Wednesday, 29 June 2011

Uniform Thought

HALF the wonder of motherhood is watching a child learn it's way into the world - "I stand up, I fall down... I stand up, I fall down ... Ah, I stand up and I don't fall what do these feet things do?" - but at no point during my children's milestone learning did I worry about what clothes they were wearing.

State education though has not the time for the indulgence of a mother watching her precious offspring realise that this-thing-does-that-thing whilst wearing a feather boa, a pair of pants and a sock. State education, in general, likes its recipients fully dressed and preferably dressed in the designated uniform.

Monday, 27 June 2011

The Rehabilitation of Thomas the Tank Engine

IT'S been an ongoing battle to detach The Boy from his Thomas the Tank Engine babywalker since he learned to walk on his own two feet.

The plastic blue, jaunty faced Thomas has, over the past four years, gone from the corner of the room to the cellar and back again. From the cellar to the shed and out again. Into the greenhouse and, inevitably, back out again. At one point earlier this year it spent a couple of months sat outside the house several more houses down the road.... they brought it back and I (almost) succeeded in looking pleased that they had. "Yeah, thanks for that" *kicks Thomas in his tender*

So Thomas the Tank Engine was condemned to languishing in the garden covered in mud and occasionally being dragged out for the boy to rattle noisily up and down the street while shrieking like a banshee or, even more excitingly, filling it with mud before rattling it noisily up and down the... well, you get the picture.

But the Thomas the Tank Engine, erstwhile babywalker, has now been rehabilitated and reintegrated into society and The Boy is even quite pleased about it. Now it squats serenely in the corner of the newly redesigned front garden. Denuded of it's handle, steering wheel and seat, it's even had holes drilled into it's bottom and now it functions, to all intents and purposes, as a plant pot.

We (I) call the garden Thomas the Tank Engine Heaven and I try to tell myself that it is in no way as appalling as having a gnome with a fishing rod sat there *secretly suspects it might be*

Thomas the Tank Engine plant pot
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