The other week G and I took the microbe to feed the ducks and ended up having a debate (amid a gaggle of ducks, geese, swans, moorhens and seagulls) as to whether the less appealing birds should be allowed any bread. I was in the egalitarian camp, whereas G would have liked to draw the line at seagulls and other ‘sky rats’.
To my mind, one of the really sweet things about the Microbe’s unstained little two-year-old mind is that he hasn’t yet learned about bird racism. He doesn’t know that he’s supposed to hate seagulls but love ducks, to hate grey squirrels but love red ones and only to find space in his animal-bothering heart for ‘traditional’ ladybirds with the right coloured spots. He’ll learn it all soon enough but it’s not something I’m in a mad hurry to disabuse him of.
Anyway, much to G’s eye-rolling chagrin, the seagulls were by far the most fun to feed. They may be pestilential shrieking bullies but feeding them is like watching an Olympian game of bird Quidditch where every player is a seeker, waiting for you to toss a handful of bread up into the air.
As for the Microbe, I think he was just rather excited by the sheer variety of life forms. Right now his daily litany of love includes pretty much everything known to man (albeit with a few qualifiers, such as “I love friendly spiders and friendly crocodiles“). He reacts with unadulterated delight to the idea that little boys are made of snakes and snails and puppy dogs’ tails, which is far more gratifying than sugar and spice, in his eyes. The only real exception for Mr Lova Lova is flies. These, we have agreed, have no redeeming features whatsoever. “WE DON’T LIKE FLIES, MUMMY!“. (No, James, we don’t).
In other news, some of you might have spotted my confession on Facebook the other day in which I “accidentally almost killed my child”. I suppose I ought to clear that up. Suffice to say it was a minor exaggeration, but the poor little boylet got one hell of a whack on the head. Let me describe this scenario…
It was late afternoon and I was slumped on the sofa underneath a pile of 3 small children, a furry blanket and a mountain of fat, heavy nursery rhyme books. Having just completed a marathon rhyme-reading session, the only person who was starting to feel sleepy was me and, just as my eyes began to droop, I shifted position to try and get comfortable under the horde and inadvertently sent the microbe toppling off sideways, head-first into the coffee table.
Suffice to say he went BANG! and “WAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” and I snapped awake and administered lengthy cuddles of guiltitude before plying him with Nutella sandwiches for dinner as a
pathetic attempt to assuage my guilt special treat. His delight with the dinner situation seemed to work wonders on his sore head. Who needs nurses when you can just bring on the scurvy food?
Last but not least. today is World Book Day. This is one of those things that nobody has heard of until they have a child, at which point it might as well as well be re-named “World Fancy Dress Panic Day” or “Oh Effing Bugger! It’s Tomorrow! Day“.
Last year I was super-organised and spent an evening sewing fun fur to make a Fox in Socks tail and ears. This year I have plonked the boy’s furry husky hat on his head and called it a “big bad wolf” costume, along with a copy of The Three Little Pigs stuffed between his paws. (Standards have slipped.)