I need at this point to vent just a little bit.
A few readers, possibly only my Mother, may remember that a few weeks ago we went to the Transport Museum. While there, I bought the spud a toy in exchange for him completing a chart full of stars for doing something in particular. This toy was a bendy bus.
After a hard day's play, it went on top of the wardrobe to await the completion of the star chart and that thing has been up and down, up and down, on and off the top of that wardrobe for weeks. For quite a while now, however, it's been down. All the time. The spud, I am delighted to say, is now reliably performing a particular action. I admit, I am happy about that.
The trouble is that the cycle of taking away and giving back the bendy bus has meant that, like anything which is likely to disappear at any moment, it has achieved an aura of desirability which none of his other toys can match. Thus, teddies and bunnies and even Tigger and Lizzie Dog languish at his feet while the bendy bus, over a foot of hard plastic with pokey corners, slumbers gently beside him. Under his duvet. On its side like a sleeping puppy I am NOT kidding you.
Every night we take it out of his bed and put it on the floor so he won't bruise himself or crush it and every morning he wakes up wailing 'MY BUS MY BUS MY BENDY BUS WHERE'S MY BENDY... oohhh, I got it!'. He carries it in with him when he wakes us up for a cuddle in the morning. He takes it to the toilet and puts it carefully down before having a wee. It perches on the side of the bath while he plashes around with his bubbles. He reluctantly leaves it behind in the mornings with a small sob and, apparently, he talks about it all day.
I am SO SICK of the bendy bus. I am sick of hearing about it, fixing the tyres, playing with it, taking it out of his bed, placating him when he breaks a bit of it, listening to its little friction motor going on and on and on, tripping over it, sitting on it, talking about how Einstein has a red one but Charlie has a blue one and fielding requests to go back to the transport museum to buy a little one; but mainly, I am sick of him rabbiting on and on and on and on and on and on about it.
I am sick of the bendy bus. I confess, I am, I truly truly am. Damnable contraption.
I am sick of the bendy bus but I will probably buy him a little one for his Christmas stocking because I love him THAT much.
I should just buy myself a whipping post at the same time. Clearly, I love my son, but I must hate myself.