This is what Tuesday morning last week looked like:
Our son has three engines: Winnie the Pooh, Mickey Mouse, and a commuter. Of the three, only the commuter still runs independently. The motor on the other two I can’t figure out yet what to do.
But on this morning, I wasn’t doing repairs. I was dealing with the aftermath of a beautiful new skill.
See, he’d been watching “Thomas the Tank Engine”. He’d seen the stories that could be made out of trains. And when he played with his train sets Sunday night, he made up his own adventures, loudly told in his slightly garbled speech.
The last part of the story involved a dramatic fall from a cliff into the water below.
Except that wasn’t water. And we have dogs.
You get the picture, don’t you?
So Monday morning, I was taking his engines apart. Because of my allergies, someone else washed the parts for me. And then Tuesday morning, I put them back together.
I find I don’t mind. I already told him that destroyed toys will it be replaced only when he’s older and stops destroying them. The more important matter, though, is that he was practicing a new skill: storytelling. And he was expanding his imagination.
I watch him play with his trains and tracks every time I take a break from my writing. I see him create stories and I share in the thrill of fast-moving trains and dismay at engines crashing. Even more amusing, my mom asked me if the show also featured cars and I said yes. Turned out Llew had taken a few cars from his car box and placed them strategically around the track. Rescuers perhaps?
I don’t always understand the story he wants to tell. Sometimes that matters little. What matters is he’s telling stories and once again, learning.