I took French in high school.  Why, when I live in a state with a high Hispanic population?  Because when I was little, I thought French sounded like a lovely, swirly language spoken by people who were cultured and sophisticated and ate really yummy food.  I even ordered a French/English dictionary from a book order when I was in fourth grade and would pour over the words not having the least clue how to say them or string them together so I could sound like the skinny, classy women who ate apples and brie and crusty bread for lunch under the Eifle Tower — because that’s what all French women do, mais oui?

Learning the French language, however, was not that glamorous.  My French teacher was darling:  she was tall with pale skin and the white man’s afro (seriously, her hair didn’t get longer – it just got bigger).  The year I came into her class she started teaching using a new method called Learnables:  we’d listen to a tape of a woman saying the same French phrases over and over and over and over; sometimes we’d repeat, sometimes we’d listen; we’d follow along in a book and take a quiz.  The idea was that hearing the phrases and looking at the pictures would help hasten comprehension.*

Except the phrases we learned seemed a little . . . questionable.  I remember a story about a fat man (le grosse monsignor) who asked his waiter (le garcon) for another menu (le cart) so that he could order more spaghetti (un plus du spaghetti) and eat and eat and eat (mange et mange et mange).  There was another storyline about a boy (le garcon) who sat under a tree (sur l’arbre) eating an apple (mange le pomme de terre) – he sat there a lot.  I wonder if I went to France how important it would be for me to know how to order more spaghetti or point out that a boy is sitting on his butt eating fruit all day.

One of my classmates just couldn’t grasp the subtle nuances of the language (a.k.a. he was a wannabe jock who was taking the class because he needed a language credit and because the class ratio was heavier on the female side).  Very few of the Learnable phrases stuck with him.  Except for two:  “Ou est le bebe?  Le bebe n’est pas la.”  Roughly translated:  Where is the baby?  The baby is not there.  He’d throw his hands up while asking the question, and then shake them back and forth to show that the baby was definitely not in his hands.  It was his phrase that he’d repeat over and over no matter what the French teacher asked.  “Qu’est qu c’est le grosse monsignor mange?”  “Le bebe n’est pas la!”   “Comment allez vous?”  “Le bebe n’est pas la!”  It was his Mary Poppins phrase – something to say when he didn’t know what to say:  sometimes I’ve given it a try with often amusing results.
Except this week, I do have a legitimate reason to say that.  Pour quoi?  Parce que le bebe n’est pas la.  Last week JJ and I had Frustration Feedback Syndrome.  He’s been going through some developmental or growth or some kind of trying spurt which has made him a little less than pleasant (let’s just say when going to Freddie’s is no longer pleasant, *something* has to be going on).  Not knowing what to do or how to procede, my frustration levels have . . . risen . . . a bit.  Which is picked up by some, but is fully resonated and shot back out by the Little One.  Which I picked up and quickly gave right back to him.  And so on and so forth.  It was getting ugly.

Enter the Gran who has an abundance of patience due to a small little girl who forced her to dig a deeper well (don’t know who that would be).  She was going to take JJ later in the week for the Hubs and my’s anniversary weekend, but she sensed that an earlier intervention would not only be the perfect present, but also her way of maintaining Mother and Gran status seeing as how someone was going to have to implode.

So yesterday the three of us drove up to Kelso, and the two of us drove home.  Today I went to a coffee store and hung out.  For three hours.  And didn’t have to bring toys or sippy cups or fishy crackers or wonder how many more dirty looks will be shot at me as JJ tries yet again to escape his toy prison.  I ate lunch, and I didn’t have to get up fifteen times to ask “Whaddya need?  Whaddya need?  Whaddya need?”  I went for a walk – in the afternoon – I could actually leave the house!

Yes, I miss him.  I don’t miss the feelings of guilt that I’m battling with:  how could I leave my child?  How could I send him away?  What’s wrong with me that I can’t handle him on my own?  Guilty accusations aren’t accurate.  But it is an opportunity for me to ask the ‘right’ questions of how did we get to this place, do I need to change some stuff, and what would that be?

I’ve already been asked a number of times, “Where’s JJ?”  Instead of getting into the long schpeal of full of anxt and Mommy guilt, I think I’m going to follow in the footsteps of my French class companion:  with my hands up in the air,  “Le bebe n’est pas la!”

Mama Musings