We have a bald Indian Miner that lives in our garden. We’ve named him Garibaldi.
We feed him and this winter Ben wanted us to knit him a hat and scarf. For the bird. Not Ben. He’s a regular visitor and if after a few days we haven’t seen him, we start to stress. Has he moved on? Has he sounds better home? Has he died? And then, as if called, he appears.
We love Garabaldi and feel blessed that he’s decided to call our garden home.
Of course, this isn’t a post about a rather unfortunate looking bird, it’s about every, or most parents’ worst nightmare.
Ben and his buddy were upstairs in the bathroom. Ben was sitting, fully clothed, in an empty bath and Kopsi was having a poo, which he showed me, just so I’d believe him. Everything seemed fine so I popped downstairs to answer my phone. A few minutes later Mark went upstairs to check on them and I heard a ‘oh crap!’ And then Mark came downstairs and said I needed to call the person back as we have a ‘situation’.
As I turned, Mark presented me with exhibit A and exhibit B.
My worst nightmare, or one of, had happened. Ben had cut Kopsi’s hair. Like any good mom I sent Mark to tell the scalped child’s parents what had happened. Thankfully they were understanding and later we had a chat with Ben about playing with scissors, cutting people’s hair, that it’s dangerous and that it could have gone very wrong. “But it didn’t!” Says Ben, who’s at an all-knowing age. “And anyway Kopsi loves his new haircut. I gave him the Garabaldi!”