A time once travelled

Someone got out, David got in.

After months and months of calling more than ten halte garderie (sort of playgroup), receiving a call that they have a space for our little one feels like winning a lottery.
When you have a child, you’ll just know at a certain point that, he or she is ready for school, for David a playgroup.
On his first day, I was more excited than him. We got into this adaptation/adjustment period where he’d play with the others with me around. So I was there with him for full hour, and got the opportunity to actually observe how other kids behave. And what a pleasant horror. I mean horror can be pleasant too right?
A boy cried for a full hour that by the time his grandma came, I think his body dried out… And my head throbbing.
Four little heads banging at the gate yelling, whining and imploring “mama, papa, tata” and whatever. They are so small just barely celebrated their big 2s and there they are feeling abandoned, imprisoned and whatever. I wanted to gather them in my arms and tell “shut up!”
No, just kidding. I wanted to cuddle them and tell mama, papa and tata are there working their butt off to buy them bonbons. And that they’ll be back to collect them.
Some women are born to be caregivers of little children and I have a strong feeling, I may be one of them. But wait, with this kind of language, shut up, butt and all, I don’t think so. And well, I keep whining on the circus of my little one too. So I don’t know, maybe I’m just hallucinating.
Back to David, he did ok, although within five minutes on his first day, the directrice already made her impression on him. “He’s got a strong character!” Who can blame her? David insisted on playing inside while the other children were already scattering outside and when the directrice motioned him to go out, he pushed her hand and repeatedly said: “go away, go away, go away!” And yes, the directrice understands English. Pas de chance pour moi!
On his third day, I left him alone. An experiment to see if he can cope up. And he did.
Today is his fifth day, full three hours. He was singing all the way home and was babbling about cuisine, carrots, fromage, marie pleure, madie, train, garage and everything under his playgroup sky.  
So like, I’m ready for kid number 2! ARE YOU KIDDING???!!!

Papa
There was a time in David’s babyhood when he called every guy on the street papa. I remember turning him away from the person he addressed to. I felt relieved he stopped doing this; he has finally made a distinction between the man who created him and the other “walking-pants”. Or so I thought.
Two weeks ago, we’ve invited few friends over for dinner and one of them bears the same name as his papa. To my shock and to everyone’s amusement he started calling this person papa too. I couldn’t believe my ears. I certainly did not sleep with every guy who has the same name as his dadou to create a David!

Overly Polite
He greets everyone on the streets. Great he is polite, very charming! But I’m not exactly ecstatic about it. He shouts on top of his lungs “bonjour monsieur or madame!” and repeat it over and over until “le monsieur ou la dame” pays back to him the courtesy. I mean, kid, this is Paris, and like any metropolitan city in the world, there are only three types of human-beings who voluntarily say bonjour to you: those who ask for direction; those who ask for cigarette: and those who beg for “une petite pièce” (small change). So naturally when a man wrapped up in business suit whisked by seemingly late for a meeting had to stop five feet away to throw back a funny “bonjour” to David, I’m utmost embarrassed. You get this feeling you are harassing people. And well, I’m not really up to picking up a conversation with old people who seem to have troubles remembering where in the world they’ve put their hearing-aid!

Mama farts, big deal!
It is. If you are lying down next to a toddler drinking his nocturnal milk and suddenly stops, sticks his nostrils out smelling the air and exclaim: “it stinks, c’est mama ça!” (it’s mama!) tapping my head in the dark! I swear to Winnie the Pooh on the wall I turned purple. I made a painful mental note never to fart in front of the kid again, you’ll just never know how he reacts and what stories he could tell to strangers.

Pahabol:
3-1! Oh why, oh why it didn’t happen in the World Cup! I have my forehead and nose on fire, dadou is out of voice and David went to bed completely terrified due to dadou’s screams. I have a terrible habit of squeezing out nonexistent blackheads off my face and picking up my nose when watching soccer games…