Ever since I started dating Alex, it’s always been assumed that I would live here forever.

There was never even a discussion on whether we would try moving back to the States for a bit or do one year here and one year there… I had made France my home without his influence, and so there was no real reason to think that I would have any real desire to go back.

And I don’t. Really.

Except…

OK. Rewind. Remember how I came to France when I was 14 and went to day school? That was one of the best experiences of my life, yes, blah blah blah… I don’t care how much it’s changed me or how far I’ve come since then: when I was in school in France, I was scared shitless.

The teachers were not the loving, caring, coddling teachers I was used to from back home. If you were wrong, there was no, “Nice try…”

If you failed a test, the whole class knew it, because when quizzes were being passed back, they weren’t put face down on your desk to protect your privacy, but called out to the class along with your mark and any particularly stupid mistakes you may have made.

We were herded from class to class, one mass of students pushing their way through hallways that were too small, and there was a lot of screaming and shoving.

I hated it.

I know, in theory, that the French public school system is incredible: kids from all over France have access to the exact same education, the exact same curriculum. People love to make a big deal out of la Sorbonne, but go to la fac in Nice or Bordeaux, in Paris or Grenoble, and you’ll graduate with exactly the same knowledge and diploma as anyone else in your major. And it costs nothing.

My education cost a ridiculous sum that I once calculated and balked at, realizing that I’ll probably never have that amount of money ever. And the French kids worked about nine zillion times harder than I ever did, and they didn’t pay a dime. I know this. I know that I should want to send my hypothetical future children to a school that doesn’t take more than an entire year’s salary to pay for one semester. I know. I know.

But Alex and I were watching an exposé on the French education system on the news the other day, and as I watched a 5-year-old girl being scolded for trying to be creative on the inside cover of her school notebook, my heartstrings pulled.

Maybe I’ll homeschool the little hypothetical brats. According to Alex’s father, there will be seven of them.