When your child gives you flowers, you get happy about it. You just do. Igge’s given me flowers before – he usually picks the petals off a flower in somebody’s flower bed and gives the cadaver to me. Preferably in this situation, the owner of the flower bed comes out the door, just to catch a grown woman standing standing outside their building, holding a flower pulled up by its roots and without petals. They wouldn’t see the child since he’s off to massacre the next flower bed. Embarrassing every time.
Yesterday, when I picked the child up from preschool, he picked me a bouquet of autumn flowers. Aaaawee. I tried to throw them away every chance I got, the whole way home. Igge then shouted “oh no!” with his hands on his cheeks, and ran back to gather the bouquet again and give it to me. I didn’t drop it, but now I had to pretend that I did and keep it even tighter this time.
It was very difficult to push the pram, keep track of the child and hold on to that bouquet I’ll tell ya.
This was only the beginning…
