I debated going to Paris with an 18-month-old. The Paris that lives in my mind is one of meals that linger. A wine glass I never see the bottom of. Moonlit strolls along the Seine. The Eiffel tower glowing after midnight. There are cigarettes and silk dresses involved. It’s romantic and lacey and sexy.
In short, not the kind of place I envisioned myself taking a sticky-fingered baby-bordering-on-toddler. Then my husband and I had the opportunity to take a 6-week work sabbatical and Paris came onto the table.
Back in 2020 we had planned two weeks in France as part of our globe trotting honeymoon. A very poor year for a honeymoon it turned out to be. Due to Covid we had to cancel reservations in, among other places, Burgundy, Alsace, Provence, and Paris. This left me with a France-shaped hole in my heart for years. Initially I said we’ll wait on Paris until we have some adult time where I’m free to consume as much rare meat, stinky cheese and red wine as I want. But Covid robbed us all of something. It replaced our “I wills” with “if I cans” and “maybes”. Four years later I was not over this lost voyage. I needed to take the trip that could have been to move forward and start dreaming of new destinations. I needed closure.
And so it came to be that we carried our 18 month old Charlie onto a red eye to the City of Light. The day of departure Charlie was a happy dude. The flight took a hard turn. If you prefer not to read about bodily fluids, I urge you to skip ahead. On the seven hour flight Charlie. Wouldn’t. Stop. Pooping. There were multiple changes and one blowout. He cried. He thrashed. He briefly fell asleep only to be woken up by an 11:50PM dinner cart. I don’t know who needs a meal at this time. It’s midnight in the flight’s departure time zone and 5AM at its final destination. Not time for a choice of chicken or pasta. The only thing that would placate our baby was Kung Fu Panda. Being a low television household I wasn’t thrilled with Charlie’s zombified gaze at hour four of watching Tigress and Poe, but something about desperate times…
When we landed our trio had a combined sleep time of five hours. It wasn’t pretty. Then at passport control it got ugly. We queued with Charlie tucked into his stroller. Suddenly, it reeked. Carl and I knew this meant another blowout. We wanted to shout for the crowd to part like the Red Sea so we could take our shit-steeped child to a changing room. Instead, we had to wait another 30 minutes and attempt to be as non-suspicious as possible answering questions at border control with a child that was smelling more and more like a clogged diner sink.
In the airport restroom we dug in our luggage for clean clothes because Charlie’s emergency outfit was already used on-flight. I scrubbed the stroller and provided wipes, pants, and diapers. Carl held Charlie down to prevent him from squirming so much that he’d spray poop everywhere. Bonjour Paris! Enchanté!
The trip from Charles De Gaulle to our neighborhood of Le Marais usually takes 45 minutes. It took us 2.5 hours. Halfway there our train stopped, an announcement was made in French, and everyone got off. Someone took pity on our wide eyed faces and told us our train was effectively canceled and we had to get off. Carl, ever the transit champion, recalibrated us to a different line that required two additional transfers. At this point Charlie was too tired to cry. When we finally arrived at our Airbnb we did yet another diaper change, placed him in the crib, then all slept for 50 minutes until we were awoken by a scream of total pain. Carl grabbed Charlie and announced he was burning up. His temperature was 103. Higher than it’s ever been at any point in his life.
Mercifully, the apartment had a first aid kit that included Children’s Tylenol the Airbnb hostess pointed out in the walk-through earlier. Huzzah! The instructions were in French. Ooof. I rocked Charlie back and forth attempting not to have a complete panic attack while math major Carl determined the correct amount of medicine for Charlie’s body weight by converting pounds to kilograms. We poured medicine down Charlie’s throat and within an hour his temperature was down to 101. For a minute it was looking like an ER visit was imminent. Now it looks like we can turn to rest and television to get our baby well.
The apartment had a projector screen and Netflix, perfect for our situation. We put Charlie in his jammies, turned on Shrek, then cuddled up on the sofa. This moment remains the cuddliest Charlie has ever been and Carl still considers this couch cuddle to be one of the best moments of the entire trip.
