The Trucks

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There’s a dump truck, a trailer, a digger, a dozer, and a roller. Each toy has a precise story, a precise history, and a name.

The stories are lengthy and I don’t hear all of them. But they are complex and detailed and make me realise how much I don’t know about what a two year old is thinking.

The dump truck has to bake biscuits, with sugar. There’s not enough sugar. The trailer is making carrots. The trollers are friends. The bulldozer has been removed from the sandpit along with a feather because they aren’t allowed to be in it.

Max talks into an orange tile and arranges for petrol from Foodland. He clicks a long code of instructions and says “cheese”. He says, “Look at this”, and shows the tile to each of the trucks.

The dump truck is sent to kindy.

A bigger truck with a crane and hook is introduced. This is for bringing in the “fish tank” and is driven by a purple and orange felt doll who has leaves (for wings) and who lives in the tyre shop. The truck also carries bowls of food and trees.

At lunch time, over enormous ham and cheese sandwiches, Max shows me how to mend a broken sandwich and how watermelon is really cold. He says that our cat is always watching us.

 

The Camera

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Max and Noah took a picture, but the camera wouldn’t work. They took seventeen photos because it is impossible to lift a thumb off the camera icon once it is down.

Usually there is another thumb over the camera lens. All they capture is thumb. Still they admire it, ‘Look at this.’

They can’t get their own heads in the frame both at once. When they manage it, they take seventeen photos of thumb. Then they examine each one as if choosing a prize family portrait. And they found one!

Eating lunch with Noah

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Noah is two years old and he’s like an owl. He sits on his knees, on the chair next to me, leaning his shoulder on mine, chummy and confiding. Turns his head, looks at me sideways. Hoots and sighs and drops bread. Eats fast.

Says, what Nanny? What did you say?

He notices a red dragonfly painted inside the rim of his red bowl. I’d never noticed it before.

He laughs and taps the bowl to show me.  See?

He’s like a clock. Head ticks up and down as he counts the bananas.

Says, I’m cold. Looks around urgently and says he’s not cold.

He leans on elbows, notices everything, breathes through his mouth, blows and sighs, climbs up, climbs down, knocks on the window. He offers me half of his banana, endlessly thoughtful.

Says, I’m a monkey. Calls out, what’s that noise?

He’s like a tugboat. Because when they overbalance and slide from the chair, they take the tablecloth (and everything else) with them, tow everything down in alarm, bringing the entire harbour; plates, cups, spoons, forks, bread, tomatoes and bananas, all to the floor.

Says, sorry Nanny, and patiently picks everything up again.

 

 

Gone

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Scraping softly across the top of the soil, they found it. The worm. They gazed down at it in astonishment.

Worm.

Noah, see.

Worm.

Where Pa?

Worm.

Worm. He’s in here.

No. Not.

They shuffled and dug and lost the worm. Great Grandma came out.

They said, Worm.

She said, Is there? That’s good.

They dug and pushed and piled things up. They breathed in garden, worm and disappointment.

Worm gone.

Great Grandma went past the other way.

They said, Worm gone.

She said, Oh well, there’ll be another.

They watched her go up the path and along the veranda.

Pa went past.

Max pointed downwards. Pa said, Good work!

They squatted down and inspected the soil. They put their noses down to the surface (just in case). Noah laid his head flat to the ground, ready for any possibility.

They waited.

 

 

The best things to have in a bookshop by Claudia Kirby, aged 9

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  1. Good books for reading.
  2. Teddy bears around the shop to hold the books.
  3. A few chairs for sitting in case you don’t want to stand up reading.
  4. Bookmarks for the books so you know where you’re up to.
  5. Business cards to say who you are.
  6. Decorations that are awesome, like peacocks.
  7. Bookends to hold stuff up.
  8. Old interesting books for people who like vintage.
  9. Books with interesting titles such as A Series of Unfortunate Events.
  10. A bookshop looks good with some fairy lights.

 Claudia Kirby, aged 9

On the way back, no way!

Over the Moon by Jimmy Lawlor

Quiet inside, but outside the shop a commotion because there is a family crossing the road and scattering in all directions; they can’t find the bakery. There seems to be about 20 people in their group, all ages, many children, prams, a dog. The group gathers and swells and somebody unseen is calling directions and one child has seen the cat in my window and wants to come in.

He is told no, no time, no time. He says, on the way back? He is told, no way!

Another child stops directly at the door and says she needs a book about stones. So that next time they go to that beach, they can keep building. Two more children press close, leaning on, breathing on the window. The adults, the pram and the dog have moved on a little way, we can still hear them. Someone is calling, just get coffee, Brad, just get coffee. The children are silent, staring sideways, looking at the voices. The oldest child taps the widow in front of the wooden cat. She says, are you coming back next year? The boy says, yep. A smaller child says, if mum says. His brother says carelessly, I’m going anyway.

