They know how to get you, these kids, don't they?
Here's how it went in the park earlier; Max was playing in the red and yellow train by the sandpit, steering wildly. It's attached to the tarmac so his passengers were oblivious, but it had the manic energy of a child who's just been given the Two Minute Warning. The all-powerful Two Minute Warning. More recently known as, the all-but-ignored Two Minute Warning. I admit that my 'Two Minutes' have a tendency to expand and contract like gutters in the sunshine, but I try my best. I tell him so. I also tell him that if he doesn't come with Oli and I 'right now' there will be no music in the car on the way home. A harsh punishment. Finally, and after Max does one last circuitous lap of the playground via the spider-web climbing frame, the three of us are are on our way, down the hill, heading back to the car. But when we get there, and are eventually strapped in, there is no music. I have to do it. The result is big wet rolling tears and wails that are only just comprehensible. The aim here, of course, is that I relent and switch the 'MUSIC ON!' But I've learnt to be quiet in moments like this. My silence makes the words I do hear, that much more heart-wrenching;
'I just want to be happy!'
'I just want to be glad of you.'
I infer that he just wants to love me but I make it so hard for him. Ouch.
Later, washing his hands for supper proves an almighty task. The diggers outside are moving and must be watched. Peace signs are shown to the 'digger mans'. I loose my patience and start counting. 1, 2, 3,
'I'm trying my best' Max says.
'Where's he picking this up?' I think.
On the way up to bed he gives me a totally impromptu kiss.
'I like you Mummy, no actually I love you' he says.
And there it is, he's got me.