If I could wrap my children in a protective layer of safety and security — like some kind of Teflon kiddie coating, but without the carcinogens, I’d totally do it. I’m at my happiest when my kids are wearing their helmets — not necessarily for biking, but just you know, around.
Sebastian is clearly a big boy. He needs less and less protection from his smother, er mother. But this doesn’t mean I won’t stop reminding and nagging. Thankfully he’s a good sport about it.
“Look at you mum. You’re growing as a person.” he’ll joke. And then I’ll make a remark about my big bum and we’ll laugh, oh how we’ll laugh (as I’m quietly sobbing and cursing the Frito Lay company in my head).
I don’t think he feels suffocated and I really am trying to loosen the reins and trust that we’ve taught him well. But hot damn it’s hard. I partially blame having a serial child killer on the loose in my neighbourhood when I was growing up. That sh*t will mess you up. Clifford Robert Olson is the subject of many scary dreams, past and present.
Hence the current bubble wrapping situation…
When FedEx dropped off a package the other day as we were playing outside I “jokingly” wrapped them both up in the bubble wrap from the delivery box.
They posed and played along because that’s what you do when your mother is a blogger with an iPhone grafted to her hand. (They’ve learned the sooner they stop protesting, the sooner they can get back to their scooters.)
P.S. Of course I’d never wrap them up like that for real. They’d never let me. Plus it could be an actual suffocation hazard…
