You may well be blown away to read about this sensational betrayal of your trust, however, the time has come.
I must reveal that my son's christian name is not actually Magoo.
Heartbreaking, isn't it?
I'm sorry. Truly.
In fact, it doesn't even start with 'M', but 'H'.
As Magoo has so cleverly cottoned on to lately.
The boy can recognise his name around the place (see, those bulk order label stickers were good for something) but he is particularly fond of the first letter.
Like, ridiculously besotted with 'H'.
As with any newly acquired skill, Magoo's 'H recognition' is in overdrive.
Magoo can spot an 'H' at considerable distance.
He can see 'H' all through books, newspapers, catalogues, signage...
He is typing H over and over into his various kid technology and his Thomas laptop.
He is scrawling H H H all over his blackboard and etch-a-sketch.
(Fellow early years teachers - I know, I know, I know.
The capital form. H not h. I didn't teach it. It's what he has picked up.
I am doing my best to teach the remaining five letters of his moniker in lower case. I am, honestly.
Capital letters (and letter names)are the first grade teachers mortal enemy. I knooooow.
Hey, you should hear him pronounce it in an American accent like his computer too.)
Recently, Magoo and Hubby were out helping a friend with some 'man's work' when they emailed me this pic.
Would you have a look at that face??
(But not at the lollipop Daddy has given him!!)
I'm waiting for the fallout when Magoo realises that other children also have names beginning with his beloved 'H' and he does not have a monopoly on one of the 26 letters in our alphabet. (You know, being an only child and all that!)
I'm also waiting to find his name penned lovingly on all manner of household treasure.
After giggling at a friend's daughter's handiwork last year (her newly mastered name scribbled so cutely on any and every surface - in texta) I will have my day in the
Shar :-)
(Starts with ssssslippery sssssnake, but doesn't make that sound.
And, yes, that is my real name!)
P.S.
Don't even get me started on the joys of number recognition.
Now that Master Magoo is the ripe old age of three, he refuses to wear anything that bears the markings of a size 2, telling me that "ackchly that sez for tooooo yolds".