Even though the apartment’s shower rod fell during our stay, breaking a figurine in the bathroom that Airbnb charged us $250 for, I’d still stay here again due to the medicine and projector combo. Also, instead of pitching the figurine the hostess had it repaired, and the receipt for reimbursement from the repair shop listed “decapitated mushroom” as the work line item which gave us a chuckle.
We imagined some cute bistro for our first night in Paris. Instead, we ordered pizza from a spot called Pissou. Carl picked up a margherita pizza, salad, stracciatella, provencal bread, and an emergency bottle of red wine. Thus began what we’d learn over the coming weeks in Europe: Give Charlie white bread and he is happy.
Charlie managed some bread and stracciatella then curled back in our arms for the first 30 minutes of Miyazaki’s Ponyo. Carl and I attempted to put him to bed then enjoy a glass of wine, but gave up and went to bed ourselves after 45 minutes of crying. We spent a couple hours in shifts as Charlie woke up every hour. Ultimately, Carl spent the night in Charlie’s room. The two of us would not share a bed overnight during our three nights in Paris.
In the morning Charlie’s fever was gone. At a steady 99 degrees, he’s no longer a poop bomb and is in an overall jolly mood. He’s ready to party. His father and I were only a little bit traumatized.
For breakfasts in Paris we opted for grab and go pastries. In true bougie fashion, I didn’t want to wander into just any of the city’s 1,300 boulangeries. Prior to our trip I researched the best patisseries within walking distance of our apartment so that I could order croissants along with the fanciest, most ornate, dumbest desserts possible. This mission took us to Yann Couvreur where I ordered a chocolate croissant, kouglof, and pistachio tart that we took around the corner to Square Charles-Victor Langlois.
Charlie’s appetite was back in a big way. He inhaled nearly the entire kouglof while watching a bespeckled eight year old play ping pong with her bucket hatted, calf length white socked grandfather. (It was here I realized today’s twenty-somethings are indeed dressing like grand peres). The girl taunted her grandfather whenever she scored a point and he looked less than thrilled to be there, but it was clear they were frequent opponents. Paddles and balls are BYO and as they exited he placed his big, sun freckled hand on her shoulder while she chatted away. I wouldn’t know it at the time, but this girl, along with the few other kids playing in the square’s sand pit, would account for roughly 30% of the children I’d see in Paris over the coming days.
My gentrified neighborhood in Pittsburgh is overrun with preschoolers. They tug at the Patagonia jackets of their latte-clutching parents in shops and sit with tablets in breweries. I frequently pass twin strollers. In Paris, the children I did see were in elementary school. They weren’t in stores or restaurants, they were seen briefly on sidewalks going from point A to point B. Presumably from their school to home, without doddling along the way.
Initially I thought maybe this was just a French thing, but in Dijon we saw children out and about, and the parks of Strasbourg were absolutely overflowing with kiddos. In Paris, Charlie was frequently, and conspicuously, the only child present where he went.
I was concerned Charlie, and in turn us, would be shunned from the city. The internet is littered with articles about how it’s difficult to bring children to Paris. How Parisians hate kids. How there are no children’s seats available at restaurants, etc. Everywhere we went to eat, the server’s happily pulled out a high chair and our little guy was treated like a tiny prince (I quickly learned to request a “chaise haute” when entering a restaurant, usually done while gesticulating wildly at Charlie and a nearby empty chair).
Growing up, (hello fellow Millennials!) every adult I knew seemed to reiterate the same stereotypes about the French: They’re snooty, frog-eating, chain-smoking, American-hating, holier-than-thou people. I didn’t find this to be the case. I consider Paris with a toddler to be a study in resetting expectations.
No, you won’t be able to linger over dinner in an intimate twelve-seat restaurant. These places won’t have children’s seats because they don’t want children to wriggle through a three-hour tasting menu.
No, you won’t spend an entire afternoon perusing the Louvre. Unless your toddler appreciates the differences between baroque, neoclassicism, and impressionism, they don’t want to spend hours in a crowded museum, and you don’t want to spend that time trying to keep them in check.
