tag:typepad.com,2003:weblog-260700 2009-11-14T13:38:13+01:00 Stories collected while living in France. TypePad tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83451cb9a69e2012875a04f9c970c 2009-11-14T13:38:13+01:00 2009-11-14T13:38:13+01:00

Yesterday after noon I went to pick up my French niece and nephew. A smaller child maybe three years old came up to me in the playground. He pulled at my hand, and said in sweet baby French, "Your boy, that boy," the small child pointed to my nephew, "He, he, he poked me in my eye and then this eye too! And and and, " he stammered, "...then he poked my nose and put his finger in my nose! And he poked my belly... like this..." the little round face boy punched himself, "...and and and it hurt me, and I cried." As I reached down to say I was sorry, his mother came up to me. Oh la la. I became her punching bag. I took her worried, angry, verbal upset, one word at a time. My nephew hid behind my back. I wanted to say, "I am not his mother." I wanted to say, "I do not speak French, or I do not understand French ask my niece!" I wanted to pull my nephew by his ear and put him in the center of the ring. Instead I said, I was sorry, over and over again. I made my nephew say he was sorry too. Then we walked home holding hands in silent. When we got home I decided we would have cereal, apples and cheese for dinner... and if they wanted cookies and milk that was fine with me. I did not have the heart to enter into a battle zone. I went in my nephew's room he had one red boxing glove on his hand and it was above his head. Knocked out. Sound asleep looking like a sweet angel. I shook my head in disbelief. Three days down, two more to go. ------------------------------ Photo: Somehow my photo card has disappeared. I do not wonder, I know who has it. The photo is one of my son when he was a little boy... eating cereal.

Tongue in Cheek tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83451cb9a69e20120a68d4e2d970b 2009-11-13T10:03:36+01:00 2009-11-13T10:03:36+01:00

The mothers gathered at the school gate wore their coats unbuttoned. I took off my scarf and stuffed it in my pocket. The Autumn day felt more like late summer than mid November. While waiting outside the school I checked out the other women: How they were dressed, listened to what they were chatting about, and wondered if they thought I was a Grandmother waiting for her grandchildren. Eventually the school children came running out. None of them had on their coats. Quickly their mothers reprimanded them that though it was warm enough to cook an egg (soft boiled) on the sidewalk it was nevertheless November! The two little ones (my French niece and nephew) I waited for were no different than the others. I too made them put on their coats simply because I could imagine them tripping over them as they walked home. As we headed home the two of them talked to their little friends. One of the little boys stared at me while I told my nephew, "You do not need to button your jacket, it is too hot." My niece leaned over whispering to the other little boy, "That is my Aunt, she is an American she doesn't speak French." Like a tattle tailer I chimmed in, "Hey, I speak French!" "My Aunt speaks a little," she corrected then added, "but she doesn't understand French." "Wait a minute! I do too speak French and I understand exactly what you are saying." I said like a school girl defending her turf. "She doesn't, honestly she doesn't" my niece said as if I wasn't there. I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk... I said to the little boy, "I do too speak French and I understand what is being said." I guess you could say I needed his approval. "I do too speak French." I whined. "I understand your Aunt, she is speaking French." He smiled as he ran towards his mother. My niece looked at me like I was in big trouble, as if I had spoiled her fun. At that moment it became clear to me, I was her novelty. I was the cool American Aunt. I was her "Show and Tell" item in her bag of tricks. Because of my bruised tender ego I ruined her fun. "Dommage!" I did not understand French after all. -------------------------------- Note: Photos of my friend's painting in...

Tongue in Cheek tag:typepad.com,2003:post-6a00d83451cb9a69e201287587df05970c 2009-11-12T10:10:57+01:00 2009-11-12T10:10:57+01:00

My niece, Juliette had an opportunity to go to London for a week. Though the only thing holding her back was she needed a babysitter. She gave us a call. Family being family means lending a hand. We gave six hands for her two little children. Juliette left a long list: Phone numbers, school information, what to do, what not to do, how to give the children a bath, where things were, their bedtime routines, and she left a list of their favorite things to eat. I was the Queen of Picky Eaters when I was a kid. I think I liked all of ten things and only if my mother made them. Juliette left a pot of soup for her children, "They love soup for dinner." Last night after their baths, before their bedtime story and during the chaos of coming home and settling down for the night: I served the soup their Mother had made. The two of them grumbled, "This is NOT the soup our Mommy makes! We don't like YOUR soup." I cried, "No way, it is YOUR Mommy's soup." "No its not!" While the soup saga went on memories of what it was like being a kid filled my head. Dinner time was not my favorite hour. I dreaded having to eat things I did not like... and went to bed hungry without dessert many of nights. I made pasta. Niece gobbled happily. Nephew balked. French Husband (who children adore) played the airplane game in hopes to get Nephew to eat. "Up up and around and around into the garage goes the pasta airplane!" Nephew's garage was closed... all night. Day One Down.... Milk and Cookies sound good for tonight's dinner. Do you have any childhood dinner time memories to share? Or better yet, What was your favorite thing to eat for dinner as a child?

Tongue in Cheek