Here are two of my recent attempts…
Story 1: The Trip
The ice cream falls, leading to inevitable toddler screams, face reddening to emerge a deep dark magenta.
“Mummmmmmeeeeeeeee” he shouts. She comforts. But still, I’m not at fault, his mother thinks. He was running. He was being silly. His laces were untied.
Adamant: he’s not getting another.
Soon the screaming ends, the face normalises and the little boy sits and sniffs once, twice, three times.
“Are you still hungry,” Mummy asks.
He nods a little.
“Want another?” Mummy asks.
He nods again.
“Go on then, but be careful this time,” Mummy says.
He nods again, but both know he won’t.
Story 2: The Dress
The dress was pale blue gingham, the hair long, blonde, and ringlet curly: the child, almost three, with cheeks smooth, downy and pink.
“Can I wear it tomorrow, Mummy?”
The mother looked at her husband who stifled a scold.
Ignoring her partner, she replied, “Of course, darling, if you love it that much”.
Her son did love it that much. He wore the dress daily, together with white sandals and a yellow ribbon in his hair. The nursery teachers smirked, his sister sniggered and dad disapproved.
But Mummy and son played with the dress’s lace trim, enjoying moments soon lost.