No, taking your child into an upscale boutique isn’t appropriate. It was painful knowing there was a Livy shop in Le Marais that I couldn’t go to, but there’s nothing sexy about lingerie shopping with a kid trying to rub the silk and lace between their buttered up pastry fingers.
Yes, you can spend hours meandering the city’s outdoor areas. There’s no shortage of parks and gardens, which range from the massive and gorgeously manicured Luxembourg and Tuileries gardens to small squares dotted throughout neighborhoods. Perfect for slowing down. A way to relax and pass time, not kill it.
Yes, you can still eat well. There are more places to eat than a Parisian could work their way through in a lifetime. Anything that calls itself a brasserie is fair game with a child in tow. These are casual eateries with a varied menu that are open at all times of the day. We never had an issue finding a child’s seat or being sat in one. Bistros are also on the table. They’re a step above brasseries in that they often close between lunch and dinner, and have a more limited menu. Boulangeries and patisseries are a slam dunk. Charlie left France with a Pavlovian response to the sound of a brown bag crinkling. He immediately stretches out his hand and says “I want that” without knowing what’s inside. In Paris he learned brown bags meant buttery, flakey, goodness.
After our pastry breakfast we went to the National Archives Museum garden. This was the epitome of a hidden gem and we shared the space with just one other person who sat quietly on a bench. We lifted up Charlie to smell the roses and I have a vivid memory of him giving a pale yellow rose a deep sniff, then giggling happily.
Lunch was L’as du Fallafel, a falafel walkup window with 13,000+ reviews on Google. The line was intimidatingly large, but moved quickly and allowed for some great people watching along the way. We took our lamb shawarma back to the apartment, ate, and nestled in for a family nap. The prior night left all three of us haggard and badly in want of rest.
Wanting to beat the dinner crowds we went to Les Philosophies at 5:30, the corner bistro next to the apartment. Outside was jammed with couples sitting at tiny tables in those oh-so-chic woven bistro chairs sipping wine and aperol spritzes. Many were smoking. Few were eating. The host offered us outdoor or indoor seating, and unsure how we’d wedge a toddler in the crowd outside, we opted for in. The interior had the classic bistro look with a thick wooden bar, tile floor, burgundy upholstery, and huge windows. It was a gorgeous May evening and inside the restaurant it was nearly empty. Only one older couple sat side-by-side in a red booth in the corner.
Charlie sat in a child’s seat that looked like some kind of medieval torture device. It was made of dark, time-worn wood and looked ancient. Instead of the bulky, straight-legged American seats I’m used to, this one had a narrow base and legs that were carved to a v in the middle. It’s what I envision being referred to when Tudor nobles exclaimed “give him the rack!” To eat, we ordered beef bourguignon, french onion soup, and a salad that was more fruit and cheese than a means for vegetables. The food was filling and tasty, but unremarkable. No matter, because Charlie demolished a ton of cheese while we chatted with the lovely couple next to us, a pair of French Canadians who were quick to compare Charlie to their four grandchildren. I’ve found that grandparents are a lot like Crossfitters. They’ll find a way to work their grandparenthood into conversation quickly and unprompted.
After eating we took a witching hour walk to Notre Dame, still closed from the devastating fire in 2019. We gawked at the cranes and construction and recalled how years earlier the world watched in horror as its spire burned, then crumbled into the flames below. Today, white tents were staged outside the construction zone for a bread baking competition. Life goes on. In a metropolis like Paris, life seems to go on faster than elsewhere.
In the morning I couldn’t wait to take Charlie to the zoo in the Jardin des Plantes, certain he’d find it magical. After the French Revolution exotic animals privately owned by nobles were donated either here, or to the Versailles zoo. The plan was for scientists at each location to kill and stuff the animals. Instead, many were left to live and the zoo in the Jardin Des Plantes was born. When the Versailles zoo closed the animals there were donated to the Jardin, and here we are today.
