A time once travelled

Blog, my son is into it again.

We cuddled up for a night’s sleep. Cheek-to-cheek, his right arm wrapped around my neck, fingers gingerly caressing my ear. This is his favourite cradle before sleeping… and mine too.

“David, you know poor papa is celebrating his birthday alone with no birthday cake and candle to blow.”

“Il est où maintenant maman? Il n’a pas de cake et cadeaux?”

“He is sleeping alone in a hotel somewhere in the
UK. No cake and no gifts.”

“Mais tu m’as dit que il a déjà acheté buzz l’éclair pour mon cadeau.”

“Ah, that he did. But it’s his birthday today and we should get him something special. What do you want us to give to papa?”

“Ben, on va donner à papa de caca, de pipi et de poot-poot!” Laughing his heart out, as if he just said the joke of the century.

“Ok then, that would be easy to do. You do caca, pipi et poot-poot tomorrow and then we wrap them with a special paper!”

“And you, what do you want for your birthday!”

Still laughing: “Ben, lola va m’acheter un bateau de pirate!”

“Ok, what do you want from papa and mama?”

“Je veux un bateau de pirate, c’est tout!”

“Well, mama wants to give you something, papa wants to buy you something. Each of us will get something; you’ll have to tell us what you want.”

Thinking hard…. “Ben, papa peut m’acheter une voiture de “Lightning Mcqueen”.

“You already got that one, you can’t have the same. And please no more cars, you’ve got plenty already!”

“Oui, mais je veux “lightning mcqueen” en bleu!”

“Ok, so we’ll tell papa about it.”

“Et toi maman, tu va me donner quoi?”

“It’s really easy David, on your birthday I’ll give you caca, pipi and poot-poot, just like what you will give to papa!”

He sat up so quickly (which surprised me!), turned his body towards me and shouted:

“Je vais te donner un coup de pied!!”

It was my turn to laugh so fucking loud!

Serves you a lesson coquin!

Because I’m currently on my wits end, and on the verge of declaring martial law in the household.

David is up to emptying bottles of coke, mineral water, juices, yoghurt and syrup drinks in the sink! Those things don’t come out freely from our faucet!

He also cleans up after drinking by throwing his glass in the — what else — SINK!  I try to console myself thinking that those are recycled mustard glasses. But the fact remains he is at the moment a stubborn head! And I am a-forever-screaming-mother-who-feels-guilty-when-his-tiny-lips-tremble-and-tears-slowly-building-up.

His tiny chair is up on top of the cupboard! But the wise kid that he is, he uses the door of the washing machine to step up on the sink. And I’m-not-soooo-thinking ever of putting that bloody washing machine on top of the cupboard too!

Much as it provokes more-than-raised-eyebrows, people have certain reasons to declare Martial Law!

Mine is like this:

- On the afternoon of the 31st, hubby and I were still wondering if we could go to a friend’s party. David has a cold. Sinisipon lang. But he had been sick almost the whole month of December that a little drop from the nose is enough to bring us to high alert.

- Early evening, David seemed fine, despite of the cold, so we decided to go. Lola was babysitting. We had knots in the stomach all the way to our friend’s place. I’ve loosened up only after wine and champagne were flowing like eternity, and friends, plus a little party girl kicking heels around.

- Partied all night until 5 am on the first day of 2007. Tried a hand dj-ing hoping hubby would start kicking heels too, (since I know what kind of music that makes him swing), freezing up the host’s brand new apple computer because, oh well, because of my free downloaded mp3s. And spent the following day nursing a hangover headache, dreaming of Vietnamese beef soup and just slept it over since I was just so lazy to go out. I have to say I’ve had a worst hang-over during my single days, so I did just fine with my glasses on NY’s eve. And oh, since I managed to get the right answer during our guessing game without cheating that means my head was still clear. (Yeah, defensive reasoning).

- Then woke up in the most unforgivable time on the 2^nd day with David puking, crying and more puking. I spent the whole day washing vomit, feces, cuddling a sick toddler and basically trembling of fear every time he retched. We brought him to his ped later that night. Diagnosis: Rotavirus. A nasty one that affects more than a million people in France every year, especially during winter. David’s weight dropped drastically that if he didn’t drink what the doctor has prescribed that night, we would end up in the hospital for IV fluids.

- The 3^rd was no better. I alternated tea and coffee to keep myself awake. Overfatigued. Lost. Confused. Irritable. And Scared. Scared. Scared.

