I have an old teddy bear that’s travelled all over with me since a a close friend of mine gifted it to me for Valentine’s Day my second year of high school. That makes Teddy old enough to drink in America and run for public office in Ireland. He’s even had at least one heart surgery to repair some stuffing issues. He usually hangs out by my pillow in bed. Point is, he’s getting on in years and he’s mine, not my son’s.
Sometimes on very lazy mornings, however, like this bank holiday Monday, all three of us (five, if you count Teddy and our toddler’s giraffe) all laze about in bed. The toddler brings books to us and we take turns reading to him or we just watch him as he clowns around in our bed until we can’t put off getting up anymore. It’s as close as we all get to a lie in as parents without any sort of external intervention.
Today, after the pile of books has been exhausted, Hawkeye’s enthusiasm kicked into high gear and he was throwing himself around the bed at top speed, the way toddlers like to do. At some point he got a hold of Teddy, requiring some admonishment to be gentle with him and not throw him around. Beyond that I wasn’t paying much attention to what Hawkeye was doing or shouting, other than taking precautions against unexpected flying knees and elbows.
But then something in my toddler’s babble permeated my morning haze. I started listening to what he was excitedly shouting about.
“Where’s my teddy? Is that my teddy?”
“That’s not my teddy! It goes ptui! That’s Ol Foul Ron!”
And well that just made morning because I know we’ve been reading the right books to him. It was even worth an accidental headbutt. Hawkeye’s middle name is in fact drawn from the vast world of Pratchett’s Discworld so the fact that he already knows Lady Sybil, Sam Vines, Young Sam, Coffin Henry, and that you should never let Lord Vetinari detain you (and not to try milking a chicken) makes me very, very happy.
The Feathered Rose 