N the godmother

A godchild is a child that God sends you to cheer you up because you can’t have kids of your own. At least, that’s my very own theory.
Yesterday, I had a fantastic day with A, my little bundle of mischief. For his sixth birthday, I had planned a fun day in Brussels:
- eating hamburgers and fries in a restaurant where painted monsters are watching you from every wall
- imagining the exciting lives of the ducks at the ponds (according to A, the fountain in the ponds was nothing more than the ducks’ shower)
- going wild in the playground (and in the trees surrounding the playground)
- discovering – cooking – making art in the Children’s Museum,
- playing hide and seek with godmother in the middle of the city,
- and eating huge pieces of apple pie.
Then it was time for A and his mom to go home. They jumped in dad’s car, and the little family of three drove off to their house in the suburbs. Me, I walked home through the streets of this city, feeling very alone, feeling I’ll never be the proud mom taking the pictures, but always the crazy godmother trying to only step on the white lines of the crosswalk, and hiding behind trash cans on Avenue Louise.