ON THE RARE days I do my fair share of the parenting, the mood in Paris changes. This is true especially on the mornings I agree to escort Quinn to her twice-weekly Gymboree class. In the few minutes between the morning feeding and my racing out the door, baby in arms, in a long and often futile search for a taxicab, a single unspoken sentence echoes off our kitchen walls. The sentence is: “Now you will get a taste of what my life is like.”
