Bile

Darkness.

He hunkered over his laptop. In yoga terms, should it exist, his pose would be called “The Vulture”.

The staccato gunfire of fingers hitting keys as his fury blasted onto the screen, one long dry-heave of bilious rage, could be heard as far down the road as the sea.

The sea.

Calm, placid, peaceful, gentle, inevitable, unchanging, unmoved.

Unbroken.

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Control Agendas?

Overheard behind a bedroom door at 6:30 this morning:

“Bertie, shut the door.
Bertie, shut the door.
Bertie, shut the door.
Bertie, shut the door.
Bertie, shut the door.
Bertie, shut the door.
Bertie, shut the door.
Bertie, shut the door.”

“Stop saying that!”

“I haven’t said it a million times yet. A million times is MUCH more than that!”

Summer Growth…?

We collided in the bathroom, he and I, both blurry-eyed, jagged-haired, warm and smelling of sleep.

“When are we going to go into your bedroom with my brothers and say ‘happy birthday’?”

“Any minute now.”

He gave me a bashful smile. Seven years old. So big… 😉

And he stood before the mirror and gasped.

With genuine surprise.

“Mummy… I’m taller!”

A poet in the making?

We waited in line for school to begin.

He followed the number-snake, twisting through the playground, hollering the numbers as he galloped towards playgroup.

“…twenty-eight, twenty-nine, THIRTY!” he shouted as he landed on the snake’s head.

“What rhymes with thirty, Bertie?” I enquired innocently.

(Can you see what I did there?)

He gave it a moment’s thought, before yelling…

… “EIGHT!”

Bertie (and Linda)

Bertie had put on his pyjamas, amazingly, in record time.

Only to have to take them off again for his bath.

He wasn’t awfully pleased.

It didn’t stop the endless chatter, though.  He talked me through his day at playgroup with Linda.

“Mummy. You like me.” He announced.

“I do?” I asked.

“Yes. Remember? I’m a character.”

“Linda said so.”

Too Much Mars!

He came out of playgroup as full o’ beans as he went in, Tiggered all the way home, and collapsed on the sofa.

“Can I watch a film?”

“Okay, sweetie.”

A Disney (almost unavoidable), the music began, opening credits rolled and the fairytale castle appeared.

As I walked away, his little voice announced, laden with excitement:

“MISSILES!”

“No, darling…

…Fireworks.”