A burst of excitement inside me. A transporter carrying a tractor! And then I remember that I’m driving to work, alone. A wasted sighting and, quite frankly, a wasted transporter and tractor out on these commuter roads at 7.30am. The proper place for such vehicles is of course en route to toddler group or the park at around 9.30am. Along with the dustbin lorries, diggers and fire engines. Woe betides the heavy goods vehicle which has purposes other than the diversion of my small children.
Ideally, we want them to love nature: to watch entranced as the blue tits make their nest in the bird box; to leave no stone unturned in their quest to differentiate a millipede from a centipede; to roam and trudge and stamp and splodge in mud and puddles and miry earth day after rainy day. But whilst they are undeniably happy out there pottering through woodland, climbing on tree stumps and dragging large sticks around, it is only when the thunderous clumsy rumble of a tractor saws through the tranquillity of the countryside that they respond with the delirious excitement of well…a child in a sweet shop? Perhaps it’s time we changed that old idiom to the child in the digger shop…
So, we brush away the ideals, because there are many things where there are small children, like joy and chaos and mess and fun – but ideals? No, never. It’s time to embrace the digger love: on hearing the familiar grumble in street, we dash to the bedroom window every Tuesday at 7am to watch the emptying of the wheelie bins. We tell stories of broken cars and transporters driving around mouths in an effort to get teeth brushed. And we take pleasure in the mile after mile of 50mph roadworks on the M62, knowing that there’s a good chance we might catch sight of “digger working, Mummy!”