T-4 (weeks)

Here we go... Baby Boy Rothman is due to be born four weeks from today. Of course, it could be sooner... or much, much later (if God really wants to test that charming saw about "that which does not kill you..."). But when the midwife stuck watermelon seeds on her forehead and started calling out dates (sorry, just a little British laissez-faire medicine humor!), 25 April was the last one standing/sticking, so I'm running with it. Am I a tad freaked out? A Tad. Baby Tad. It helps a bit that we have been making the most of these last few weeks as a family of three.

I had barely unpacked from our Spain trip when it was time to hop back on a plane to Paris for a blowout 40th birthday celebration for one of my oldest and best friends M. OK, given her wing girl couldn't drink, eat any raw vegetables or soft cheese or stay awake past midnight, and fell down every seven minutes or so – not due to one lemon drop shot too many – M might question the descriptor Blowout. We shopped for purses, ate tartines, sampled macarons, shopped for coats, did a walking tour of the Marais, more macarons, shopped for shoes... you get the idea.

M's birthday present to herself (and, by extension, ME) was the dedication of every Starwood point she accumulated in the last eleven years to a gorgeous room at the Westin right at Place Vendome. That's right, yours truly went all Right Bank on your ass, parking said sizable back porch just blocks from Paris' fine jewelry sector – and overlooking the Tuileries, where the billowing tents of Fashion Week loomed romantically.

Without further ado, the Top Ten moments of my Lost Girls' Weekend in Paris:

10) Finally sampling the hot chocolate at Angelina's –despite the cigarette smoke-soaked ladies' room, I see what all the fuss is about!
9) Spending a slightly obscene sum on a truly gorgeous, truly Parisian purse (so I bought my own push prize! so sue me!) by Vanessa Bruno.
8) The moment that first rose macaron (yes, there were six or seven) from Pierre Herme passed my lips.
7) Having the cute Israeli waiter at L'As du Falafel tell me to "finish those fries next time!"
6) White chocolate soup with passionfruit ice at Bistrot de l'Oulette
5) Dinner with my best girls at Willi's Wine Bar, complete with paparazzi photog.
4) Trying desperately to hang nonchalantly with the cool cats at the bar where John Galliano was busted making racist remarks, only to have our firmly barking dogs (new shoes) refuse to carry us there.
3) Paying homage to Colette, Chopin, Edith Piaf, Moliere, Gertrude Stein, and – of course – the late, great Jim Morrison, at the Pere-LaChaise Cemetery.
2) Chortling into our early morning lattes as two models – sharing both a green tea and a vague grasp of the English language – stumbled in and out of Starbucks, ostensibly still partying from the night before, using the bathroom but no toilet paper (I was clearly the first, moments later, to use the facility for the purpose for which it was actually intended) and accosting frightened Parisians on the street in search of God knows what (cigarettes? sensible shoes? John Galliano?).
1) Toasting my girl's fortieth year – surely her most stylish and successful yet – in our mutual favorite city.

Virginia Mom and AMIP at Willi's (no, John Galliano is not standing behind me!)

Birthday Girl and Tower (look how she has the Parisian Scarf Thing down)

Birthday Dinner in glam new outfits (yes, I'm practicing my best
– as it turns out, unnecessary – La Perle look)

I returned to a Mother England beginning to show the first signs of spring – crocuses, then daffodils, then SUNSHINE by God. We took Josie to her first musical, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, which was either the best or worst decision we've made in some time as she's taken to strolling around Bath belting "I look handsome, I look smart, I am a walking work of art..." "JA-COBBBB! Jacob and sons!" etc. We also embarked on perhaps our most important British pilgrimage to date – to CostCo! – to stock up on baby gear, Ziploc bags, and the like (trying not to make our Parisian pals foam TOO profusely in seething jealousy here).

We made what was probably our last jaunt to London for awhile, to see my Parisienne pal C launch her beautiful and amazing Beg Bicycles at the Country Living Spring Fair. C has been working like mad on this venture for over a year, and we're incredibly proud of her!

Is this a bike you'd beg for, or what? Gorgeous.

After the fair, we schlepped over to Golders Green in the Jewish Quarter for pastrami sandwiches, sweet and sour pickles and a little Passover shopping. We're now fully stocked on matzoh, turkey pastrami, and Manischewitz – bring on the locusts! famine! boils!

The oh-so-appropriately-named New Yorker Deli, where we lunched and
I inappropriately requested sour cream with my latke (kosher much, Davidson?)

Josie seems to be sufficiently excited about the impending arrival of her baby brother, whom we call Meatball and she's determined to name Oscar, and conveniently, she has a baby in her tummy as well. But her baby is a girl named Vanessa, after my gorgeous new Parisian tote. When strangers-on-the-street ask her if she's looking forward to having a little brother, she coolly informs them that her granny is bringing her Ariel Mermaid and her sisters, with bathing suits that change color in the bathtub. JoRo earned rave reviews in yet another Nursery performance, this time a Nursery Rhyme Challenge, in which she and petite copine JoJo really rocked the boat.

Oh, and in other Fine Arts-related hilariousness, I also signed up for an Introduction to Painting course to help pass the remainder of my confinement. Being the only American, I was also the only student in the class to have never picked up a paintbrush, wielded a charcoal pencil or squeezed a tube of watercolor. Despite the instructor's best efforts to lend remedial help, the results were hilarious. Below, my final project: an abstract based on a nighttime NYC scene.


To Picasso, Miro, Rothko, and every great modern name-ending-in"O" artist about whose work I've declared, in classic Olivia-esque fashion, "I could do that in about five minutes," I humbly, humbly apologize.

Well, that about catches us up, mes amis. I'd like to say I'll be back before the Blessed Event, but only the Watermelon Sage can say for sure. We're one-third through our prenatal class, have several potential names and the requisite three strollers (it's Britain!), sorry, pushchairs, so we're really ready for him to arrive any time!

Yours till the Jewels Crown, BJD xx