What Children See

Ok so you should whizz over this post if you are bored of my playgroup stories because here comes another one.

Tinker and I braved the soggy weather this morning and went along for another morning of teal paint splatters on my violet Gucci hobo bag *ahem* I mean another morning of fun and creativity...

Things were going quite well, I had my takeaway latte and my little bunny had her biscuit. Things were good on the baby trampoline. Sun was starting to peek through and I was not feeling as fat as I had when a mirror was in sight.

I noticed a little boy playing with a big and a small ball. He was about 5 years old and he was sitting over near the playroom where most of the older kids play. I noticed none of the others were playing with him and I saw that he kept bouncing the ball toward them and his mum would fetch it and bounce it back. He was making some big sounds but they weren't proper words. I saw that he had Down Syndrome.

My heart sunk and I felt tears in my eyes, the ones I still get everytime I see a Huggies ad or read anything involving children and babies. The day I became pregnant something in me clicked and I became a massive softie who cries at least once a day over anything to do with little ones. Tinker had seen the balls and made a beeline for the little fellow. I was so pleased. She was so cute playing with him and he was so happy to have a ball bouncing partner even if she did occasionally steal it when he hadn't finished bouncing it. After a while she tired of the game as all toddlers do, she only has a short attention span so we went over to the baby cars for a while.

I feel really guilty that I didn't chat with his mummy, but the truth is I was doing that blinking thing. You know the thing where you blink really hard and really slowly when you don't want to cry in public? I felt so sad for her that I couldn't even bear to make eye contact with her at all. I was so angry with the other older kids there. I felt like pushing them over or at least smearing them with a bit of the paint Tinker splashed on my bag.

I didn't think children that young were able to see difference like that. I didn't think kindergarten kids could be so discriminatory? I was horrified and I am still feeling those tears as I type this post. That lovely little boy, his mother's heart must break every day she encounters people treating her little fellow differently. Gosh I feel sad when kids point to my stunning Tinker with her hair like spun rose-gold and say "look that baby has ORANGE hair ha ha!!"

Today really crushed me, I think it says so much about how important it is to be good teachers for our kids. My parents always taught me to be kind to everyone no matter how different they were to me. I grew up playing with wonderful Austistic children because of my dad's job. I never understood why other kids would make fun of children with disabilities.

What are your thoughts on this, was I wrong to feel cross with those children, should their parents have encouraged them to play with the little boy, could it have been a coincidence, what do children see when they see kids who are different?

Oh and on a completely shallow meaningless housekeeping note, how do I get the paint off the canvas on my bag?

Talent

A piece of art that only a mother could love.

The picture above was taken today, my Tinker tried her clever little hand at painting at playgroup today and that was her creation. It was quite an ordeal. The paint, the children, the paint, the children. Have I mentioned the wet paint?

I'm not good with mess as you probably gathered when I confessed to arranging spices in alphabetical order in my pantry so toddler art was really a realm of playgroup that we really shouldn't have entered.

While the other mothers were saying "Oh darling use blue for the sea, blue. Oh how pretty that is just wonderful Johnny" I was also saying those things loudly, or something similarly supportive all the while in my quiet-don't-let-other-parents-hear voice I was saying "ok this white cable knit cardigan is hand wash only sweet lamb lets try not to lean onto the paper as we paint it ok?"

Then we had the ordeal of putting Tinker's wet paint hands into this big tub of murky paint water that all the other little wet paint hands had been in and then drying them on a communal towel. Since I'd made no friends at our new playgroup I managed to bite my tongue and hide my horror and even managed some small talk with another mummy while my talented artiste plunged her precious hands into the grubby paint water abyss. Oh I'm so not cut out for ikky work sans anti-bac gel let me tell you.

Anyway I was then faced with a dilemma. The painting was wet and had to dry before it entered my car let alone my house so we had about 30 minutes to kill while it dried. Being the awesome team-player type that I am, I had timed our playgroup attendance down to the minute so that we would be able to leave before the closing bell where (I'm told) all the uber chipper mummies get together with their kids and tidy up all the toys and activities. So not for me.

So there I stood. Mother of the Year wondering whether to ditch the Tinker's first ever painting because there was no way it would dry before closing bell, or whether I'd be the team player and pitch in with the massive clean up. Hell I could have even started the whole group singing The Wheels On The Bus... It was quite the conundrum. I was torn. Tinks and I distracted ourselves with some time on slide and then we read Possum Magic about 16 times. I checked on the painting and of course it was still wet. All 1 square metre of it...

I was gearing up to go, abandoning her artwork at the centre like a girl child in Yemen when Tinker piped up "painting where are you? painting?" so I gathered her up, proudly reclaimed her stellar artwork from amongst the talentless offerings of the other children and marched to my car. That's the kind of gal I am. Selfless, stoic and totally honourable.

Meanwhile I felt a slight pang of guilt about the clean up but when I got home and discovered some wet teal coloured smudges on the grape Dazzle stroller that lives neatly in my car boot I felt that all was fair in love and war. I spent a good 15 minutes cleaning the paint off my car, Tinker got her painting and I'm sure that Kumbaya type mother who had skipped over earlier to jabber a welcome to my daughter in tragic baby talk had happily done my share of the clean up anyway.

Medal? Anyone want to give me one?