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Fridays are a bit hectic for me. My son has an hour of extra-curricular activities after school, 30 minutes of gymnastics followed by 30 minutes of street-dance. Or it might be the other way around.


I pick him up straight after he gets dropped off by the walking-bus (a life/sanity saving system employed by schools to help busy parents avoid having to go to the school to pick up their kids, due to work commitments or otherwise) bundle him into the car, change him in the front passenger seat and drive around to the village hall – where the classes are held. I then carry him across the road – sans shoes, to save time – shoulder my way through the small ‘waiting room’ and hurl him into the hall.


I’m in such a rush because my daughter stays in the car while I do this. The lady-on-the-door (LOTD) keeps an eye on my car, she seems to perfectly understand my situation. Maybe she had a pair of kids like that when she was my age, one that was fairly easy to manage, and obeyed commands (my son) and the other that behaved to all intents and purposes like King Kong when he breaks his chains. Except my daughter isn’t interested in Fay Wray, or Naomi Watts. No, she just wants to wander into the road and then eat everything in sight. She’d eat Naomi Watts if you covered her in cheese.


She also like bananas.


I could get my daughter out of the car, head across to the village hall and remain in the waiting room with all the other parents who want to be anywhere else but there, feeling time slow down to a crawl, avoiding eye contact and trying to breathe through my mouth to avoid the sweaty-foot-odour that pervades the room.


I could also flick toothpaste into my eyes, both options are equally appealing.


This Friday was no different. We did all the usual rigmarole after school,  then after a journey back home we went to pick him up in the car, parking opposite the aforementioned village hall. I dashed across, to see if they were finished. ‘Are they finished….’ I began to LOTD, but looking through the small window in the village hall entrance-door I could see my son still racing around a during one of his classes (street dance? gymnastics??). He was waving pink fluffy things around. ‘Oh…’  I continued, ‘He’s waving some pink fluffy things around’ I knew the name for these pink fluffy things, but just couldn’t bring it to mind. ‘No, they’re not finished yet but I’ll give you a wave when they are’ replied LOTD.


I headed back over to the car and got comfy while we waited, my daughter and I. She’s slightly elevated in her seat at the back, and can see into the hall. ‘Is he coming?’ she asked me. ‘Not yet’ I said ‘He’s still either dancing or…gymnasticing…he’s doing something with pink fluffy things’. My daughter shuffled around in her seat behind me. ‘Daddy?’ she said, questioningly. ‘Yes?’ I replied. ‘Is he dancing with his pom-poms?’


My jaw dropped slightly. ‘Yes’ I said to her, ‘He’s dancing with his pom-poms’.


She’s only two-years-and-three-quarters old, and yet she can still name one of the most famous dance accessories in the world quicker than her forty-year-old dad.


Now the question is, is that a good thing or a bad thing…..?