...sure takes many guises.
Today, it was that of social worker/lost-child-rescuer. I was on the main enquiries desk for the most part of the afternoon, trying to resist the urge to poke myself with pins to stay awake. I had noticed this loud child earlier (and wondered, even as a mother, how his lungs could have been so DEVELOPED) wandering around looking for his mother who was esconced in a book about tattoo designs and kept waving him away, but this time, he was extremely distressed and wailing for Mummy. I knew who his mother was, so I didn't relish the task of chasing her down over the entire library.
Armed with tissues (because the candlesticks were starting to defy gravity), I briskly walked up and took his hand. I had just been working on a song sheet for the next day's Baby session, so I had "Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree" in my head. I thought everybody knew the song, so I wondered why he looked at me sideways.
Anyway, it took his mind off his deserted-child status long enough to walk around the library with me looking for his mother. She wasn't there. By this stage, my self-righteous indignation was starting to kick in. Library procedure lead me to take said child across the road to the local police station. This excited T. no end and prompted a bout of verbal diarrhoea about how the police had been to his house before (no surprises there). To his credit, he was able to give the on-duty police officer his full name, address, phone number and his mother's name - at four years old, this is no mean feat.
While we were waiting in an interview room (reading about suspect interrogation technique gave me inspiration for my own offspring), Mummy turned up. Apparently T had decided to take himself off to the local Macca's... HOW he managed to get there and back without being bowled reinforced my belief in angels. Mummy was full of blustering apologies, but I was back on my self-righteous high horse and had to resist the urge to give her a phone number for the local Parents Centre, along with one of our video hire vouchers, so she would know which way to go to avoid looking and acting more like an extra on Deliverance.
It leads me to ask the age-old question - if we have to register our dogs, why not parents for their children? I'm going off to look on Google for some kind of Parental Aptitude test.
On a totally shallow note - at least the policeman was HOT.
Today, it was that of social worker/lost-child-rescuer. I was on the main enquiries desk for the most part of the afternoon, trying to resist the urge to poke myself with pins to stay awake. I had noticed this loud child earlier (and wondered, even as a mother, how his lungs could have been so DEVELOPED) wandering around looking for his mother who was esconced in a book about tattoo designs and kept waving him away, but this time, he was extremely distressed and wailing for Mummy. I knew who his mother was, so I didn't relish the task of chasing her down over the entire library.
Armed with tissues (because the candlesticks were starting to defy gravity), I briskly walked up and took his hand. I had just been working on a song sheet for the next day's Baby session, so I had "Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree" in my head. I thought everybody knew the song, so I wondered why he looked at me sideways.
Anyway, it took his mind off his deserted-child status long enough to walk around the library with me looking for his mother. She wasn't there. By this stage, my self-righteous indignation was starting to kick in. Library procedure lead me to take said child across the road to the local police station. This excited T. no end and prompted a bout of verbal diarrhoea about how the police had been to his house before (no surprises there). To his credit, he was able to give the on-duty police officer his full name, address, phone number and his mother's name - at four years old, this is no mean feat.
While we were waiting in an interview room (reading about suspect interrogation technique gave me inspiration for my own offspring), Mummy turned up. Apparently T had decided to take himself off to the local Macca's... HOW he managed to get there and back without being bowled reinforced my belief in angels. Mummy was full of blustering apologies, but I was back on my self-righteous high horse and had to resist the urge to give her a phone number for the local Parents Centre, along with one of our video hire vouchers, so she would know which way to go to avoid looking and acting more like an extra on Deliverance.
It leads me to ask the age-old question - if we have to register our dogs, why not parents for their children? I'm going off to look on Google for some kind of Parental Aptitude test.
On a totally shallow note - at least the policeman was HOT.
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