The Baby, the Business, and the Cousin in the Spare Room

Right before we left the U.S. to move into our forever home in Switzerland, I was handling all the last-minute adulting tasks one does before moving abroad. Closing accounts, packing the good knives, wondering if my coat collection would fit in a European closet.

One of those tasks was visiting the gynecologist for my annual checkup — mostly because the idea of figuring out how to “do the gynecologist” in a foreign language before I could even order a bottle of water sounded like an actual nightmare.

We eloped to Sedona, Arizona in early 2009. We got married on a rock in the middle of a river and it was the best day of our lives.

Somewhere between “scoot down a little” and “you’ll feel a slight pressure,” my gynecologist asked if we were planning to have children. Then, without skipping a beat: “You’ve been on the pill for over ten years, right?” It was less a question, more the opening line of a lecture I hadn’t asked for.

I told her, “Yes, we just got married,” which was true. My wedding dress was still in the backseat of my car. She raised her eyebrows meaningfully and informed me — in the gentle tone of someone handing you a bill — that, at my age (33), I shouldn’t expect it to be easy. One year of trying, minimum. Possibly more. Probably more. Maybe even medical intervention.

I went home and relayed this to Grég, and we made a plan: I’d stop taking the pill when we got to Switzerland. We’d take our time, let fate do its thing.You know — ease into it.

Three weeks after taking my last pill, I was pregnant.

To say we panicked would be a polite understatement. Grég had just started a new job. I didn’t speak French. We had dreamt of honeymooning around Europe and enjoying that golden newlywed glow. Instead, we found ourselves spiraling into prenatal appointments and crash-coursing baby prep in a country where I didn’t know how to ask for vinegar, let alone find a birth plan in a second language.

But okay. Fine. We adjusted. As we do.

Now here’s where it gets even more ridiculous.

When we arrived in Switzerland, Grég’s friends had moved out of his house, but his cousin Didier — a kind, quiet Swiss guy — had stayed. He was living with us, and while that wasn’t ideal, I saw it as a good opportunity for me to be immersed in French.

It was a good opportunity. I learned a lot of French.I also developed a completely irrational fear that once the baby came, Didier might see my boobs.

Yes. That was my primary concern. Not labor. Not newborn life. Not postpartum hormones.Just: "What if the cousin sees a nipple?"

So, in my hormone-fueled state, I told Grég that Didier had to go.

Now, Grég is calm. Rational. Swiss in all the best ways. He explained that Didier was helping cover the mortgage, and if I wanted to live alone as a family, we’d have to find a way to make up the difference.

I blinked. Took a breath. And said the thing I always say right before I do something completely unhinged:“Challenge accepted.”

And that’s how Pâtachou was born.

I was six months pregnant and suddenly running a food business out of our home. I made quiches, soups, cakes — anything people would buy. We packaged meals in foil trays and delivered them ourselves. My ankles were swollen, my sleep was nonexistent, and somehow… it worked.

By the time Xander turned one, it was just the three of us in our little house.

No roommates. No nipples at risk. Just a baby, a business, and the blurry beginning of a life we built ourselves.

I didn’t plan it this way.

But I rarely do.

And honestly?

It worked.