We've all been sick with a cold the last several days -- G running a fever on and off for most of it, meaning that his last relevant contact with the outside world was garderie last Wednesday. Since then, it's been all Sesame Street, all the time, to the point that I fear even relatively non-toxic television is creating the monster I warned myself about (several times he's woken up half-in, half-out of a fever dream, keening "watch Sesame, watch Sesame." God help me). But how else do you keep a two-year-old still and calm without narcotics?
After an astonishing run of mid-February sunshine, making everything glisten like a celluloid dream (Paris in winter seriously dilutes the willing suspension of disbelief engendered by films like Charade and Funny Face; the last two weeks, even sleep-deprived, have revived my faith in Audrey Hepburn, at least), this first fever-free morning dawned cold and damp and grey as yesterday's oatmeal. The idea of going outside seemed even less inviting. I explained to G, gently, that I could not be held responsible for the brain rot certain to ensue if we spent yet another morning watching video, and that we would have to spend the morning in the living room playing. With toys. And books.
He took it pretty well. We put the baby in his bouncy seat by the fireplace (yes, that little monkey, about which more later), and G diddled around the room for a while, repatriating several toys and large objects and winding through a few rousing choruses of "Miss Lucy had a Baby." I worked in a mug of cooling coffee and a few stolen glances at a year-old New Yorker. Then G crawled up in my lap and danced a plastic polar bear over my knees for a few thoughtful seconds. He patted the arm of the couch fondly and said, "There's a man in there."
"Oh, really," I said. "Who is he?"
"Oscar," he said.
"Tell me about Oscar."
"He's a green man. And he's a grouch," he added, sadly. "Yeah."
"Oh well, we all get grumpy sometimes," I said.
"Yeah," G agreed, more drawn out this time, as if in heavy sympathy. He patted the couch again, and brightened. "Oscar loves la poubelle," he said.
I had to turn my face to hide the smile.
"I take out la poubelle with Daddy," he said.
"Yes, you do."
"It's yucky." Session concluded, he found some Legos and threw them over the back of the sofa, managing not to hit me or maim his baby brother.
Garbage in, garbage out, indeed. I guess we're safe with Sesame Street for another day.
