So last Friday, after The Bus brought him to The Bus Stop (most important piece of French real-estate ever), and after our visit to the new Village Library, and the hike/run back home while pushing an empty stroller, being drug along my Pooplette and trying to get Monkey to Just Stop Now DAMMIT Before You Get Run Over, Monkey and I set off for his school, and to see his Maîtresse.

Please tell me I’m not the only one cracked up by the idea of my three year old son having a mistress.

The place was less than packed. Either a lot of folks don’t care about meeting their kids’ teachers or Friday evening is not the time to invite the parents to the school. Or maybe those who have been there before are rather put off by sitting on teeny-tiny little-person sized benches. I, myself, am not a bench person on a good day so I can sympathize with those folks afraid of a bench that seats you in a rather GYN-visit fashion. Staring at a bunch of folks with their knees up around their ears brings back too many birth class memories for me, thankya.

The news on the battle front is all good. Monkey is doing just fine, a bit independent, a bit curious, a bit of all things boys are at his age. He’s not a trouble-maker or the class clown. I’m not too sure how I feel about that last bit—thought maybe I could pass on some ideas…. But there are moments, apparently, when he wants to do his own thing:

Now if we can just get his teacher to learn how to spell his name.

*Tear the paper into little bits and glue them on. Mathieu (sic) did it the quick way.