Nicholas trots fast down the sidewalk. The tips of his ears bob-bob-bob. He waits at the entryway of the apartment for me to open the door and then bob-bob-bob up the marble steps under the white wedding-cake-frosting high, high ceiling. Then up two flights of steps to our door. Inside, I let him off the leash and skirt Stephen doing his yoga, to toss my little bag in the trash.
"Deux fois," I tell Stephen.
He makes an approving noise.
Stephen was the one who started discussing Nicholas' business in French. "Il a fait caca," he likes to say. Always a little worried if Nicholas takes a walk and doesn't go numero deux. Partly out of worry that it may happen in the apartment but more out of that sense of paternal concern, wanting everything inside our little guy to be running right.
There's really no reason to be gladder if Nicholas goes twice, other than the excuse to say two more French words. Neither of us has had the opportunity to announce il a fait caca trois fois yet. This morning, walking Nicholas and pleased that I got to announce deux fois, which doesn't happen often, I started fantasizing about trois. As we came down that last stretch of sidewalk toward the apartment, I considered passing it by and taking Nicholas around the corner. But it was cold. So I had to concede deux and get on with my life. Deux was good enough.
So, this is what we've come to. Yes. For more on this subject, you can read a blog post by Stephen here.
A friend in disguise
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