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.