Never Was a Cornflake Boy

I look forward to Thursdays now as Mommy-Tristram adventure day, though I am also really glad when Thursday ends. And Tristram is overcome with joy when his daddy comes home.

Yesterday he learned how to walk in his new shoes at the playground, which is apparently much harder than walking barefoot, and we took the new stroller downtown and all over. He got hungry, so I got a viennoise for him, a croissant for Jonathan to eat when he got home so he wouldn't have to wait another hour for Tristram to go to sleep and me to fix dinner, and an espresso for myself. I fortuitously stumbled upon the best espresso in Rueil, which comees with a little square of gourmet dark chocolate. And best of all, this shop has outdoor seating that is not filled with clouds of poison gas. Only a couple of smokers across the courtyard. And there was a French bulldog that came to see if he could have some Viennoise too, and his breathing sounded just like little pig snorts at every step. But between C3PO and the viennoise, Tristram did not care about the dog. I didn't realize till we were out the door that he was still clutching C3PO, and he didn't let go of him for a second the entire trip. He did hold him up to show a lot of people, though.

Putting shoes on a baby at least doubles the amount of time it takes to get ready to go out.

Tristram feeds me now! He likes to sit on the floor with me and pick up bites of food to feed himself, and as soon as he's over the first throes of hunger he insists on putting every other bite in my mouth. (Though sometimes he puts a bite in, then takes it back out without letting go and eats it himself.) We have been eating a lot of chataignes together.

I want to stay because I am starting to like this free-time thing, and when we go back to the States I will have to get a job. There's no guarantee it will be a particularly pleasant job.

I want to leave because of all the smoking. It disgusts me--ever since I was pregnant, the smell is not just unpleasant but thoroughly nauseating. It's a good thing the French don't smoke inside as much as I feared, or I would spend a lot of time throwing up on people. Also, I don't want Tristram to see all this smoking. I don't want him to grow up thinking that it's okay and that's what grownups do. This is the same reasoning that made my parents want to leave Louisiana before I was old enough to remember seeing the KKK around. Some things are not fit for children to grow up seeing as acceptable. Besides, if we stay here too long, most of his friends will smoke, and what a kid's friends do is far and away the best predictor of what that kid will do.