Friday, 11 June 2010
These are your legs. They are Boy Legs, bruised and a little bit dirty no matter how long your bath. They run everywhere, except when they're jumping. You like doing 'moon jumps' like Bob. They pedal your trike and chase the Gruffalo down his big hole.
They are growing, slowly. You are nearly three and your 12-18m trousers are just half an inch too short. When you are thirteen you will wish your father and I were taller, but I know you will be a funny boy which girls like too. For now we are spending the summer in shorts.
At the table, your legs swing and kick, especially when you are making up stories. Yesterday they kicked me. I sent them, and you, to bed for that. You can kick a football without falling over, stand in first position and 'make a window', although you refuse to say plie. You can climb to the top of the big slide without my help.
You have ticklish toes and can put on your own shoes, though not always on the right foot. I grew those legs, although they have lost their rolls of baby chub which your sister is still modelling. You ask for 'magic cream' for the bruises that have appeared as if from nowhere. It is nothing but moisturiser but it makes you happy.
These are the legs that are taking you to pre-school and beyond. I shout 'don't run!' and mean it in more ways than one.