Now that it's fall (like that hasn't been established in my last umpteenth posts!), my vocabulary repertoire circles around words such as toasty, snuggly, warmy (I know), and cozy, and my infinite need to be one of these words. At all times. Last week, it appeared that the parents of my little ones are on the same page, and I almost had like a GOOP attack when I arrived at school to see little Thomas suited up in dove gray cashmere sweatpants.
"Well aren't you cozy today, Thomas!" I said, buttoning up the matching cardigan.
"Oui, co-zy." he said, staring off into the distance. When I say a word that they don't understand, they have this out-of-body experience where they repeat the word, almost possessed, with glassy eyes. These are usually the words that "stick".
On our walk back to Franck's house from school, I had a sleepy Thomas in my arms (total upper body workout) with Franck walking beside me.
"Am I co-zy right now?" Thomas asked while snuggling his tiny French face into my cable-knit scarf.
"You must certainly are. The most cozy." I responded, readjusting him and realizing that he's not as light as he was last year.
Somehow this cozy talk piqued Franck's attention who wanted to be included, "What about me? Am I cozy too?"
Franck at this moment was wearing a Nirvana t-shirt, was swinging his mini trench coat in the air like a cowboy, and screaming "Pa pa pa papapa!" which I learned were the "lyrics" to this aggravating song. So was he cozy per se? He didn't exactly fit the profile of being conventionally cozy and told him I didn't think so, but ultimately only he could determine the level of his own coziness.
(Seriously, I can't believe these are the conversations I have at "work")
That was when I learned that telling a child that they're not cozy is a big mistake. Huge. I also foolishly thought that they had understood the word for cozy which I had explained in French as being bien chaud, comfortable, tranquil, and content.
"Je suis cozy, aussi." Franck insisted with a huff.
With these little guys, their thoughts are fleeting and have learned that I don't have to respond to each item that comes out of their mouth and continued down the street with them, disregarding his desire to be cozy. Whatever. Unfortunately for me, Thomas was not going to let this one go. Putting on a little show to demonstrate his own maximum coziness, nestled in my arms, he peeked over my shoulder to meet eyes with Franck.
"Tu n'es pas cozy. Tu serais jamais cozy comme moi." Thomas antagonized with a grin.
Oh geez. You will never be as cozy as me? Really Thomas? So dramatic.
And with that. Franck lost his shit.
On Boulevard Magenta in the 10th arrondissement, Franck, stamping his New Balances on the pavement, howled, "JE. SUIS. COZY! JE. SUIS. COZY!!!"
As you can imagine, this captured the attention of many; one mother who had her own troupe to manage, looked at me and gave me a surprised "Oh là,"; three teen-agers began chanting "cozy, cozy, cozy" like a rap song; and one younger gentlemen looked down at a hysterical Franck with a chuckle said, "ooh, ça va mon grand."
Having no choice but to handle this, I set Thomas down and crouched down to Franck. "Okay, okay," I said to him, "You are cozy. I have never seen anyone more cozy than you, ça va?"
"CA. VA. PAS!" he screamed with tears spilling down his face. "I'm telling my mommy on you Thomas that you said I wasn't COZY!"
Then Thomas started crying. What was the deal with this word? They never car this much about words in English, so what made this one an exception?
"You guys, hold up," I intervened, "I need to know, what does cozy mean again?"
"It means being a good boy, sage." they explained confidently in unison. "Cozy boys get bon bons."
Cozy boys get candy? I would never say something as sleazy as cozy boys get candy, especially to a little kid. I found it impressive that they were already experts on word they had learned no more than ten minutes earlier. But I figured if they didn't listen to the definition of the word then, during this escalated incident out on the street, they sure as hell weren't going listen.
In order to gain some control, I threatened that there will no grenadine for the rest of their lives if they don't apologize, tell each other that they are equally cozy and to shake hands. The grenadine threat works every time. It's like French kiddie crack. They can't get enough of that stuff.
Now that I am on autumn break and the cozy incident is behind us as I feel like I really explained it when we got back to Franck's house, I'm afraid a week later I stand corrected. Last night I received a text from one of the mothers asking, "What's this story about being cozy?"
Oy vey. I'll respond in two weeks.
