Towering like a giant

I always remembered my parents as big. My father would have long sideburns and his massive hands would swish and swoop as he walked. We kids used to run to keep up with him, dodging his ape-like arms.

Mum always felt tall, though clearly she’s on the shorter side of tall. This stilettoed woman with a curly coiffure draping back from blue dusted eyes has a dance-like walk. We used to meander around her as she walked.

I noticed my mini men last weekend, how they go to great lengths to keep up with me, to get nearer to me.

Presumably their little minds strive to be as close as possible to their parents, not in a clingy way, but in an affectionate, genuine closeness. I guess it’s aided by the fact that I adore being close to my boys and touch them any chance I get.

I was walking through Bunnings the other day and the men were weaving their way through trolleys and baskets to keep up. When they arrived at my feet, Beau leaned in and put his arm through my leg to cuddle while he pressed his head on my hip.

Chick pulled my arm down and wove my fingers into his as we found the herbs we wanted to plant. We squeezed each other’s hand just for laughs.

Sunday night I decided to make a treat for dessert, so I got up to make baci di ricotta. As soon as the stove was set, so was the amphitheatre. A screech came from the floor as I noticed Chick was pushing the stool nearly twice his height over to the kitchen to watch. Beau was already sitting there, ready, waiting.

Aside from bowl-licking and watching cinnamon-scented puffing balls rising from the stove, I was fascinated by the efforts these mini people make to be close.

I’ll admit I’d need to think about abducting a 12-foot chair to sit next to someone cooking in splattering oil and rabbitting on in a crazy foreign language. Hmmm, maybe it was the cinnamon?