Once upon a time there was a small green spoon. It arrived in a flurry of snow, soot and glitter, tumbling through the skies by magic and jingle bells until at last it found itself safe, snug and warm, cosied up with its brother and sister spoons in a dark punctuated only by the stars of twinkle lights shining through the canopy above.
Morning came, heralded by a baby’s squeal of excitement and high pitched fast chatter and the patter of little feet that just couldn’t keep still. The spoon waited, and waited, content in the happiness that radiated out from those voices, and knew that its turn was to come.
And with an “oh they are awesome!”, the spoon came up and out and into the dawnlight and the spoon was home.
I know it sounds like a strange stocking filler, a bunch of spoons, but my delight was utterly genuine because these are awesome spoons; a little bundle of six Rice melamine spoons tied up with string; a red, a pink, an orange, a pale blue, a turquoise blue, and a green. They’re a riot of delectable colour and I loved them instantly. As did Kitty, who chose them, and, it seems, so did Pip.
Because it was mere moments later that he first started to make off with them, first the whole bunch, and then when he figured out that wriggling the string a bit could make it fall off, by individual handfuls. And every time I’d scoop them back up, and try to put them further out of his reach (a tall task in our household) and get on with making Christmas breakfast and all the fun and games that comes with the morning.
it was the plinky plink sound that first alerted me to what he was up to. I was stood at the sink looking out into the garden and when I turned around a certain someone was leaning over the bin with my pink spoon in his hand.
And in it went.
We scooped up our wee boy and rescued one, two, three, four, five spoons. But not the green one. We looked in the bin again but no sign of it, looked back in the lounge, in my stocking, under the footstool, in among the wrapping paper, but nothing.
Which is how I found myself donning the rubber gloves on Christmas morning to go through the bin all the way down to the bottom (thankfully mostly wrapping paper at this point) in search of my present. I found nothing of the green spoon variety, and neither did H went he went through it again later.
we gave it up as lost and just enjoyed the spoons I did have (they only add to the flavour of a really great Christmas pud). And so life went on.
Until this week, when I had cause to go digging for the mop bucket. Lest you think me terribly slovenly I should say that we sweep and swiffer regularly but only have a tiny bit of floor that needs a full scale mopping so it’s more of a monthly thing unless occasion demands.
I took the mop out, lifted the bucket up to fill it at the sink and there, sat gently in the bottom, was my missing green spoon.
Baffled doesn’t come close. Why did five spoons need to go in the bin but one in the mop bucket?
And whilst I would dearly love it if Pip would stop putting important things in the bin (we seriously thought he’d put my bank card in there the other day until it turned up in the play kitchen), more than that I would love to know why.
Babies and toddlers are such intensely logical beings; they quite often get the answer completely wrong but it’s a logical wrong, at least in their minds anyway. Elma hid a tin of biscuits under the pile of quilts in the corner of our lounge for an entire day this week because H had told her that if she wanted one she’d have to check with Mama first and she wanted to make sure that nothing happened to them while I was at work. Only as we sat down to supper did she unearth them and It was far too cute to do anything but say yes.
So while we continue to scan the Internet for “bins that would be hard for a very tall one year old to open”, I’m open to suggestions- what possible explanation can you come up with for green meaning mop bucket and red, orange, pink, blue and turquoise needing to be evicted from the house?
Joining Katie at Mummy Daddy Me for The Ordinary Moments