Yesterday after noon I went to pick up my French niece and nephew. A smaller child maybe three years old came up to me in the playground. He pulled at my hand, and said in sweet baby French, "Your boy, that boy," the small child pointed to my nephew, "He, he, he poked me in my eye and then this eye too! And and and, " he stammered, "...then he poked my nose and put his finger in my nose! And he poked my belly... like this..." the little round face boy punched himself, "...and and and it hurt me, and I cried." As I reached down to say I was sorry, his mother came up to me. Oh la la. I became her punching bag. I took her worried, angry, verbal upset, one word at a time. My nephew hid behind my back.
I wanted to say, "I am not his mother."
I wanted to say, "I do not speak French, or I do not understand French ask my niece!"
I wanted to pull my nephew by his ear and put him in the center of the ring.
Instead I said, I was sorry, over and over again. I made my nephew say he was sorry too.
Then we walked home holding hands in silent. When we got home I decided we would have cereal, apples and cheese for dinner... and if they wanted cookies and milk that was fine with me. I did not have the heart to enter into a battle zone.
I went in my nephew's room he had one red boxing glove on his hand and it was above his head.
Knocked out. Sound asleep looking like a sweet angel. I shook my head in disbelief.
Three days down, two more to go.
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Photo: Somehow my photo card has disappeared. I do not wonder, I know who has it.
The photo is one of my son when he was a little boy... eating cereal.
