After I stopped feeling sick from eating all those dried strawberries I went back and ate some more dried strawberries. What the hell is wrong with me???
If my weekends continue to be as lame as this one was, this blog is not going to survive the newborn phase. The past two days were spent in a fog of sleep deprivation and dried strawberry sugar shock. Saturday night, on top of the newborn sleep/cry/eat/what day is it/who am I schedule, Lucien fell out of his bed at 3:00am. He then decided night was over and it was time to get up and make a lot of noise. He was awake the rest of the night and Alex and I are none too happy about it.
Foggy brain is a familiar feeling that takes me back to our first days in France, the days of Lucien jet lag and midnight baguettes and Disney movies at 2:00am.
To fill the gap left by my complete disinterest in life this weekend, I'm going to rewind to the weekend immediately preceding Camille's arrival. There is a story there waiting to be told but it ain't the yummiest. It's therefore advisable to put down your pop-tart before reading. (Mmmmm.... pop-tarts.....)
Picture it. Paris. There we were, waiting on a metro platform, dressed in our party clothes and heading to our favorite park for New York daughter's birthday party. Alex and I were engrossed in a very important discussion (not really) and were therefore not paying full attention to Lucien who had wandered perhaps three feet from us. For the Loosh, that's a dangerous distance.
Suddenly we heard a loud, "NOOOOOOO" from behind us followed by a splash! and many groans and squeals from people on the platform.
On metro platforms, there are troughs that run along the back walls. (Those familiar with Paris metros are already cringing, I can tell) This trough is always full of suspicious darkish liquid. No one knows exactly what's in there but everyone knows it's not good. Everyone would probably agree most of it came from human bodies. Everyone would definitely agree it's not something to jump into with great joy.
Unless you're the Loosh. We turned and there he was, ankle-deep in the muck with a surprised look on his face. We were so stunned and horrified we could only stare for a second. After the wave of shock passed, we yanked him out and inspected the nastiness. Unmentionable things soaked his shoes and socks and were seeping up his pant legs.
Glancing around the platform, I saw we had everyone's rapt attention. The "NOOOOOOO" had come from a young man nearby, arms still reaching out towards us frozen-like, who saw what the Loosh was fixin' to do a split second before he did it. He looked at us apologetically. Most people looked at us with sympathy. Some smirked. Others laughed. And once again, we were the hottest show in town.
Loosh knew the situation was bad. He looked up sheepishly and said, "We're going home now, aren't we." We said yes because walking into a party with human waste crawling up your pant legs doesn't exactly scream, "Happy Birthday, cutie pie!" It's just not very festive.
Al volunteered to take one for the team since I was super pregnant and still breathing like a buffalo from the walk to the station. Before he had a chance to reconsider, I jumped on the metro with the birthday present, yelled at Alex to clean him well, preferably with something caustic, and I'd see them at the party later. I gave him a thumbs up. Then I got the hell outta there as Lucien waddled towards the exit.
I still can't, even dozens of scalding hot washes later, look at those pants without cringing.
The party was a good time, though, and I'm glad we made it because we learned an important lesson there: no guitar playing allowed in public parks. New York mom hired a singer to come entertain the kids. As he sat there strumming and doing his thing, an official park man came over and shut that goddamn guitar playing DOWN. When asked if we could sing without the guitar, he deemed that acceptable.
So for those keeping track, the following things, based on our past observations, are allowed in Parisian public parks:
3. Drinking alcohol
4. Doing drugs
But don't even THINK about playing a guitar, you sick freaks.
We'll try a flute next time, mes choux,