Memories are made to be broken

When he was 3 Daniel broke a large crock lamp in the lounge and made me cry.

The first sign that something was wrong was when he came in to the kitchen looking all pitiful, arms outstretched, looking like someone had scribbled all over his Bob the Builder annual and ruined his lego model in one fell swoop.

“I’m sorry mummy” he says in a thin voice, a little crack and a warble.“I’m so so very sorry” he says, hugging me and adding a little comforting squeeze on the end.
I immediately have visions of Mia missing a digit, of blood splattered up the walls and my little girl in a faint on the hard wooden floor.

“Please please forgive me,” he continues, sending my blood pressure higher than when hubby uttered the dreaded words ‘it really is time to get Mia out of that cot and into a big girl’s bed’.

What is it about children and their ability to stop you dead in your tracks with one carefully chosen phrase?
Dan’s are usually ‘I didn’t do it’ before you’ve discovered any misdemeanor or ‘mummy, you do know how much I love you don’t you’ which has got to make you suspicious hasn’t it?

Anyway, the reason for all of this wringing of hands and hugging was because the lamp was a gift from my nana and it was the last thing she bought me before she died.

And yes it did have great sentimental value and I did cry and beat myself up for actually being stupid enough to use the darn thing instead of wrapping it in cotton wool and storing it somewhere safe like the loft or the cupboard under the stars where it would never get broken – or seen.

But really, it was of no great value and seeing my poor little man beating himself up about it made me feel 100 times worse.

My beautiful, sensitive, thoughtful little man knew I would be upset and tried to soften the blow.
And my nana would have been so very proud of him.

And now that is what I remember when I think of that lamp and my nana.

Then, of course there was the time he broke my Lego Stormtrooper keyring by forcing it into the front door Chubb lock – now that was a different matter altogether . . .

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