Dearest David,
Today you turn nineteen months old. Because I’m is a bit rubbish and didn’t realise this until last night, here’s a photo of you asleep on Nana’s shoulder, and I’ll write you a proper newsletter over the weekend. Promise.
Love,
Mummy
Dear Fellow Shoppers at our Local Friendly Small Supermarket,
Let’s talk about car-park ettiquette. That parent and child space? It’s for a parent, and their child. Not for your flashy big BMW with stupid England flags attached, or your massive rustbucket white van, or your Audi A6 filled with ski equipment and a dog- it’s quite plain that none of the cars have so much as seen a car seat.
My son is eighteen months old. He isn’t capable of walking safely across a busy car park, he’s simply too little to understand that he needs to hold my hand until we’ve crossed the road, and not flop down in the middle of the car park because he has to hold my hand, and to not have a screaming fit because he has to walk where I want him to. Most eighteen-month-olds are, well, pretty much exactly the same. I imagine that’s why the car park designer put the spaces where they did, not because parents are too lazy to walk an extra couple of yards like you appear to be.
When my son is asleep, or in such a foul mood that I won’t consider letting him walk, I need to put him in the sling, or the pushchair. For this, I need somewhere safe to stand, like, you know, additional space around the car? Or a safe footpath nearby? Know of any spaces like that? Oh yes, your twatmobile is parked in it.
And when I ask, politely, if you realised whether was a parent and child space (when you clearly did), please don’t deny that it is, and you’ve parked like a complete dick. A simple “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll move the car” will suffice. But only if it’s followed by you actually moving the car.
So, if you don’t move, and I happen to drop by the customer service desk on the way in, I can’t promise that someone won’t come and clamp your lovely, shiny motor. I can’t promise I won’t happen to take a photo of your car parked in the parent and child space, and name and shame you on the Internet (well, I’m a photographer. Breaking rules is an interesting topic for me.). And I can’t promise, especially if I’ve had to squeeze into the standard space beside you, that my car-loving son won’t come and leave enthusiastic grubby fingerprints all over your paintwork. And I can’t promise that if he does, I’m going to be particularly keen to stop him.
Are we pretty much clear?
Ta.
This is my post for the Gallery at Sticky Fingers. Head over there and have a look!
My little boy turns eighteen months old next week.
He’s no longer a baby, he’s a toddler, a little boy, a kid. He has an independent streak a mile long. He’s big enough to choose his own clothes: he utterly refuses to entertain the concept of trousers. He barrels around everywhere at ninety miles an hour, stopping occasionally for a second or two to pick a daisy, examine the pattern on the bricks, pick up gravel from the drive. He talks in sentences. ”Mummy, go car now? Go car? VROOOM!”. He’s obsessed with cars, like his dad: he can name most of the marques we see when we’re out in the car. He loves to read.
I adore watching him run off to discover new things. I also love that he comes running back for a cuddle, or to take my hand and show me what he’s discovered. I love the closeness we have when I feed him, or when he’s snuggled next to my chest in the sling. I can’t bear to hear him cry: when he cries for me I run to him.
He knows that he’s secure, that he’s loved, and with that he can find his feet at his own pace and know that he can come running back to me.
The quote that sums it up for me, I think, is ”It is the nature of the child to be dependent, and it is the nature of dependence to be outgrown. Begrudging dependency because it is not independence is like begrudging winter because it is not yet spring. Dependency blossoms into independence in its own time.”
I just hope it won’t be too soon.
