“Le Pont” (and also about dogs)

Well, first of all, let me just say thanks for all the really sweet things you said about me on my last post. While I was asking for objective feedback, I received instead kindness and encouragement – that should not surprise me, knowing you!

So I was pleased and embarrassed, but then – I did ask for it, didn’t I.

“No, no – enough about me. Tell me what you think about me?”

So. Consensus is: I’ll keep writing all the same stuff.

“Le pont” means bridge, and it’s pronounced like a quick version of the word “own.” Except you don’t actually close your lips to your teeth on the “n”

Got it now? Pow(n) like you’re blowing out air fast.

The word pont carries with it all the great history of the bridges of France: le Pont d’Avignon – the Avignon bridge which was never finished, the Pont de Pierre in Bordeaux, which has 17 arches for Napoleon’s name, the Pont Neuf in Paris (it means new bridge, but is actually the oldest bridge in Paris), and stuff like that.

We might also use the word pont in slang form when we tell our toddler to “fait le petit pont (fay le puh-tee pow(n).” It essentially means to do the downward dog so I can wipe your butt.

Eh oui – Petit Prince is not fully potty trained at age four. I mean, he only wears diapers at night and takes care of his own business at school, but we are at times obliged to ask him to faire le petit pont for the large commission in order to avoid irritation of tender regions later on.

And of course, sometimes even wearing diapers does not fully answer. The other night when our water heater sprung a massive leak and we were obliged to shut off the heat and the water – that was the night Petit Prince deemed suitable to soak through his diaper and through his sheets.

In an entirely different forum, you might tell your colleagues that you’re going to “faire le pont” that weekend.

No, they won’t expect you to do the downward dog for them – they will understand that you are taking the Friday or the Monday off, usually because Thursday or Tuesday is a national holiday, and why let a lonely little workday ruin a perfectly good extended weekend?

We’ve been giddy lately.

Not entirely – the troubles that I mentioned in the featured post (the illness, the financial distress and more) are still present for our loved ones, and we are still present in prayer for all these things – but there have been a few breaths of fresh air floating our basket of happiness up to the clouds, not least of which is finally seeing some gorgeous Fall weather.

One of our giddy things is the fact that the very old water heater – which we fully expected to have to replace for the easily obtainable sum of 5000€ (after two probable weeks of being heat and water-free) – was fixed at no charge in 15 minutes by a repair guy who simply replaced a rusty bolt.

Another giddy thing is that Young Lady, who was diagnosed (by the nurse sent from the National Education sector to check all the students) as having scoliosis – doesn’t. I wouldn’t have minded so much – to wear a brace is a small thing compared to many other things. But she doesn’t have to, and can keep dancing.

And Sir himself is going to faire le pont this Friday because we are picking up our dog in the North of France (it’s a day trip). And we are preparing ourselves to that end, and preparing the cute little room that our dog will occupy, which is the entry and laundry room.

Sir stained and mounted doors to the storage unit he had built so that the puppy cannot access our shoes and linens.

We have the cage and food bowls ready.

We have his toys set to play with him.

And we are prepared for his long journey of potty training.

You can see, perhaps, why such joy abounds in the family.

So last night at dinner, rather than Dining in Tranquility, we were Dining in Hilarity.

Young Lady was making her usual jokes, Young Knight was making his usual “bétises” (bay-teez – it means mischief) and Petit Prince was surprising us as usual.

He ripped the top off his yoghurt, and when he saw that a strip of paper remained connecting the two sides of the pot, he started singing, “Sur le pont d’Avignon, on y danse; on y danse.”

It’s a very well-known French folksong, which we were not only surprised he knew, but also surprised that he could connect that song to there being a “bridge” across the top of his yoghurt.

I said, “There’s no way he could have made that up on the spot. He must have heard it somewhere.”

Sir asked him, “ Do you even know what a pont is?”

“Bah si!” – Of course, he answers in mock exasperation as he gets up from the table

and goes downward into the dog.

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