My Little Monkey

Do excuse me while I do the giddy mummy, yey he’s back at school dance won’t you? The house has barely survived the onslaught of another half term holiday and my little monkey is on the final leg of his very first year in big school, iced water bottle in hand and worry on his mind.
When you are five the world is stuffed full of worries. There is the “What does God look like?” worry, because if nobody knows what he looks like, then he could be anybody, he could even be sitting on the train next to you and speaking of public transport, there is the “Who’s driving his boat?” worry, which could quite frankly threaten the fun of a sail up and down the Chester waterfront, if said five year old refuses to step on the boat until the driver is in clear view. Then there is the “Pink icing” problem, because if Mummy squashes strawberries into icing sugar and dabs the whole lot on the top of a gluten free cake and the result is a girly muffin, then who knows what kind of shenanigans will occur in the lunch room, and yes, speaking of the lunchroom, how in the name of biscuits, will he survive his first school packed lunch in a few months? Will he be allowed to eat lunch with everyone else even though he’s got a funny leg or will he have to sit by himself in the classroom and Mummy when the school goes to Chester zoo, what on earth should he do, because there is a whole lot of walking involved in looking at tigers and he can’t walk so he will have to be pushed, which brings us neatly to the “Buggy or wheelchair?” debate, because if he sit’s in a buggy, the kids will think he is a baby, and he’s NOT A BABY, and if he sit’s in a wheelchair, the kids will think he’s sick and he’s NOT SICK , so maybe he could just sit down and rest every five minutes or maybe have a little lie down after he’s been in the batroom but oh no, he can’t go in the batroom, because last time he went in there he did himself a damage with a big stick because it was very dark and he doesn’t like strange dark, only his own dark and he definitely doesn’t like having his photograph taken with strange Aunties from Ireland, so tell Daddy to never make him do that again or he will cry and cry and only a lolly ice will make him better, but lolly ices might have gluten in and grown ups can’t be trusted to choose the right ones and oh no I dont want a new bedroom, and I don’t want Daddy to change his car because I like my room and Daddies clapped out old shed on wheels is lovely and I don’t want anything to change ever, ever, ever, so If I tell you my foot hurts, I want you to pretend you didn’t hear me, because then you might take me back to the hospital, and I’ll have to have another cast, and I like my leg as it is even though it is oddly hairy since the last cast came off, but could you ask the Doctor for something to fix my foot, but, you know DON’T MAKE A FUSS MUMMY…
And on and on the onslaught goes…
And I’m doing as I’m told, trying not to make a fuss, but he can’t walk for longer than five minutes, walking now involving a limp, a hop, a skip and a jump as he tries to avoid bearing any weight at all while he tries and fails to play football or run with the other kids. It’s heartbreaking, but short of keeping him permanently in a cast which may cause it’s own problems, there is no solution until the necessary bone spontaneously reforms (as it does in 98% of cases) and so it really is a matter of pushing him around in a buggy, while avoiding the eye of frowning old ladies who believe I’ve got an over-sized lazy baby on my hands…
It’s quite the most awful thing not to be able to solve a problem for your babba. I can lead him to the man sailing the boat, and tell him to think up the most wonderful person he can possibly imagine and call him God (because if there is a god, he looks like Russel Brand in my warped head). I can compromise on the grand plans I’d made for his bedroom so I do not shatter his sense of security in a fit of decorating mayhem and I can swap the (absolutely scrumptious) strawberry topped cake for a more acceptable banana muffin. I can intervene in mad Irish Auntie photo sessions and monitor the gluten content of everything form lolly-ices to the glue on the back of postage stamps… but I can’t perform a little miracle. I can’t wish a bone back. And you know what? I really thought I could.
I thought miracle working came with Mommy territory. But it doesn’t. Oh what tiny cruelties we must endure…

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