I’m a big reader. I’ve always loved to read, and like lots of little people now grown big, I loved to read Where the Wild Things Are. There’s something about Maurice Sendak’s book that’s utterly magical, it transcends time almost, and is universally loved by all little children who are a little bit naughty. Ursula Nordstrom, the book’s editor, called it a good book for bad children. When I was growing up it was one of my favourites, I always wanted a room like Max’s, and then when I found out I was expecting our first boy, I wanted a boy just like Max.
As I try to write this two little boys are chasing their Daddy around the sitting room, one has a sword in his hands, the other a sword down the back of his top and is brandishing a shield, the little one occasionally gets distracted, and runs after his sister with his hands in the air pretending to be a monster, before going back to demolish Daddy. I think it’s safe to say I’ve got my wild things, and even if they don’t tell me they’ll eat me up, they aren’t a million miles away from Max.
These small things are the things I want to remember. Years ago I watched Soren blow bubbles, he chased them excitedly and was so happy to watch them pop, the light caught them and his delighted face looked back at me as I sat thinking these tiny things are the things I’m often too likely to miss, caught up as I am in everyday life. It was then I wanted to try and not forget the moments that add up to make a rounded life, I wanted, and still want, to see the little things, and to love the little things. Which is a long winded way of saying why this blog exists in an overcrowded internet, it’s my way of hanging onto their childhood, and my reason to record the small things, the things that matter the most.