Read Online Little Kids, Big City: Tales from a Real House in New York City (With Lessons on Life and Love for Your Own Concrete Jungle) by Alex McCord, Simon van Kempen - Free Book Online
Authors: Alex McCord, Simon van Kempen
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encased in bubble wrap, Johan needs a GPS tracking device embedded into his sneakers.
We’ll knock on wood that nothing bad has ever happened in a place where we don’t speak the language and are completely stranded. We’ve been going to St. Barths, an island in the French West Indies section of the Caribbean, for six years running now, and absolutely love it for a number of reasons. One plus we hadn’t thought about much is that it has become a home away from home. Take last summer for example. On the second day there, we were having lunch and checking e-mail at our favorite outdoor restaurant, now called Caviar Island (though to me it will always be Le Square) in Gustavia, the capital. The boys had finished their bird-like lunches and were playing at and around the table in the Cour Vendôme, just off the Carre d’Or. The shops surrounding the square were all closed for lunch, and most of the store managers were eating outside as well and chatting with the boys in a mixture of French, English and Franglais as they searched for buried treasure in the outdoor couch cushions. François fell and hit his chin, splitting it wide open and chipping a tooth. The elapsed time from the moment of impact to the time he was stitched up in the ER was 19 minutes, a record we couldn’t have beat at home in NYC. We knew that on a Saturday afternoon in St. Barths during a music festival our best bet was the ER at the local hospital, and knew where it was and with whom to talk once we arrived. Why did we know all this? Because of François, of course! Two years earlier, we’d wound up in ER when a bizarre staph infection developed on his legs and the little man had a very large blister on his toe that had needed lancing. On the day of the exploding chin incident, François got laughing gas, three stitches and the only thing that required any sort of delay was getting through to our pediatrician in NYC to confirm, as we’d thought, that he’d already had his first tetanus shot. While Simon was in the operating room with François, I took Johan to the hospital playroom we’d discovered during our previous visit. We were back in the restaurant to finish lunch within the hour, with pretty much everyone we’d seen earlier still there to congratulate François on his newest war wound and to show him the underside of their own chins. I’m beginning to think everyone in the world except Simon has a scar under their chin. I know I do.
Sometimes there’s drama even when the incident isn’t hospital-worthy. I had to decide whether to lose my mind or laugh when Johan got a 24-hour bug. It was nothing as far as illnesses go, just a high-ish fever and a sleepy, lethargic kid. Johan didn’t want to take the Tylenol I wanted to give him, either in chewable or syrup form. François turned into a big brother cheerleader and coaxed Johan through the process, proclaiming that the chewables tasted like lollipops, pouring the syrup and showing him the gummy vitamin he could have if he took the medicine. Success, and Johan was completely willing to take the second dose later that night. Fast-forward to the next day. François woke up dizzy and got worse as the day progressed. When I brought out the medicine, Johan reached for François’ hand and said, “It’s your turn!” Seems like a great case of brothers helping brothers, right? Well, no. Uh-uh. François wanted no part of that medicine, and kicked, screamed, had to be held down by me and our nanny, spat the medicine across the room and had a big, long timeout. Never mind that he’d spent the previous day gently coaxing Johan to do it, François would rather be closed up in his room for half an hour than take the same medicine. The chewables that the day before had tasted “like lollipops” were now “horrible, nasty things that taste like poo.” Ah, the logic of a five-year-old. In the end, I had to threaten to tell Daddy, a card I hate playing because I don’t like the good cop/bad
We’ll knock on wood that nothing bad has ever happened in a place where we don’t speak the language and are completely stranded. We’ve been going to St. Barths, an island in the French West Indies section of the Caribbean, for six years running now, and absolutely love it for a number of reasons. One plus we hadn’t thought about much is that it has become a home away from home. Take last summer for example. On the second day there, we were having lunch and checking e-mail at our favorite outdoor restaurant, now called Caviar Island (though to me it will always be Le Square) in Gustavia, the capital. The boys had finished their bird-like lunches and were playing at and around the table in the Cour Vendôme, just off the Carre d’Or. The shops surrounding the square were all closed for lunch, and most of the store managers were eating outside as well and chatting with the boys in a mixture of French, English and Franglais as they searched for buried treasure in the outdoor couch cushions. François fell and hit his chin, splitting it wide open and chipping a tooth. The elapsed time from the moment of impact to the time he was stitched up in the ER was 19 minutes, a record we couldn’t have beat at home in NYC. We knew that on a Saturday afternoon in St. Barths during a music festival our best bet was the ER at the local hospital, and knew where it was and with whom to talk once we arrived. Why did we know all this? Because of François, of course! Two years earlier, we’d wound up in ER when a bizarre staph infection developed on his legs and the little man had a very large blister on his toe that had needed lancing. On the day of the exploding chin incident, François got laughing gas, three stitches and the only thing that required any sort of delay was getting through to our pediatrician in NYC to confirm, as we’d thought, that he’d already had his first tetanus shot. While Simon was in the operating room with François, I took Johan to the hospital playroom we’d discovered during our previous visit. We were back in the restaurant to finish lunch within the hour, with pretty much everyone we’d seen earlier still there to congratulate François on his newest war wound and to show him the underside of their own chins. I’m beginning to think everyone in the world except Simon has a scar under their chin. I know I do.
Sometimes there’s drama even when the incident isn’t hospital-worthy. I had to decide whether to lose my mind or laugh when Johan got a 24-hour bug. It was nothing as far as illnesses go, just a high-ish fever and a sleepy, lethargic kid. Johan didn’t want to take the Tylenol I wanted to give him, either in chewable or syrup form. François turned into a big brother cheerleader and coaxed Johan through the process, proclaiming that the chewables tasted like lollipops, pouring the syrup and showing him the gummy vitamin he could have if he took the medicine. Success, and Johan was completely willing to take the second dose later that night. Fast-forward to the next day. François woke up dizzy and got worse as the day progressed. When I brought out the medicine, Johan reached for François’ hand and said, “It’s your turn!” Seems like a great case of brothers helping brothers, right? Well, no. Uh-uh. François wanted no part of that medicine, and kicked, screamed, had to be held down by me and our nanny, spat the medicine across the room and had a big, long timeout. Never mind that he’d spent the previous day gently coaxing Johan to do it, François would rather be closed up in his room for half an hour than take the same medicine. The chewables that the day before had tasted “like lollipops” were now “horrible, nasty things that taste like poo.” Ah, the logic of a five-year-old. In the end, I had to threaten to tell Daddy, a card I hate playing because I don’t like the good cop/bad
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