left to our own devices

We had the day off on Thursday for V-E Day, or Victoire, as it is known here. There were ceremonies all day long at the Etoile – rows of old soldiers straggling, if the word is not too disrespectful, up the Champs-Elysees and culminating in a wreath-laying at the Arc de Triomphe. It was a warm day, but not too, for which I was grateful on behalf of the veterans and their companions. Every year there must be fewer and fewer of them who can make the march – fewer and fewer of them period, really – and their halting steps seem to hint at something sadder lost in these days of darker, less penetrable wars.

We only happened on the ceremonies, though, in the middle of more undirected wanderings – the luxury we gave ourselves for the holiday (well, S, anyway) was A Day Without A Plan. We started out in the late morning by dividing and conquering; I held down the baby front while S diapered and dressed the two-year-old. Then we got everybody in the stroller and headed our in the general direction of the Trocadero. (I had two tokens in my pocket “just in case” we passed by the Eiffel Tower Carousel, as well as extra diapers and snacks – that’s a day without a plan in my world, you’re welcome.)

G elected to get out and walk most of the way. He was cheerful, but even more dawdly than usual. Besides his usual pauses to examine pigeons and fenceposts and to pick up suspicious trash, he kept stopping every fifty yards or so to pick at his shoes. Because I am such a thoughtful and understanding mother, this drove me completely insane. Finally, about twenty paces from the carousel, he stopped completely, raised his arms, and said, “Mommy hug,” which in G-speak means “pick me up, now.”

And when I reached down to pick him up, I saw that he was wearing two left shoes.

As in, from different pairs.

A query to the responsible party came up with this: “Hmm. Well, those were the ones he brought me.”

I started to say something about how letting two year olds make their own decisions not being the best idea, but then I thought about the root meaning of the word “paternalism,” and what I really want my boys to learn (beyond handwashing and basic hygiene) about picking the shoes they march in, and I decided to shut up.

We took off his shoes, he rode the horse, we came home.