Our son the bulldozer

Yesterday evening we were picking up Sir Sprout from the creche. We tend to do it every night as they get unexplainably cross if they have to keep him for night.

We peeled main layers of muck off two children remaining there to identify our son. I usually try to dress him in blindingly bright colours to fasten up the identification process.

He was in good form, busily trashing a toy tractor and shouting piercing "Hiya!-s". Through some difficulties we squeezed him into his fleece and stuck the hat on top.

As we were heading towards the door one of the teachers came over to bid him a proper goodbye. With tickles and hug and all.

"We call him Bull McCabe!" she said affectionately.

Seeing our puzzled faces she rushed to explain.

"Oh but it's a compliment. You see, Sir Sprout Foreigner does not stop for anything, neither does he go AROUND things. He goes over or through!"

We stared for a moment at our beaming boy who had used our moment of distraction and was trying to pull down a cardboard lantern hanging from the ceiling.

Then we said our polite goodbyes as Sir Sprout was blowing kisses and made an escape.

Once outside I stopped for a moment.

"Do you realize that he's gonna grow up to be quite a rogue?" I asked The Ultimate Other Half who was heading towards the car, Sir Sprout propped up onto his shoulder.

"Yes of course," he said happily.

...............................................

This morning I shared the story with The Sarcastic Colleague.

He sniggered a little.

"Well he's definitely getting that from his father!" he stated.

I must have looked a bit baffled.

"I've played soccer with him," he elaborated.

Oh. I see.