Within 20 minutes of arriving it was clear our 18 month old did not care about the animals. He stared blankly at the peccary and dik-dik, while the tiny zoomobiles that carted around cleared shrubbery were met with excited pointing and jumping. He did enjoy the blue parrot and ran around squawking for a good ten minutes. My big takeaway was it’s hard to get a toddler interested in animals that look like large cats and pigs. Show him an elephant or lion and he gets perked up, but a pudu? He just didn’t get the point.
Given Charlie’s lack of enthusiasm we skipped the remaining animals and took a quick spin through the plant gardens that were in full bloom. In hindsight, I wish we’d spent more time exploring the grounds than the zoo, but there’s always an excuse to go back to Paris.
We stopped for crepes on the walk back in Île de la Cité, a small island nestled in the Seine between the Latin Quarter and Le Marais. First, I stepped into a place called La Crepe en L’isle and witnessed a very David Lynchian scene: There were a dozen tables total, and at every other table sat a well dressed seventy-something woman dining solo. Each of them stared out vacantly. No one spoke. All other tables were empty. There were pearls and coiffed hair and fine linen jackets, creating an overly formal and eerie vibe. If I didn’t have a toddler waiting outside Carl and I would have sat down and eaten in silence just to soak up the discomfort. Instead, I backed out slowly and told Carl NOPE. Just a few doors down was the more informal Pom’ Cannelle creperie where we ate simple ham, egg, and cheese crepes. This was also my most shining moment with the French language on our entire trip. In English we ordered a grapefruit juice and the server confirmed with a confused “apple?” I replied with “pamplemousse” and he nodded with approval saying “oui”. I beamed.
After Charlie’s nap we took the metro to the Eiffel Tower. For the trip we brought a GB Pockit Air stroller that folds into a tote bag, allowing us to stash the stroller before heading down metro stairs and onto trains. This system worked incredibly well. I wouldn’t want to bring a large stroller onto the metro since stations with elevators are limited, and the few elevators we did see were often out of service. When we ascended from the station the Eiffel Tower stood tall and proud, giving me one of those “wow” travel moments. One of my surprises in Paris was that I hadn’t yet seen the tower in the skyline as I walked throughout the city, making its sudden presence more special.
The area swarmed with tourists and dozens of hawkers selling the same cheap Eiffel Tower keychains and figurines, but that’s to be expected when you’re at one of the most recognizable landmarks on the planet. Charlie has a pop-up book with the Eiffel Tower in it, so even he loosely understood where we were. At two, he called all towers “Eiffel Towers” which I found adorable.
Construction for the 2024 summer Olympics was underway leaving much of Champs de Mars closed off, but that didn’t stop Charlie from playing happily in the gravel pathways. We sat in the tower’s shadow in the park and drank orange juice while watching nearby picnickers sip champagne and eat baguettes. Touristy, yes, but in Paris, sometimes you have to lean into it.
Carl’s parents were arriving in the morning from a redeye flight so we had an early bedtime, followed by a slow, lazy morning around the apartment. We were meeting them at the Saint-Paul metro stop which boasts a carousel at its entrance. The plan was to pick up an exhausted Nana and Pap-Pap then immediately put their grandson on the carousel to have the magic of Paris instantly wash over them. The carousel beckoned to us when we first arrived in Paris, as did the boulangerie next to it. Too tired to ride, I took Charlie into the bakery only to find there are pastries in Paris that are, indeed, average. However, Charlie was given a tiny child-sized croissant on the house.
At home in Pittsburgh we have a Parisian bakery on our block and every time we go there the staff gives Charlie a choux bun. Our son came to France with unrealistic expectations of how bakeries work, and upon receiving this tiny treat I wondered if free pastries would rain down on us everywhere. That was not the case, and the Saint-Paul boulangerie would be the only spot in our entire trip to bestow a gift onto my boy. Was the place average? Completely. Is it endeared to me? Yes.
