Today, the little man and I went to the park to make the most of a rare glimpse of sunshine. He had great fun, running about, occasionally climbing steps and whizzing down slides or asking to go "higher", ever "higher" on the swings. Then he spotted some twigs that had fallen on the ground from a nearby tree and his concentration was hooked. He was so busy playing with his new finds that he forgot to hang onto the roundabout and dismounted rather spectacularly head first. He was okay - he had his sticks.
As the sun descended, I tucked him up in his buggy ready for home. He was still intently playing, now with a single stick which he had spent a good half hour pretending it was a "tooty flute", holding it to his lips and making a high-pitched squeak. It was only when I had almost got home that I took a closer look at his pretend instrument and saw to my horror that it wasn't in fact a stick at all but a chewed lollipop stick. Nice.
Lesson number 325 on my journey as a mother - always check what bits of tat your son picks up from the floor.
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