So That's...Different, Part III, The Part That Involves Public Urination

Some background:

Being that for some reason people still trust me with their children, I am currently working with a family in the 15th with two little boys, the youngest of whom is three.  Now, I don't know if you've ever worked with three-year-olds, but let's just say that they're not known for their ability to delay gratification:  if they want something, they want it now, and if they don't get it, they are certain they are going to implode on the spot.  Having worked with my fair share of the under four feet set, I can usually defuse these situations with a soothing voice, loving manner and the diplomacy of a hostage negotiator.  And sometimes bribes.  But of course, with my little Francophones, all my best tools lay useless in their little pink, sparkly toolbox (it's imaginary, so it might as well be pretty).  Rather than, "OK, I know you want to play longer in the park with your friends, but your mother will be home soon and she'd really like to see you and gosh, wouldn't you like some of that awesome pastry I saw sitting in your kitchen?," all I got is, "We go home now."  Which, you know, goes over like gangbusters with anybody, but especially with small children.

So when in the midst of a tantrum, I will admit that, since I usually have no idea what the screaming is concerning, I've begun resorting to a technique first espoused by the brilliant Wanda Sykes wherein I mentally translate the cries of my young to wails over injustices of a more grown-up nature.  Instead of, "CINQ MINUTE PLUS, CINQ MINUTE PLUS!", I hear, "I can't believe the Supreme Court ruled in favor of Walmart!  And seriously, Ohio, what is with the heartbeat bill?!?".  This tends to put me in a slightly more charitable mood.

And now to today's adventure.  Bringing the boys home from day care, the youngest was convinced (as he is most days) that he is entitled to a treat from the boulangerie before he goes home for his bath.  Being that I don't have money for this, we resume our fascinating and cardiovascularly stimulating dance of me trying to drag him home without A) causing any more discomfort or distress to him than he's already experiencing due to the crying and shrieking in the heat or B) having French social services called on me because the sheer scale of these tantrums would suggest that I am dragging this child home to make him watch while I shoot the family dog.

In the middle of the shrieking, I discern words that I learned the meaning of very quickly in the line of duty working with Francophone children: "J'ai envie de faire pipi!".  I immediately begin assessing how best to handle this:  the house isn't far, but his legs are little.  It would be faster if I pick him up and carry him, but then I risk getting peed on (a fate that I avoid when I can).  Just as I'm verging on panic, my little sugar-fiend's older brother suggests going in the street.  I am unsure about this; I mean, I know people here do it (I have seen it far too often), but is it technically allowed?  And I am going to go to jail for pulling this child's pants down in the middle of the street?  At this point, two women, alerted by sugar-fiend's cries (because really, I'm surprised Portugal didn't hear them), rush out of a building to assure me that, indeed, he can pee in the street.  Weighing my American sensibilities versus the distress of this child, I decide that his need is clearly greater than my prudishness, and so down the pants go.  Pants go back up, and on our ever-so-slightly-less-than-merrily way we go.

My boss, the boy's mother, has given me a few euros to take the boys to the boulangerie after day care tomorrow.  I'm hoping that means we can make it the few blocks from the day center to the apartment without anyone having to whip it out.