Priceless. The expression on his deeply befuddled, two year old face is perfectly, priceless.
Strapped into his car seat, strapped to the back seats of the car, is a two year old boy who has been stopped in his tracks. This is no longer a standard collection of the children from their respective fathers, instead our youngest is dazzled, dumbfounded and dubious of everything in front of him. All traces of what was an impending tantrum have totally vanished, no more kicking, no more whining and no more... anything really; he is sat perfectly still and silent. This is because his mother, Mrs G, has just stolen his nose. Now I've seen this done to kids who are 7 or 8, but they're not phased by yet another repeat of "this old trick". This rendition however, is different. This is a first, it's a total shock to his system and the result, is complete amazement.
Casting my mind back just two hours before this and I'm queuing in a supermarket, hands full... (probably three items truth be told, but that hardly seems basket worthy)... waiting on the only self service (insert immature giggle) checkout that accepts cash. I scan through the loaf of bread, bacon, butter, cheese twi..."assistance required". I let out a brief sigh, to quietly indicate my despair with having to wait until I am noticed as needing assistance, but I'm patient. Eventually I am approached by the lady who runs the "master checkout" and I am cleared to proceed with the purchase of my cheese twist. There's a few seconds of polite back and forth between the "master checkout lady" and I before I leave the shop to head home.
In true British fashion I relay my entire "ordeal" to Mrs G who listens attentively. But something goes wrong. Just as I'm getting into the swing of a nice grumbling rant ...making sure I re-live every last detail and properly recreate the desolate atmosphere of a packed shop and the bravado required to survive it... I realise I have no idea what colour eyes the assistant had. We had a good two minute conversation, she was quite bubbly and very friendly, I've even explained to Mrs G that I thought she was a bit of a "personal space invader", but I never took in the colour of her eyes.
Back to the present and we've returned home, all features reattached to their appropriate faces (for a moment there I'm pretty sure I wasn't wearing my nose) and the kids are now all tucked up in bed. Mrs G turns and asks what's wrong? Apparently I've had a furrowed brow since we collected the kids and she's got no idea why. I explain that the amazement of having a nose stolen for the first time had left me feeling... a little jealous, particularly after the realisation I had completely blanked the face of my supermarket superhero. All Mrs G has to do is position one thumb, between two fingers, and the whole world stops for our littlest trouble-maker ...the lucky sod... and I felt a little disappointed that I no longer had that sense of wonder, like anything was possible.
So she suggested that I take the time to notice more, take more of life in. Stop and smell the flowers from time to time! Choose new food based on thought rather than habit! Listen to some new music, pick up a new book or just do something I've not done before! So that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to be more present, more thoughtful, more inquisitive...
Lookout world! I'm looking for my nose!
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