A few weeks ago when we were at our local children’s centre at a group, the fire alarm went off. To be fair, it was very loud, and we hadn’t been warned so it wasn’t just a practice. Andrew was playing across the room from where Joel and I were sat, so I looked immediately over at him and he started to scream! So I rushed over to him, and as I did, a kind member of staff who was in the room offered to take Joel, who hadn’t batted an eyelid at the noise, and I picked up a howling Andrew with his hands over his ears. We filed out into the playground, of course without coats, so Andrew ended up wearing an adult denim jacket and Joel a blanket from a friend’s buggy that was outside. It turned out to be something like they’d burnt some toast in the kitchen, so it wasn’t too long before we filed back in again. Andrew calmed down after we’d got out of the building way from the noise. You may be wondering what’s so funny about that?
Well, ever since this incident, Andrew has managed to recount bits of this story at least once a day. He is now obsessed with spotting fire alarms in other buildings – “Look, Mummy, there’s a fire alarm! Fire alarm make a big loud noise. Andrew cried fire alarm. Andrew in playground outside.” He can spot them in places I didn’t even notice, like shops, cafes and other places we go to for groups. He’s of course noticed the one we have at home, and lets me know this at frequent intervals, just in case I did’t know we had one. This fire alarm observation skill started off quite cute to my mind, then turned into being rather funny; now I’d say we’ve reached the slightly annoying stage, when I find myself apologising to people we meet at groups who have to endure yet another rendition of his fire alarm story when he spots one for the umpteenth time!
The other obsession of Andrew’s at the moment is one that surfaces in the garden. A few weeks ago when Granny and Grandad came to visit, Grandad found a few of those flowers that you can blow on and the seeds fly away in the wind. Of course Andrew learnt the word for them, or so I thought, until earlier this week when we were in the garden where there were still quite a few left that he hadn’t picked with Grandad. As Andrew picked one himself, I asked him what it was, to which came the reply: “a sandyline”. Although I thought this was rather cute, I thought I’d better gently correct him, by saying “Yes well done, that nearly right, it’s a dandelion”, which he repeated back to me as “a Daddylion”. Again, he was winning me over in cuteness, but I replied similarly to the last time, and his third attempt was perfect.
Just like I think this picture is perfect! (Grandad took this one, it’s far too good to be one of my snaps)
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