Tom started pre-school about 2 months ago. He is a bright, demanding little boy who was ready for immersion in a new hands-on sort of experience, the kind that good pre-schools provide. I'm not terribly concerned about the overt didactic outcomes, whether they teach the alphabet or numbers or the like. The idea that a tiny creature can be pumped full of skills and knowledge from a national curriculum board is not on my radar screen at all. He is learning fast enough at home, already has a frighteningly precocious vocabulary and picks up stuff as he needs it. Which is fine.
His pre-school is up the road in Lawson. It's parent-built and run so (given the strong sense of community we have up here) it is likely to be a nice place to go, with lots of wood and sand and books and climbing materials. And those tiny cute toilets.
This morning I went to check my post box as usual. A long blue wheat train droned past, taking all of two minutes to do so, such was its stupendous length. Sentimental fool that I am, I imagined Tom hearing the train pass him only a few minutes earlier upline (definitely possible since he is a great fan of things trainish) and how this formed a kind of connection between us. Silly, ne?
stomping in cold leaves,
the boy hears the diesel-roar sliding,
messages tumbling downline
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