French Lesson

In the negative four windchill, I stepped outside into another handful of deceiving sunshine and salt-scarred roads.

10:15 – lunch duty.

Pans of hot, soft pretzels. I took a break mid-way through to tousle Puck’s hair.

“Hey, Mom!”

“Hey, bud! Want to sit with me, or just your buddies.”

A slightly embarrassed smile: “Just my buddies.”

No offense taken. I returned to the kitchen to ladle more canned pears onto styrofoam plates until about twelve o’clock. I was packed off at the end with a foil package of leftover pretzels. Puck certainly didn’t complain about that.

For the next three hours, I got some work done in the cold foyer above the atrium. I heard Puck’s whole class herded into the library below sometime in the middle of my typing. The could hear the boys discussing French accents about as loud as humanly possible, Puck’s voice wafting up to my lounge area, one of the loudest of all.

“I know what French sounds like,” Puck insisted several times. “Vahl-zhah. Vahl-zhah.”

“That’s Italian, Puck,” Mr. V teased him. “Vahl-zhah,” he chuckled, leading them back to the classroom.

Sometimes it’s fun to have the hidden bird’s-ear hear of the particular situation.

We hit up Trader Joe’s on the way home for a few extra groceries. Puck danced off for a bag of banana chips, one of his personal favorites.

That evening – homework complete, friends played with in the frozen tundra – Puck wrapped up all toasty in the old eggplant blanket on the couch. I snuggled up next to him.

“Mah-ahm! Don’t cuddle with me!”

“Oh, come on. It doesn’t mean you’re a baby. Other moms cuddle with their boys, too.”

“But, Mom, I just have high quality embarrassment!”