We had a slow, pre-schooler paced walk around the block this morning, Jono's gumboots ready for splishy splashy puddles and fun. It was freezing but dry and somewhere he could run off the energy that's built these past few days, home with a cold and no kinder. He's reached the point where he's well enough to do things, but isn't quite well enough to be with other kids - not very fun when you're a kid who likes to get out and about and play with your friends.
I was reflecting on how different his walks are to those the older two kids enjoyed at the same age. They lived on farms during those preschool years - even in Ireland, our rental home was in the middle of our landlord's dairy. The most recent farm we lived on was in country Victoria where Joe used to work. We'd often go for a wander, checking out lambs in the paddock and feeding the orphaned ones at home as pets. Tom and Sophie remember Charlie, Emily and Georgie, among others, and the tiny sweet baby who didn't last more than one night. While our local town does have the odd remaining paddock running a few sheep, it's evident Jono needs a bit more time in the country, picking up the lingo. Pointing out a lamb one day, he corrected me and said 'It's not a lamb, it's a baby sheep!' And how could I argue with that?!