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Wednesday, January 23, 2008

How low can you go?


M enrolled Joseph on some drama classes at a fantastic little theatre not far from home and he absolutely loves it. It’s only the 3rd week out of 10 but I can tell he loves it because when he joins the queue to go through to the drama hall, he doesn’t look back over at me, asking if I’ll be going with him.

As always yesterday, I left work, drove across town on my bike, got in, got changed and as I went to leave the house thought, “oh no – I’ve got no spare change”.

The problem with having no change is I need to ‘pay and display’ to run into the school to collect Joseph. On top of that, I need to drive to where his drama takes place and then pay and display again.

I search high and low indoors for some spare change (without much luck it has to be said) before, ding, I remember where I’ll find a whole heap of change; Joseph’s money box.

Yes, yes, I hear your sharp intake of breath and I accept that this is fairly low on the scale of cheap tricks to play. It was £2.50 too, so not an entirely unnoticeable amount. The money box is a digital readout one, forcing me to unscrew the thing, lest he should discover my crime.

(Actually, I must remember to put it back tonight to avoid him going through the roof)

So, change duly stolen from son’s piggy bank, I set off to collect him and as we make our way from the school to the car, he tells me the story of how he was playing with his friends at play time, he runs, falls and cuts his hand and knee (showing me both).

“What happened? Were you alright?” I ask, concerned. “Did you tell a teacher?”

“No. I went over to the gazebo, looked at my leg and cried. Then I went and played again”, he said matter of factly.

I found the fact that he sat alone crying in the playground heartbreaking. I know that it’s all part of the growing up process and I know it’s better that he learns to deal with small issues (like a grazed knee) by himself.

But I just pictured him sat alone in a noisy playground, crying and looking at his bloody knee and my heart squeezed ever so slightly.

He had clearly moved on from it though and issued his usual demand of snacks, which was a rather splendid honey sandwich (a favourite of his) with Hula Hoops and a peeled carrot.

“Shall we go to drama then Poops?”

“Yes please Dad”.

Nice, nice.


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