FOX: Another warm, sunny day and another trip to the pool. You've become wary of water recently, you've developed a love-hate relationship with it. You love nothing more than to slash around in it with your feet and hands, just so long as it doesn't touch your face and is never deeper than knee height. Washing your hair is pretty much impossible at the moment. Luckily your a boy and you can pull off that unkempt look.
As much as I have a healthy loathing for summer, I love spring. While summer means sucking ice cubes and sticking to leather couches through forty-odd degree heatwaves, spring is perfect for lying around on the beach, slurping milkshakes, bushwalking and picking wild flowers. We have hauled the giant plastic clam out of the garage and it's now a permanent fixture in our *backyard. When it's hot enough the kids have fun splashing around in it while I lie on the swinging granny seat until the sun goes down and the mosquitoes force us to retreat inside. Oh, how I love spring.
*I say backyard but it's really just a small slab of concrete outside our flat with a lovely view of the garbage bins. But we love it all the same.
LAMB: We left daddy at home and went to the park this morning. You picked a pretty flower that caught your eye and whispered: "It's for Daddy, it's a surprise". You then proceeded to walk all the way home with the flower safely hidden behind your back. Just in case.
FOX: My baby boy, today you are 18 months old. We celebrated with chocolate milkshakes (Daddy had tea) and a trip to the beach. You also spent the morning at YiaYia's house without me or Daddy for the first time . I spent the morning fretting that you needed me. As it turns out, you had a blast and didn't miss me at all. Why are you so grown up all of a sudden?
LAMB: We were taking Nanny's dog for a walk this afternoon when you suddenly stopped still in the middle of the footpath. You stood there motionless for a while, eyes transfixed on the footpath in front of you, refusing to move. When I asked you what was wrong you said bluntly, without taking your eyes away, "waiting". "What are you waiting for?" I asked. "For the bug to cross" you replied, rather matter-of-factly. It was only then I became aware of the tiny black beetle slowly making its way across the footpath in front of you. You stood there, as still as a statue, until the beetle had completed its treacherous journey across the concrete Sahara.