Last Friday I woke up in Paris.  Oh, not literally.  And sadly, not to the café latte and sinful croissant I should have been offered, given the circumstances.  At 6:55 a.m. my nine-year-old daughter Delia burst into our room and sounded this verbal alarm:

“MAMA!”  Bang… consciousness.  “You did remember this is the day I have to hand in my Paris project, right?!”

WHAA…?  Dislodging the second earplug from its canal, I tried to piece together the vast lapses in memory that had brought me to this frenzied start to my day. Read more