I KNOW the Little Mister will fall over, graze his knees, cut his hands, and get some bruises. But I don’t think I’m ready for it. Today, at Junglerama again for coffee group, he got a big soft cube thrown at his head. (By an over-zealous father, in an otherwise empty play-hall, who for goodness sake should have been more careful if he was going to start throwing toys around.) It didn’t quite go bang, but it flew through the air in slow motion and hit Milin on the right side of his head while he minded his own business and played with the giant plastic bricks.
Then there was the pause. The corners of his mouth turned down, and then the Little Mister spun round to look at me with his eyebrows raised, as if to ask why I’d let it happen. And then he bawled. They were big, fat tears. He wasn’t hurt, just sad and shocked.
The tears were soon gone, and it was home time for us anyway. But my heart had skipped, jumped into my mouth, and was going a hundred miles an hour as I gathered up my crying bundle and held him close. I wished in those moments he would never know pain or sadness.