Saturday, June 23, 2012

Prepared, bath and a right pair.

1. I have everything laid out ready for lunch well before Alec wakes up from his extra long nap. I like this because I can concentrate on him.

2. I look down my to-do list, and there are so many lines. I've got about twenty minutes -- half an hour if I push it -- until I have to pick Alec up. I go upstairs and run myself a very quick bath.

3.  As I open the door of the buggy park, I hear a very familiar giggle from an upstairs window. When I go in, they say that Alec and the other little boy still waiting have been running in and out of the sensory room. "They've been mirroring each other: one pops round the door frame, and then the other. And one says 'Mummy' and so does the other." They are a right pair, the two of them. They are often the last two left on a Friday, and in previous weeks they've been described as "partners in crime". Alec comes home flushed and winded and wriggly -- I wish he could tell me all about his afternoon.

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