Queen for a Day

I was never really the “hang out on the playground” type. I was too busy as a wee one worrying about what game my peers were playing, and as an adolescent there was no way that just chillin’ on the mulch would ever take precedence over Model OAS meetings, Student Council events and sports practice. Plus, the swings make me motion sick. But, as I have been watching the cutest little kiddo for four days now, I have found that around 3pm we throw the sandals on, the sand toys in the stroller, and head for the Champ de Mars (yes, also home of the Eiffel Tower).

Usually our stroll down the picturesque tree-lined Avenue Suffern ends up in nothing more than an hour or so with Emile gallivanting around in the sand, trying to climb up the slide from the wrong direction, and me scaring off the friendly wee ones that wobble over by speaking to them in English. And today, as we piled our sand toys and sweaters into the stroller, and headed out into the cold, uninviting day, I assumed that today would be quite the same (minus the sun).

As we wheeled onto Champ de Mars, the noise emanating from the playground led me to believe that there were a few more souls that had gone stir-crazy over course of the last three days of inclement weather, and had also opted for damp clothes over one more round of tea party. As we got even closer, I could see that the playground was populated with what appeared to be a camp for kiddos ranging from 5-10 years old. As any mother (or maternal figure) knows, this can go in one of two ways: you spend the entire time telling the other kids to play nicely and grabbing back your toys, or a few of the older gals decide to take your charge under their wing. This time resulted in a slight variation.

As Emile was lugging himself up the primary colored slide stairs, he bumped into a young girl’s quite stylishly adorned feet. Teaching Emile the importance of complementing a woman’s foot wear at a very young age, I told him to tell her how cute her sandals were (or as close as he could get since he doesn’t yet speak). Her response; “thank you.” Yes, the two words I so rarely here on this side of the ocean, and music to my ears. That was the beginning of what would be “hang time” for me on the playground. So I was the oldest girl by about nineteen years, but as we all know, age doesn’t matter. As she and I began to talk, it was if the English words were magnets for any female (mostly from Africa) on the jungle gym between the ages 7 and 10. I was the “Rizzo” of the pink ladies, if you will. I was the leader of the pack. As we discussed sand toys and U.S. States, I experienced the mindless random chatter I so desperately miss here. It was almost as enjoyable as the three minute conversation I had with the American strangers on the metro platform about my Target suitcase. But then we all know that Target trumps all. Even hang-time on the playground.

For my parents, the Champ de Mars is the spot where my father first told my mother he loved her. For me, it is the spot where for one brief moment, I was Queen of the Sandbox. Dreams can come true. Just ask the ten-year olds I was hanging with today---I bet they would tell you the same. In English.