Mr4’s inner hoon is well developed. At four. He will stand on a street corner and point out the ‘coolest’ cars. All of said cars have flashy paint jobs, shiny wheels and ‘wings’ aka spoilers. Mr7 has told him that spoilers are aeroplane wings turned upside down, so they hold the car down, rather than pushing the plane up. Mr7 learned about that on an episode of Peppa Pig, or Olivia, or one of those Piggy ABC shows. See, TV is educational.
Mr4 likes the music loud when he is in the car. He likes the window down and the breeze in his hair. He tells me that he will be a much better driver than me. Apparently he will be ‘fast’ and will not hit the gutter when he attempts to reverse park. Everyone’s a critic.
Mr4 dons his bike helmet, puts on his gumboots, and climbs on his little bike (with training wheels) as though he is stepping over a Harley Davidson. He brmmms as he drives, makes screeching noises as he skids to a stop, and swaggers like a Bandido as he pushes his bike into the preschool playground. He walked around with his helmet under his arm for ages the other morning, waiting for someone to notice, then tossed his hair back with ‘oh, this old thing’ attitude as he confided that he’d ridden to school that day.
Mr4 has all the makings of a mother’s worst nightmare.
I think I’ll start lobbying now for the driving age to be raised to 30.