- The 4^th day ended with less vomiting and 3 times toilet business. Continued monitoring, mixing up magic potions and all the time praying that things that got inside his mouth would not go out. Half-awake-half-asleep at night, listening to the monsters fighting in his stomach. How could they make so much noise!!!

- On the 5^th Day, things started to turn around with David going back to his hyper self, kicking, screaming, and appetite getting better.

- On the 6^th Day, it was my turn to quietly collapse inside the bathroom. Told hubby I might be catching the gastro. At 11:30 am, we went to David’s doctor for his overall health assessment. Everything looked towards recovery but we were given another full week for his strict diet. I don’t know if the doctor detected the worries my hubby felt, he told us that his family had suffered the same right on Christmas Day. If it was to make us feel better, or to reassure us somehow, he managed. A little bit.

I was feeling a bit fine during the doctor’s trip. But by late afternoon, I was going back and forth to the bathroom that before the day ended, hubby ran to the pharmacy. Yet again. Within 24 hours, I’ve emptied myself 20 times. I wondered how much a body can contain so much liquid, and how much damaged it could do if it’s being drained out at such speed. Of course, I was already feeling the answers. Fever, aches, weakness, dizziness, loss of appetite and that stale taste in the mouth, tongue feeling like sandpaper.

I was looking back at the reflection in the mirror. A black hollow formed in the sunken skin around my eyes. My cheekbones more obvious, my lips cracking, hair totally out of life, skin so pale and my neck growing longer than I imagined. There was only one thought during those moments. David. And how he suffered a lot during these parasitic episodes.

Diet has been mainly on bananas and rice, which I have no problem with. At least for the last 48 hours my appetite is slowly coming back. And oh I’ve been wearing a surgical mask, even when sleeping. How about that!

- As of writing, I could pretend David has fully recovered. But there are still some restrictions to food. There’s still the weight to gain back too. But boy, can he kick and get in my nerves! Last night he almost gave his papa a black eye during their rowdy games. And God forbid, I’m back to yelling! I can’t help it especially when trains, cars, dvds and almost everything else are going flying during tantrums! The kid doesn’t get scared with a woman wearing a mask yelling at him!

This is the start of my New Year. It’s definitely shitty. We totally scratched out “Galette des Rois“. But nothing has dampened my spirit really. It’s one of those times that when shit comes, you just let it happen, let the body recuperate slowly and then move on.

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…

Not everyone likes the scorching heat of summer, including yours truly. And it’s getting cold. And I’m starting to dread a bitter winter. Is summer over already? I hope not.
However, a good thing, really good, coming of out of the summer so far is that of David using the potty more regularly.
This has come as a huge pleasant surprise, because I didn’t pressure our son and myself on teaching him to use the potty. If you live in France and have a toddler, you’ll understand my excitement. Parents here are neurotic about potty training. On David’s second-year check-up, his paediatrician asked me if he was already clean. I looked at him totally blank - out of surprise if not shock. For although I studiously follow David’s progress, potty-trained at the age of two was out of my league.
I have always thought that David will use the toilet one day naturally, as part of maturity, like when he stopped using the pacifier at nine months old, when he started sleeping in his own bed alone before he reached one year old, when months later he said “brush teeth” before going to bed. I take his clues, I act on my instinct and we both help each other reinforce a particular milestone.
And when last Friday, July 19, he sat on the potty that was already part of our living room décor, I was exhilarated. Totally. Because it meant my instinct was right. It affirmed my convictions despite the pressures I heard from hubby, grandma and the parents I met.
After all this self-gratifying words, I have to say, the summer heat was/is a great help. For David, staying indoor, is naked during his waking time. He is also the kind of toddler who easily gets disgust by the slightest stench and that might have helped as well. Before when he did his caca in the nappy, he didn’t want me to take it off because of the smell. But since I don’t let him wear diaper anymore, he really doesn’t have a choice but to sit on his potty.
Regardless, we have had a share of accidents (and I’m expecting more). In a span of one week, he peed once on the sofa, and I found myself twice on all fours scrubbing shit off the carpet. It didn’t hamper my mood. I didn’t shout at him. Talking was all I was doing explaining why it was best to do it on the potty than on the floor. In fairness, the accidents happened when he couldn’t hold it anymore. I’m a first time mother, but it doesn’t take science and best-seller toddler books to see things and how they are happening. And I’m sorry, (wait.. I’m not sorry) but I’m not to cave in the pressures of French-style parenting. Potty-trained, at 28 months old. I sure am there are toddlers younger than him who are already “propre“. But I’m bragging this milestone and blogging it big time.

*Il est propre = he is clean