I Do Not Negotiate With Terrorists

I swear this is not posed. This is my life.

Yesterday was Wednesday. French kids don't have school on Wednesdays, which means that I spend all day on Wednesday trying to keep a small child from running into traffic or sticking his fingers in the stove. It's not as easy as it sounds.

I show up at V's at around 9 am on Wednesdays, and try to think of things for us to do. I asked V for some suggestions, because I was getting a bit tired of playing cars for ten hours straight, and she bought us tickets for some children's program at the Musée Quai Branly. Great! I thought. A museum sounds like fun. And so began the longest day of my life. Le Petit was certainly in fine form. He hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, and anyone who has ever spent any time with a three-year-old knows what that means. Everything from putting on his shoes, to getting in the elevator, to returning library books was an epic battle. 

"Tom, I'm putting your shoes on, we're going to the museum today."

Immediate tears.

"Regarder téléeeee!"

"No, Tom, come on. Here are your shoes."

"Ne veux paaaas!"

"Just give me your arm so I can put on your coat."

"Téléee!"

"Tom, it's time to go."

Wailing. Just wailing. It eventually stopped as I carried him into the elevator and got him into the stroller. I won't even go into the argument about putting up the stroller's roof thing so he wouldn't get rained on.

And then we got to the museum. And Le Petit was that kid. Why is my kid always that kid? I don't even have kids and my kid is always that kid. Just once I want to be one of those smug mothers or nannies with the perfectly behaved little munchkins who sit quietly and raise their hands to speak and don't put pipe cleaners in their mouths or steal the other kids' confetti. That would be so great.

But no. LP didn't stay in his seat. LP spoke out of turn. LP climbed things he wasn't supposed to climb. He shouted, he threw things, he tried to run away. To be fair, I think three is a bit young for a lecture on indigenous African art. But still, did he have to yell at the teacher? Finally exasperated, as LP is taking handfuls of the little shells everyone is supposed to get one of, I take him by the hands and ask him if he wants to leave. His little eyes light up.

"Oui!"

Okay great. Thank you madame, we'll be going now. And as we're retrieving our coats and the stroller from the cloak room, Le Petit takes off. Like starts running off into some dark corner never to be seen again. And when I capture him, he cries. And the coat check girls are just so sweet to him. 

"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a, cherie? Oh, why are you crying? It's okay. Poor little guy."

No! He's the bad guy here! Poor me! I am not mean! I am now one of those ladies you see at the grocery store, who's very nonchalantly dragging her bawling child down the cereal aisle. And you look at her and think, God what a horrible mother. I bet she beats that kid at home. But I just don't have time to reason with him right now! I have to get home because home means nap time!

Oh thank God for nap time. I fucking love nap time. I have time to clean up, take a little break, maybe eat something myself. I did the whole disgusting potty ritual, read him 2 stories, tucked him into bed, and went to make myself a cup of tea. But rather than the usual 3-4 hour naps he usually takes, little Damien only slept for about an hour and a half before he was crying to be let out again. And then we had to buy groceries and return the library books. And the whole screaming, crying, fit-having started again. My favorite part about the temper tantrums is when he hurls his pacifier in fury and then cries because he wants me to go pick it up. I think he seriously believes that if he just cries hard enough I'll let him watch TV all day. Well guess what, mister. I don't work that way. I am not intimidated by you. You can't just shriek a little and expect me to fold. No siree. I am an American, and we do not negotiate with terrorists. We are going to the goddamn library. 

We got to the library. And then to the grocery store. And he was adorable. I hate it when he's adorable when he's making me crazy. It's like when my dad and I would be fighting and then he'd make fun of me, but in a way that was legitimately so hilarious that I would start laughing. Meaning that I was laughing at myself when I was trying to be self-righteous. It's infuriating. So Le Petit was with me buying vegetables, and he wanted to help carry the basket. So he followed me around while dragging the basket behind me and helped me pick out potatoes for dinner. Ugh. It was really cute.