We’re in the city, where we’ve moved for work, leaving behind our home in the pine forest.
My three-year-old son is missing the beach, the forest, the sand and his red bike and Spiderman helmet.
“Want home,” he says.
It’s a phrase repeated throughout the day.
I try to encourage him. “Oh, on the weekends we’ll go, you’ll see.”
He’s not convinced. “Want home.”
I don’t blame him. Back in our pine tree paradise, he can open the back door and roam at will, pick up a pinecone, play with bugs and chase an unwary frog. He can dig a pit and race around on his bike and his scooter.
Here, there’s none of that. He has to hold Daddy or Mummy’s hand, and watch out for dog shit and puddles of dog piss, scoot out of the way of frantic businessmen on the sidewalk. It’s no place for riding a bike. Only gutters for finding cockroaches. No pine trees or sand, and no beach with waves to jump in.
This is crap and he’s pining for home, his home. Not this.
I don’t know how to cheer him up. But I try again and say, “Daddy’ll walk you to school. And we can look at the shops on the way.”
He looks up at me and says, “Want home.”