My week by Francis gay
My friend Amy runs a pre-school playgroup. She is about eight months pregnant now and her “bump” is certainly noticeable. The children in the playgroup are almost as excited by the impending arrival as she is.
“I would often get hugs from the little ones in the past,” she told me. “Now, I get twice as many.
“First, they hug me, then they hug the bump.”
I would be hard-pushed to think of many things cuter than that image.
But, on a serious note, I hope someone tells the baby this story when he or she is old enough to understand.
What a difference it would surely make to any life to know you were loved by so many – even before you arrived!
George has a hut in his garden.
He’s fitted it with coloured floor tiles, pretty lights and little camp-chairs. “It’s a place for the grandchildren to call their own,” he told me.
“When their mum was little, I built her a den out of scrap and planted bushes around it.
“Before then, her go-to place was her ‘nest’; a quilt and pillow on an exercise mat in the space between the wall and the back of the couch.
“Close enough to us to be comfortable, isolated enough to be her own wee world.”
“And you?” I asked. “Where was your space?”
He laughed. “The cupboard under the stairs, with the door cracked open for enough light to read a book by.”
There’s something special about a place of your own when you’re a child.
The overheard phone conversation went something like this.
Bob: “Hey, it’s always a pleasure to see your name on my phone screen!”
Carla: “Oh, I doubt that. I always seem to only phone you when I need help.”
Bob: “Yeah, but you ought to know how it warms a dad’s heart to be needed by his children.”
Carla: “Oh, dad, I really need to phone you more often!”
Bob: “That would be great. Now…what can I help with?”
She explained her current predicament and Bob said he’d be right over. As he apologised for rushing off, I told him it was fine, that he should go and do the dad thing.
As he headed for the car, I shouted, “Ohh, I’m going to phone you later!” “Why?” he shouted back. I grinned and said, “Just because you make it such a pleasure!”
Jack’s father-ofthe-bride speech went down really well and Louise (the bride) commented later on how lucky she was to have someone in the family who could speak so well.
He blushed and muttered something about it all being down to her.
I didn’t understand, so he explained that he used to be a terrible speaker, stuttering, quiet and hesitant. But he wanted to read his baby bedtime stories.
She never complained and gradually the stuttering disappeared, his pronunciation improved.
“Her lack of criticism,” Jack explained, “gave me time to improve.”
“I didn’t understand any of that at the time,” Louise added. “I just knew he was doing something for love.”
As he also did, I am sure, at the top table of the wedding reception.
The ring that’s on my finger, Shows the love you have for me, I gaze at it in wonder, And I know it’s meant to be, A symbol of a new life, That’s just about to start, The joy it brings is endless, As it dwells within my heart.