My daughter Mimi was about 6 months old when I bought her an Adidas tracksuit. People gushed every time she wore it, a doll-sized magenta number with the classic three stripes down the pant and sleeve sides. I knew it was a cheap ploy, but I also felt it was my rite of passage as a new parent.
Mimi often wore her tracksuit to daycare, the same one my husband Guillaume went to in Paris' 9th arrondissement. The walls are lined with cribs, bunked one on top of the other. The floor is covered with thick, primary-colored gym mats, and a smattering of simple toys and teething rings that pass from one baby’s mouth to the next. A big glass window lets parents gaze into the petri dish that holds their babies for six to eight hours each day.
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