Today my heart almost burst (emotionally, not physically). It was the school sports day, and after half an hour watching a variety of races, finally Thomas was up on the line to do his first race. Apparently, they missed his name during the first bout of races, so he was desperate to race by that time! He is such a good-natured soul, however, he had not even noticed everyone else was now doing their second race.
It was the skipping with a rope race, which I thought was strange because I have never seen Thomas do so. He picked up the rope in a very odd manner, then started looking around to watch the other children. Correcting his hold on the rope he took a tentative skip - in reverse (!) - sending it over his head backwards, then he stepped backwards through it, then lifted up in front of him and flipped it back over the wrong way again. In that instant it dawned on me what must have happened.
The children had chosen what races they wanted to compete in. This meant Thomas had chosen skipping and I knew exactly why.
For years, and until very recently when he began cycling to school, Thomas had skipped to school. You know the sort of skip I mean, like Morecambe and Wise at the end of their shows.
(Sorry, I can't think of an American or European way to describe it - the best I can do is say skipping as in kind of running and jumping at the same time.) I had praised his skipping so much over the years, because I thought it was utterly delightful that he was so filled with joy he skipped to and from school. I told him several times he was a champion skipper - the best I had ever seen. Thomas, James and myself even did skipping races in which he proved his prowess. He was entirely happy to show off his skipping skills to anyone when I told them how good he was.
That's the race he had, in his own mind, signed up for. He had no idea a rope was involved.
He lost the race. Came last out of 12 by a long way. A lovely teacher came skip-roping out to him half way to accompany his chaotic progress down the field, and told him at the end he was a champion because he never gives up trying.
On collecting him at the end of the day I asked him about the skipping race. He said, cheerful as ever, without the slightest hint of confusion, or upset or bitterness, "I thought it was skipping, daddy, not that sort of skipping."
My heart is straining now with love for him.
(I have to mention his second race also. His best friend is the smallest boy in the class, very small. The race was one where the children run in pairs, hands joined in a peculiar manner behind their backs, so Thomas and his best friend ran together. Once again, inevitably, Thomas was last throughout, and finished last. Indeed I was afraid for his little friend, as they struggled to match pace. Thomas's head was looking all around as they ran, as if he couldn't understand why no-one else was near him and his little friend. The two of them still skipped back like conquering heroes.)