The oldest child says, quick, they’re coming. Then suddenly the children are gone. Quiet again.

 

Artwork by Jimmy Lawlor

Lemons

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The neighbour’s kids up our road have made a street stall, a real market stall and they have invited us to come across to examine the goods, perhaps even make a purchase. It is a hot day, the street is silent except for the usual galahs, peering down across the stall, nosy and rude, black eyes on the lip balms (only one dollar each) in a criticising parroty kind of way.
They have arranged and re arranged the tables, written out prices and labels, created a display, argued over stock, placed a till, made a cash float, agreed on bargains. We buy a lemon, $1 each or 3 for $10. When we have made the purchase, we are handed a Free Lemon and so the exchange is a win for everyone. Later we return to purchase two red matchbox cars and a stone that has been painted (with nail polish) with mysterious symbols and could possibly be of extreme value.
Then we all go slowly home, leaving them to the afternoon rush, to continue adding goods and commodities, to discuss supply, demand and marketing strategies. The day continues warm, the sunlight drops kindly over the enterprise, the air is full of golden summer dust and brilliant, joyful ideas.

Noah leaps off the earth

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Noah is up on the big bed. When he arrived up on this new exhilarating surface that dips and falls and floats mountains all about him, his muscles suddenly grew eyes. The first dive plunged him a possible ten miles and the cushioned landing told him that he might now fly. So he did.

Gravity stepped kindly to one side and allowed him to drop and leap, spin and swim in a flightless, effortless baby way for which had had no words except “bang”. He tackled pillows and cushions head on, fell backwards, lunged up from his back to his feet and forward in a delicate, balanced arc, exploring the physics of his own weight, correctly predicting the next fall and timing it accurately with a shout: bang.

There is a collision of head and elbow and Noah rises with one hand held out, acknowledging the grandparent injury and then already wading forward into the next operation, arms raised, his bones warm with cooperation and his fingertips feeling the edges of the air and informing his shoulders of the next plan.

But then, eventually,  it is time to get down.  He surrenders his feet to the old rules of hard floors once again, walking stoutly, rolling slightly because he is not yet two, lifting his feet at shadows, printing the ground with care and precision because he is not yet two and staring down at his new knees and his new feet that are no longer buoyant and that are not yet two.

Outside

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Max is outside, there is much to do. He pushes his baby wheelbarrow, leaning forward into hard work, inside it a pair of secateurs that he isn’t allowed to have, a bone, some gum leaves, an iris blade, a bottle top and a feather; a heavy load of world treasure all of which needs to be banked. He pulls at fragrant plants releasing startled beads of mint, lavender, lemon balm into his senses and Masie, the good kelpie, follows behind, a dignified butler, hoping for the ball which is also in the wheelbarrow, taking stalks and leaves in her mouth from him, as delicate as a surgeon. Max gets caught on hot bricks, cries for rescue, he becomes tangled in ants and cannot move, he knows they sting and he watches them swarm, all 2 of them, across his feet and cries for rescue again. He likes the bees which talk to him at head height, he likes the cat who watches him humourless and hidden. He likes water, grass seeds and old bones. It is early summer and the garden must be a thousand miles deep, yields a mixture of prickles, snails, pea straw, charcoal, an old chain, a tub full of strawberries that must be dug over vigorously and quite ruined, Pa’s boots large enough to fall into. Max tracks around and around and around pursuing the work of ten men, attended by one sheepdog, herding her young.

The Boy who Chanted a Horse Race

 

Kleine Ballerina

There is a trio of distinct people that has come up the street (quite suddenly) and burst into a family right outside the doorway of my shop. The father thought he would hide from his two children and they, who are still small and full of air and joy,  fly after him and into him, ecstatic with the game, outraged with his hiding place which is far too easy.

They exclaim on the poverty of his choice.

You never find a good place!

And their father, who is also young, raises both hands in the air, cannot defend himself does not even try because he is weighed down and drooping with adoration for the pair of them, brother and sister, one with undone clicking shoelaces and the other with one tooth missing and all three of them lean over caught in  mirth and liking each other quite immensely, I thought.

Briefly they glance in the window and they see Hairy Maclary, the book itself leaning into the joy and the girl shouts it’s Hairy Maclary and their father shouts, not to be outdone: you’re Hairy Maclary, and then they all of them, breathe at the cleverness and move on, father and son running, but the little girl, well, she dances.

The boy, as they leave, is chanting a horse race at great speed and with peppered clarity and his sister obeys into a whooping gallop of her choice and the father shouts as they move away and down the footpath: who is winning, who is winning… and then they are faint in the distance and the cold, and it seems to me that the day itself pauses thoughtfully and must record this brief, outrageous triumph.

Sculpture by Malgorzata Chodakowska
The Kleine Ballerina