esclavage

monday evening. interior. kitchen scene.

our lovely heroine, kylie, and her young charge, mr.-in-a-bad-mood, are preparing (i.e. reheating) the proscribed menu ceremoniously attached to the refrigerator with an alphabet magnet.

soupe: carotte et cerfeuil (which i had to look up. chervil ).

due to other non-dinner related circumstances, he didn't want to eat it.

"fine," i say, "but even if you don't want to eat it, it's what's on the menu tonight, but i'm not going to force feed you."
(for one thing, that would just make a mess. and then i'd have to clean it up anyway...)

he, in an angry huff, grabs the phone and calls the higher authorities. (i.e. maman.), and stomps off into the dining room. i don't know what he's calling for. i didn't say he HAD to eat it.

he talks to her for several heated minutes, then struts back into the kitchen with a triumphant smile (worthy, i'm sure, of napoléon), as if he's just pulled something over on me, and thrusts the phone into my hand.

she says that he's obviously not going to eat the soup, although she had been hoping to get some vegetables into the kids, balanced diet and all, but just to go ahead and make the other stuff on the list (which is what i was going to do anyway, so hey, no skin off my nose.)

in the meantime, nathan is smirking at me, while sitting on the kitchen table, which he knows he's not to do.

"nathan, please get off the table", i say, still on the phone with his mum.

"no!" he surly responds.

"nathan, get off the table, please."

"no!"

"let me speak to him, please." says the mum.

"your mother wants to speak to you," i say, as i hand him the phone surpressing a smirk (that's for YOU, k. ha!).

nathan listens a moment, then guiltily slides off the table into a chair, and begins crying into the phone.

"but kylie is always telling us what to DO!" he exclaims, starting to cry, complete with crocodile tears. "she doesn't have the RIGHT to give us orders!" he proclaims.

"WE ARE NOT SLAVES!!!"

this kid is NINE, people. nine.
for heavens sake, i asked him to get off the table, not build the pyramids.

(incidentally, after the phone call, i said that *i* was going to have the soup then, and neither he or his brother could have any. ::snickers::
worked like a charm.)

words of wisdom

kyliemac, lobsterfied after blitzkrieg tour of insanity*: "ouch. ouch. ouch."

david, wise french boy of five years, "if you want it to stop hurting, STOP TOUCHING IT**"

* = details to follow
** = the sunburn lobsterfication. get your heads out of the gutter, people!

scoubidou est malade

my job is so enlightening and informative.
in the playroom today:

d chants:
"scoubidou est malade (scooby-doo is sick)
on amene a l'hôpital (we take him to the hospital)
l'hôpital est fermé (the hospital is closed)
scoubidou va péter" (scooby-doo is going to fart)

n:
"that's not how it goes! it REALLY goes -
"scoubidou est malade
on amene a l'hôpital
l'hôpital est fermé
scoubidou va CRAQUER" (scooby-doo is gonna snap/die)

d:
"yeah, i know that's how it really goes,
but i like singing "is going to fart" better."

these kids really like to sing about farting what IS it about kids liking to be so "pipi/caca"?

the learning of proper english.

sometimes, i think the boys have hit a plateau with their english. they are nowhere near fluent, but if they think for a minute, generally, they understand what i'm trying to get across. context helps, of course, as do gestures.

(on a side note, i'd like to remind you here, that, although context and gestures DO help, raising the voice does not. louder doesn't mean more intelligible. they aren't deaf. they just don't "get" it. there's a difference. but that's another rant.)

listening in on a david and nathan conversation:

david, responding to a question in english: "yeah..."

nathan, responding to david's response: "tu dit pas 'yeah'. tu dis 'yes.'" (you don't say 'yeah'. you say 'yes'.)

hmm.
wow. sometimes they ARE listening.