It’s not my only success in guiding him to a better life. Already I’ve convinced him that CJ Dennis is the world’s finest poet, putting even Shakespeare in the shade. I imagine one day he’ll go to university and surprise his lecturers by proposing a PhD in Australian comic poetry of the early 20th century. Oh, and I’m also beginning to teach him the attraction of high-pressure hosing.
Yet, when it comes to obsessions, it’s a two-way street. Much of the time, it’s Pip who is the instigator, with me as his loyal disciple.
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Toy cars might seem boring, but not when you do the sound effects as you run them up and down the sides of the couch, occasionally crashing them. And playdough might, at first sight, seem limited as a means of expression – right until the moment you decide to turn it into a festive crown.
I don’t recall these moments from my years as a parent, although I suppose they happened. Perhaps I was too busy – feeding my children, watering them, remonstrating with them – to just sit and absorb the lessons that they were there to teach.
On a trip to the zoo, for example, Pip presents a lesson on attention: anything is interesting if you choose to bless it with your focus. And so, with a large tiger on the other side of the glass, Pip’s attention is instead on a chicken, which marches around on our side of the barrier.
I try to direct his gaze to the tiger, before realising my mistake. On what possible grounds is one animal inherently more interesting than another? Pip cannot be faulted for his choice. The chicken is fascinating once you study its chaotic movements.
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Then another example: Pip points out the log against which the tiger leans, while somehow still ignoring the tiger. He finds the log interesting, and – after affording it my attention to an equal extent – I’m forced to agree. The log is captivating – shimmering with moss, dappled with light, dented by time. You just need to pay sufficient attention.
Later – in Pip’s opinion – a pigeon wins out over a flamingo; a climbing rope beats the monkey that’s clambering along it; and a moat proves more fascinating than the animals spotted on its far shore.
Then, once we’re home, the pattern is repeated: a toy is defeated by the cardboard box in which it was supplied.
Soon it’s time for another banana. Pip carefully removes the first section of the peel, and we head out to the compost. The bin is quite stinky – a sign we haven’t added enough cardboard. Personally, I blame the Assistant Manager.
Luckily, when compost is involved, he’s willing to give up his new favourite toy. The cardboard box is torn to shreds and in it goes.
At this rate, I’ll need to award him a promotion.
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