that way, but hadn’t I already lost two babies in two years there? I looked down at my second trimester belly. Now we were moving back. Would France take this baby, too?
I waved the thought away with a chuckle. I was being melodramatic. France would be different this time. This time, I had a purpose. The food and curriculum situation at my kids’ school had become unlivable. Pizza sauce is not a vegetable. As much as I loved our 32 wooded acre homestead, I needed to get my kids to a place where food is sacred and religious dogma has no place in school. Yes. France held some bad memories, but it was also so full of promise for my three living children. And for the one in my belly. This helped me pack my bags. It gave me strength as I traveled alone with my three and a half sidekicks. It made my heart race with hope on the flight over.
The reality was a thousand times better than the dreaded fantasy. Lyon hadn’t changed much at all, making it feel familiar and home. The changes I did see were only for the better. Everything seemed a touch more efficient. The taxi was at the airport stop in seconds. He was smiley and helpful. The hotel staff were kind and welcoming. My favorite pedestrian street had all of my old favorite bakeries, boutiques and bookstores but had new little nuggets of “home” like a Haagen-Dazs shop and a Starbucks! There were Velov’ rent-a-bike stations on nearly every block and so many more people used them than just two years prior. There were Bluely electric rent-a-car stations here and there. A smoking ban made getting lunch or a coffee more pleasant while the kids were with me.
The kids were ecstatic about being back as well. Only my 9 year old son really remembered anything clearly, but his sisters soaked and mirrored his enthusiasm as we walked along the Saone and Rhone rivers, stopping at this playground or that one with the huge slides. Or the one that had all the water fountains you could maneuver for fun.
They gushed about the wide open green spaces of the Parc de la Tete d’Or, running headlong with their arms open wide as if they had just been liberated from their leashes. As we strolled through the free zoo, they mimicked the playful moneys and marveled at the baby giraffe. They had a contest with the crocodiles to see if they could keep their mouths open longer. They laughed at the emus and running reindeer. When the intrigue of the animals wore off, they strolled through the rose garden, drinking in the mesmerizing vapors of nature and talked to the bees, thanking them for their help.
In the evening, spent from our walks but still buzzing with emotional energy, we made our way back to our pedestrian street where we sat on a bench and watched as the fountain played. Arcs of water chasing each other and showing off their pirouettes.
When I could see they were ready, we got up and made our way back to our little hotel, stopping only to stock up on fresh veggies and a crispy baguette for dinner.
As they slept, I looked in on them, snuggled up against one another in the double bed. I sighed with relief. It was hard to believe I could have dreaded coming back here. How could I have forgotten all that Lyon had given me? Why had I only concentrated on what it had taken? I patted my belly, excited and content that my husband and I had made the best decision for our little family in moving back to Lyon.
In coming home.
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Thank you so much for reminding us of the value of facing our fears. You are a warrior, a saint and a long overlooked talent. All my love to you and yours,
Lauri Nelson