Our grandparent pickup plan was foiled. The carousel was closed. We dropped off bags, picked up some gourmandise and croissants at the Société de Boulangerie de Rennes, then went to the Square Albert Schweitzer where the adults plopped onto the grass and Charlie explored the garden with his teddy bear. Paris is filled with these small squares tucked between centuries old buildings. They’re peaceful, gorgeous, romantic as can be, and hit differently in France.
For lunch, we chose Pissou. Their stracciatella saved us during Charlie’s bout of sickness and we wanted to take the whole gang there. In true toddler parent fashion we got there minutes after opening in an attempt to cause as little disruption as possible. I was intimidated by the two impossibly cool twenty-something hosts: A woman with a wavy brown bob and massive, jinggling chandelier earrings, and a Japanese man with a shaved head, thick-rimmed circular glasses, and sleeve tattoos covering each arm, one of which was inked entirely in black to the wrist.
I tried my best French: “Bonjour. Une table pour cinq, s’il vous plaît. Et une chaise haute”. A simple phrase, yes, but I’d been practicing this line in my head for the last five minutes, reciting it like a mantra. As I said “chaise haute” gestured towards Charlie and expected to be met with rolled eyes from this beautiful duo. Instead, they were incredibly warm and inviting. Charlie was given a sleek, white chair that looked nothing like the infant torture device at Les Philosophes. He munched happily on pizza crusts while the adults sipped red wine and ate burrata and prosciutto salad and buffalo mozzarella pizza.
After lunch Carl and his parents joined Charlie for naptime. Not me. The day before I’d managed to visit two patisseries, a chocolatier, and a bookseller while Carl and Charlie slept. This was another glorious two and a half hour window that I intended to fill to its fullest.
My first stop today was Mariage Frères, a French tea seller that’s been around since the nineteenth century. The shop walls were lined with floor to ceiling shelves filled with tea canisters adorned with gold labels. When a towering Asian man asks if I need help I don’t even attempt French, explaining that I’m looking for some rooibos tea. He takes me to the rooibos section and explains the notes in each blend. I can barely listen. This dude looks like a KPop star. He’s a heart throb in a beige linen suit and matching beige tie. His shoulder length black hair has a single streak of white. When he walks off and I remember how to breathe again I sniff each canister and choose a rooibos with mint and lavender.
Leaving Mariage Frères I experienced an odd behavior I noticed in middle aged French women – If you mildly inconvenience them, they will make it your problem. I pulled up Google Maps for a minute in the long entrance hallway to plot out my next destination, standing a good dozen feet from the double door. The hallway can easily fit several people standing side-by-side. It’s not cramped by any means, but when a woman in her fifties entered she did not walk around me. Instead, she plodded right up to me, where she stood, unmoving. After a few seconds her presence became incredibly uncomfortable. I looked up and she stared at me with furious eyes. I took one step to the side, and she passed in a huff. “What the hell was that?” I wondered. She could have easily walked around me without breaking stride. Such an odd thing to become irate over. However, I noticed this behavior crop up multiple times from Frenchwomen in their fifties/sixties.
On the metro when someone had to reswipe their pass the woman behind them threw her hands up and heckled. Another time when a fast walker was caught behind a slower walker the speedwalker continuously let out exasperated sighs until she could pass. The closest comparison I have is to crotchety old men who have a very specific mental model for how people should order coffee that they get visibly annoyed whenever someone breaks their ideal mold. It seems like such an exhausting way to live.
My next stop is Mandorla Palace, the cutest children’s shop of all time. Carl and I have been blessed with so many hand me downs that beyond diapers and wipes, we’ve bought little for Charlie. Here, I wanted everything from toadstool shaped lamps to felted fantastical animals. If this place had a website I’d order from it every Christmas. I practiced restraint and bought a large illustrated book on the emotions of fruits and vegetables that kept Charlie entertained throughout the rest of the trip, hair clips for my nieces, and a small heart-shaped box that had a tiny, smiling tooth on its lid. In a few years this will be what Charlie puts his tributes to the tooth fairy into, a silver lining to what I expect will be the horrifying process of watching your child shed teeth.
