Owen is grappling, fiercely, with time.
– Will I be four tomorrow?
– No, you won’t be four until June. You’d better enjoy being three.
– Will I be four at Christmas?
– When is Christmas?
– In December. It’s next month. Right now it’s November.
– (whispers) Is it Christmas today?
– No. Go back to sleep. (He does)
Morning, discovering Owen in our bed:
– How long have you been here?
– Oh, just a couple of whiles.
– Mummy, when I grow up I want to be an Instruction Worker and fix bridges. All the bridges what are broken I will fix fix fix and people will be so happy when their bridges aren’t broken. Isn’t that a good idea, Mummy?
-When will you be grown up, Owen?
– In one hundred weeks.
– That’s a lot. You’ll be five in one hundred weeks. Can you count to a hundred?
– Oh, no, Mummy.
Are all children in such a hurry to grow up? Owen gets furious if we call him a baby (I don’t, but Duncan loves to provoke him, and after baths picks him up like a kicking, yelling, 50-pound “baby”). He even gets mad if anyone says he’s cute. “I’m not cute. I’m not a baby. I’m big.” And he is big, no question.
Still, I wish he’d slow down a little on his road to maturity – at least for a couple of whiles.