04 Sep Croissants, Chaos & Toddler Adventures in South of France

Of course, the title of this blog had to begin with croissants and end in France.

The summer of 2024 feels like a blur stitched together with croissants, train rides, and an endless supply of toddler snacks. Thirty days in Europe with a child who wasn’t even potty-trained yet – who does that? Apparently, me. See, one month in Europe was always the big DINK dream. Back when my husband and I had no responsibilities, we’d sit around planning “someday.” That someday eventually turned into now, except now also included a tiny dictator with a diaper bag, and snack demands every twenty minutes.

And look, I’m not one of those cliché bucket-listers. You won’t catch me starting a European trip with Paris, Amsterdam, or Rome. Not because they’re overrated, but because I like to believe I’m quirky, and honestly, who wants to get crushed in all the tourist rush with a 3-year-old? My first European trip back in 2019 was to Hungary, Austria, and the Czech Republic because, apparently, I had a point to prove. (And, it was just cheaper!!) Yet here I was in 2024, booking France, Switzerland, and Italy. Call it irony, call it motherhood brain, but here we are.

And so, here’s a little lowdown of how Day 1 on this EPIC trip felt. 

We kicked things off in the South of France with a toddler, basing ourselves in Nice for the first six days. We landed at 2 PM, raided a grocery store like hungry raccoons, ate whatever looked filling, and collapsed into bed. 

But oh, that first morning in France.

The air felt different – salty sea breeze tangling my hair, the low hum of scooters, the occasional “Bonjour” cutting through café clatter, and somehow even the silence had character. There’s something about Day One anywhere: the confusion of figuring out where the bus stop is, fumbling with tickets, practicing “Merci” with questionable accents, and pretending to know what’s happening when in fact you’re lost (but in Nice.)

Our first stop, naturally, was the Promenade des Anglais. Think of it as the city’s living room: someone walking their golden retriever, another zipping past on a bicycle, a woman running to the office, an old couple lost in the waves, beach cafés warming up with the smell of croissants and coffee. It wasn’t a postcard. It was real. It was alive with quiet details.

And then came the climb to Colline du Château. The bus dropped us near Old Town, and we trudged uphill with a toddler glued to the hip, weaving through weathered old houses, a shaded forest lane, even past Cimetière du Château, which was quiet, beautiful, a reminder that Nice is steeped in stories.

At the top, the hill opened up to a playground, grassy patches, viewpoints, and a skyline that took my breath away. The sea stretched out endlessly, the sky was a shade or two (or more) bluer than anywhere else I’d seen, and I lay down on the grass just to let it sink in.

Of course, that lasted a full two minutes before my toddler demanded his 100th snack of the day. Because that’s how motherhood works, you can be in the South of France staring at the bluest sky, but at the end of the day, you’re still cutting fruit on a park bench.

Travel after kids isn’t about doing more, it’s about noticing more. You stop chasing itineraries and start collecting moments like the fluttering seagulls on pebbled beaches, or the way the French sky looks a little different when you’re lying on your back. And sure, I’ve always noticed things – the sunsets, the public transport, the regular life in a new city. But this time it landed deeper. Maybe it’s the motherhood chaos, maybe it’s running to a paid restroom for the third diaper change of the afternoon, maybe it’s just the 30s.

Whatever it is, every day of that month felt like a nudge to pause and whisper a quiet thank you. Even when my hair was frizzy, even when I was bickering with my husband, who would carry our son, even when my toddler lost it over the wrong kind of biscuit. That’s the thing – the mess didn’t ruin the magic. It made it.

But honestly, I did not realise it until much later. In that moment, I was anxious. Anxious that we might not have fun and miss the things we wanted to do, we now, in hindsight, realize it was all just perfect. We would spend hours on the beach in the evening doing nothing – just noticing the softness of the sunsets, figuring out how to walk on a pebbled beach, eating anchovy pizzas for dinner, and just silently existing in a new place. Sigh, I’d like to go back again, and again.

How has your holidays changed after parenthood? (I am sure it has.)

xoxo