To cap off my lovely momma jaunt I sat outside Les Philosophes reading and people watching over an aperol spritz. It was a quintessential Parisian cafe experience, except I didn’t have cigarettes on me. At any given time half the people outside were smoking and sitting amongst them, I wanted a cigarette so badly. In America everything is black and white, particularly smoking. If you enjoy the occasional cigarette you are a selfish, evil person, and also, how dare you. There’s some comfort in knowing that Europeans still enjoy their cigarettes socially and without shame.
When everyone roused from their nap we walked to the Pantheon, an 18th century monument and mausoleum that houses the remains of 81 notable panthéonisers, including Victor Hugo, Josephine Baker, and Pierre and Marie Curie. Due to timing constraints we didn’t go in, only looked on from outside. My only note on our visit was “tall”.
A five minute walk away was Jardin du Luxembourg, which I could’ve happily spent an entire afternoon in. There’s immaculately groomed shrubbery (tres beau!), a massive fountain (magnifique!), and palm trees (comment?). While it was busy, Charlie managed to find quiet spots where he could run around or plop down in gravel without getting in anyone’s way. He adored gazing into the fountain and while he never attempted to climb in, I did hover in case the mood struck him.
The whole time we spent in the garden Charlie had that giddy, slightly wild look in his eye he gets whenever we’re doing something for the first time. We’d turn a corner and he’d spot a floral arrangement, a statue, or just a really cool bench then jet off to inspect it further. The feeling is something akin to wonder. Abundant in wondrous Paris.
Hot Tips for Travelling in Paris with a Toddler
- – Parks and gardens are your best friend and there’s no shortage of them in Paris. This ranges from the massive and gorgeously manicured Luxembourg and Tuileries gardens to small squares dotted throughout neighborhoods.
- – Boulangeries and patisseries will make the whole family happy. Love a croissant? Try palmiers, gourmandises, and chouquettes. I spent most of the trip brushing pastry crumbs off my toddler’s face and absolutely treasure those moments.
- – Do a quick study of French food vocab. If you plan to do bakeries, focus on fruits and nuts. If you’re planning on delis, do meats. Quick thinking is key in places where you won’t have time to study a menu and knowing the difference between a fraise and a myrtille will speed up decision making.
- – Request a “chaise haute” (high chair) in restaurants. If the establishment doesn’t have one, it’s probably a sign the place isn’t particularly child-friendly. We found high chairs to be available in all the bistros and brasseries we went to.
- – It is possible to take a small stroller through the streets of Paris. We bought the GB pockit air stroller specifically for our European vacay. (Not an affiliate link, I just freely sing praises for it) It folds up, allowing us to cruise to metro entrances where we’d quickly de-stroller Charlie, fold the GB up, then stash it in a tote bag for the ride. I was shocked how well this system worked for metros, cross-country train rides, and planes. The stroller can even be stowed below airplane seats. All this being said, I would not recommend trying to heave a large stroller down metro stairs or into train cars. There are few station elevators, and even when we did find one, there was ~40% chance it was out of service.
- – Anything dubbed a brasserie is a go. These are casual eateries open at all times, with a varied menu. Bistros are a possibility, and one step above a brasserie. I’d avoid anything dubbed a “restaurant” with a toddler, as these tend to be smaller, more intimate spaces. You may have luck getting a children’s seat, but it’s hard to say how comfortable the eating situation will be.
- – Make the trip in Spring or Fall. I do think cooping a child indoors in Paris for days would be hard for everyone. I’ve found that Charlie can take museums and restaurants in short doses, but he needs room to run and burn off energy. Doing that outdoors when it’s 20 degrees or 90 degrees isn’t ideal.
- – Expectation set. Your child doesn’t want to spend three hours in the Louvre, twelve-seat restaurants don’t want your toddler dining there on a Saturday night, and taking your pastry-fingered child into an upscale boutique isn’t a good idea. Anyone who goes to Paris with a toddler thinking it will be a sexy experience will be disappointed. It’s perfectly possible to have a lovely Paris vacation with a child in tow, just recognize it will be a different kind of travel.
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