The Sacred Baran

Before starting this little tale, I have to introduce you to one of Connor’s godmothers. Her name is Joan, but she goes by the title "Baran". Joan has roots in New Orleans, and the French for godmother is "marraine". C mispronounced this "Baran", and so that’s what we call Joan.

We had J’s birthday party this past weekend. Lots of people, lots of food, lots of fun. The boys were in seventh heaven, playing with the other kids and performing for the adults.

As you can imagine, they also got a little bit out of hand. At one point I caught C literally climbing into a friend’s lap to try to take her tortilla chip away.

As it happens, this particular guest was – you guessed it – Joan. She was doing a great job fending him off and still being polite. I had no such obligations. I grabbed him and pulled him away.

Giving him my best glare, I said "What are you doing? You don’t steal food. That’s mean. Can you take Ms. Joan’s chip?"

He looked at me calm as can be and said "yep."

Amazed – and somewhat at a loss as to what to do next – I repeated myself. "You can steal Baran’s chip?"

"Baran?" He looked shocked, and then looked over at Joan. "No, no. I can’t steal Baran’s cracker. I’m sorry Baran! I’m sorry!"

He hadn’t realized who he’d been climbing on. Baran, apparently, is a member of a small circle of people who he won’t steal food from.

Now, if I only I could gain membership to that club.

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