The building work going on at the end of our street is great gas for a three-year-old boy. There are stones and rocks and gravel, and sometimes clay and sometimes mud and sometimes there are big, deep puddles to throw stones and rocks and gravel into. And there are diggers and graders and dump trucks and men in short shorts and big boots and helmets.
We're loving it. The morning walk to preschool these days is awesome, because the site is busy with machinery, and there's a rowdy, sweary argument or fiery cellphone call going on most days. In the afternoons it's deserted and that's when we play in the puddles and rockpiles outside the site fence.
Sometimes, like tonight, Sweeney wants to hang around throwing stones into the air longer than I do. Even though it's only a couple of hundred metres from our house, there's no leaving him there. This Aisling Symes thing is horrible and I can't see coverage of it without feeling all wrenched about for that poor family. I'm really hoping that she's parked up in a warm cave close by with loads of nutritious drinks and snacks on hand, and that nothing terrible's happened at all. She's just been absorbed in some great toys and books, maybe.
I know it's not very likely, but it's how I'd like it to turn out, please.
In other news, I found a book about firefighters yesterday, which Sweeney has pronounced "cool". We've read it a million times in 24 hours, and today he took it for the Treasure Basket. Every red vehicle he owns is now a fire engine, and the straps on his backpack are hoses for putting out fires we might encounter on the street.