My children may be getting on a bit, they may look mature, but I realised this week that they’re just grown-up kids.
We have a new huge cardboard box in my family, that’s when it started. It sits in the living room because there’s nowhere else for it to go, it won’t fit through the doors. I don’t want to get rid of it though (as I might a smaller one) because it’s probably the biggest box we’ve ever had in our house and I can’t waste its unique play value, even though my youngest child is now fourteen.
It came into the house as a container for a new computer my 19-year-old son had ordered from a company that sends you the different components to put together yourself so it takes longer to arrive but it’s cheaper. Yes, I’ve raised a son who can do things like that.
‘Oooh!’ I said excitedly, ‘the box is more exciting than the contents isn’t it!!’ and he chuckled, a tad patronisingly, and got on with unpacking his new toy.
When my two youngest got home that evening though, and I was about to go and open the door for them, my oldest son suddenly catapulted into the room, breathless after having hurled himself down the stairs.
‘Mum! Mum!! Don’t let them in yet!!’ he screeched urgently, crouching down on the floor and pulling the box over him. ‘OK, now’ he whispered, ‘and don’t tell them.’
They entered and as my daughter started to say ‘What’s that…?’ he jumped up, casting off the box with a loud roar ‘It’s MEEEEE!!!.’
She collapsed on the sofa gasping and chortling, my other son spluttered and said ‘I KNEW you were in there!!!’ and I laughed helplessly, transported back to when they were all around six years old. The unique play value of the box was demonstrated for at least another half hour as they joyously exploited all possibilities for its use.
Grown-up kids eh..? Definitely can’t get rid of the box.