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 
Tuesday Potpourri
I’m just going to publish this. I’ve been too much in my own head lately. Hesitant. Self-doubting. Self-censoring. Worrying what this person and that person will think. Thinking too much about my audience and not enough about my voice.
Odie says I have to stop thinking about how to fill a niche and just write. And he’s right.
My blog. My thoughts.
And sometimes, it can’t all be perfect intro, body, and conclusion with a witty callback. If I hold myself to that standard every time, I’ll do what I’ve been doing the past few months. Procrastinating.
I’ve been Tweeting a lot, because it’s easy. If you are on Twitter, consider following me @MrsOdie2. I follow all my followers. Some of you are damn funny. I dislike people who only use Twitter for promotion. It’s boring. I like to go onto Twitter and chuckle at aphorisms, not find out where and when I can see, hear, read something funny or interesting you might someday say.
Jon Armstrong’s blog last week sent me to a land of ick. In his post “Firsts” http://blurbomat.com/2012/02/29/firsts/, he writes about his daughters’ first overnight at his new apartment. I remember my father’s first bachelor pad after the divorce. At first, he stayed with a friend. Someone who ironically my mother had an affair with and she later ended up marrying and divorcing. I don’t know if this was known to my father or not. The only thing he ever said about it is “There were no good guys in that story.” Fair enough. He ended up, or I should say started out, in a fully furnished, no-bedroom place in a shitty part of town. It had a rough textured, ugly plaid couch and a Murphy bed. I remember there being a mirror near the entry way, because his girlfriend would always come into the room, turn to the mirror and make sexy faces at herself, while making sure her paper-thin hair was covering her bulimia bald spot.
I was about 13. I didn’t want my parents apart. I didn’t know or care why they chose to be apart. I wanted my family. I needed my big sister to stop being angry and my little sister to stop being sad. And I needed to stop having to pretend that I was doing great and I was “fine with it.” It was exhausting. Pretending I didn’t give a shit for so long so that my parents wouldn’t feel like the divorce was destroying me eventually turned into a struggle to feel and empathize. I still have this struggle.
Dooce and Jon have to do what is right for them. I just wish that there was a way for them to get back together. I want for them what my parents were unable to give to me.
That being said, I’m glad my dad married his second wife. She is Family Jesus.
She came over this morning and helped get Viva ready for day care then drove her there. This way I can write during Pringles’ happy/easygoing part of the day. Or try to. She’s in the high chair right now. I’m trying “self-feeding” with her, but finding that she likes to have goo spooned into her yapper.
She’s fussing so much now, I have to continue this later. But I’m hitting “publish.” If I don’t, then I never will and I will get out of my flow. I have to keep publishing, even when I’m not crazy about the result. Thanks for your support.
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