There is a little boy in Viva’s preschool class who has French parents. I often hear them speaking French to each other and to one of the other parents who is Belgian. They assume I don’t speak French, and they’re right. I understand it, though. Especially small talk. I minored in it in college. French, not small talk. How awesome would it be to get a degree in “Small Talk.” The B.A. is pretty straightforward, but for the B.S. you have to take an extra statistics class.
I know many people who have a B.S. in Small Talk.
They think I don’t know they’re saying “How are you?” “Fine, how are you. Busy.”
But I know.
Their little French son couldn’t be more adorable. He is blonde with giant blue-eyes. He has the kind of face that could easily sell baby food or GAP clothing. They cut his hair in that bowl-style so popular with the preschool set.
No matter how many time-outs he gets, Monsieur Le Petit bites my kid, pushes my kid, and pulls my kid’s hair almost daily. Yesterday, I arrived at the school around 10:45, and the kids were coming in from playtime to have snacks. MLP saw Viva, and sans preamble pushed her viciously to the ground. Viva immediately cried as though her heart had been broken. Their teacher insisted MLP apologize to Viva. He scampered over, put his arms around her, yanked her ponytail, then dashed away in a fit of evil giggles.
“Mommy! He hurt me! WHY DID HE DO THAT TO MEEEEEEEE?” Viva sobbed.
I texted Odie before I drove away.
Me: Monsieur Le Petit made Viva cry again. I hate that little asshole.
Odie: I guess French parenting isn’t always superior.
The Friendly Pedant by Mrs. Odie 
I’m Going to Disneyland!
Sometimes I miss my twenties because it was awesome to know everything and be smarter than everybody.
My thirties have been far and away the best decade of my life. I became a teacher, had copious fun with friends, traveled, married, reproduced, and started my writing career.
Here I stand on the threshold of my forties with mixed feelings. I will no longer be “young.” I’m now “middle-aged” (if I’m lucky, and stop eating ice cream for dinner).
When my mom turned 40, her youngest child was in high school. My youngest child is in a high chair. She’s learning a high-five.
Doing things differently than my mother did them is how I gauge my success in life. Except my mom has always looked young. I distinctly remember sitting in a booth at Marie Calendar’s with my sisters and her when she was 38. We were 16, 17, and 20 years old. When my mom ordered a glass of wine, the waitress asked her for I.D. Laughing with delight, Mom declared, “These are my CHILDREN!”
To defy my 40th birthday, I’m going to Disneyland. I’m spending an outrageous amount of money to stay at the Grand Californian Hotel, which is modeled after the Ahwahnee in Yosemite (where I’d really like to go someday except I’m afraid of being eaten by bears – and debt).
This week while continuing the slow process of making our junk room into a playroom, I found some photo albums with pictures from 1990-93. I was barely twenty. It’s crazy to think about how much time I spent loathing myself back then, because from where I sit now, I see an above average looking girl with fantastic hair and great eyebrows, not to mention a silky smooth neck. Youth truly is wasted on the young.
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