Yesterday was easily one of the worst days of my life. I had my monthly pregnancy check-up at the hospital. It had been nearly three weeks since I’d gone into premature labor and was put on strict bed rest.

I’ve turned into a bit of a hermit these days, so I was overly apprehensive about going all the way to the hospital for my appointment. Mika had ordered me a taxi, and the driver did me the favor of showing up 10 minutes early so that he could start running up the meter. Luckily our apartment has a view of the street and I saw that sneaky devil so I waddled down the stairs and got in that taxi early. The meter was already at €9.20. Gee, thanks.

I asked him to drop me off at the ER, simply to avoid walking up the hill and stairs at the regular entrance. But he didn’t know that – for all he knew I was going to the hospital to have my baby.

The meter stopped at €11.80 so I handed him €20 and asked for €8 back. Hey, I’m practically French now so I don’t have to tip taxi drivers anymore. That’s when he proceeded to yell at me. A pregnant lady being dropped off at the ER.

Find out how much worse it gets (we’re just getting started here!)…


Vicki Lesage proves daily that raising two French kids isn't as easy as the hype lets on. In her three minutes of spare time per week, she writes, sips bubbly, and prepares for the impending zombie apocalypse. She lives in Paris with her French husband, rambunctious son, and charming daughter, all of whom mercifully don't laugh when she says "au revoir." She penned two books, Confessions of a Paris Party Girl and Confessions of a Paris Potty Trainer, in between diaper changes and wine refills. She writes about the ups and downs of life in Paris at

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