Coming home.

The walk to school is the easier half of the school run, it’s downhill.  You’d be forgiven for thinking this would make it more enjoyable.  It’s usually a wrestle of hands as the three and seven year old grapple me then try and run after the none year old.  It’s a slog of ‘don’t kick that’ ‘stop running’ ‘wait there! ‘ ‘walk!’ ‘Mind the dog poo’   The return?  Not quite so easy yet there is one particular instance when it becomes one of my favourite times of the day. I love picking the three year old up from nursery.

At the moment the skies are blue (ish) the birdsong is deafening and you see the occasional squirrel running past.  There is no split attention and no hurry.  We take our time.  The three year old is exuberant from his morning at nursery, extra animated and full of life. He runs out to meet me with his tiny hands clutching his treasures.


He walks on the walls and points out all the cats. He questions all the sounds and shows off his latest superhero powers.  The streets are empty.  For these moments the world is ours.

We stop as he selects the stick du jour and giggle as he clip clops up the path riding what is today a stick horse.


I cherish his little hands in mine, his hands that will once day shape the world.  I inhale his chatter and giggles.  I try and nurture his rampant curiosity.

One day he’ll shun my hand and if only  superficially, my company.  But for now, he’s my little hero.

Sometimes just looking at him breaks my heart and renews it again in one single breath.


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