Most little boys pretend to be a Power Ranger. Or Ben 10. Ed pretends to be an incredibly hairy farmer, with no teeth, called Rex, who lives near a family friend we visit. Most days we have to call Ed “Rex” or he will not answer us. *sigh*. It is a battle in The Great War of Kids that I concede to lose. And it spices up the week a bit – varies the norm, you know? God my family know how to live, we are WILD. From now on in this post, whenever I mention Rex The Farmer, I am referring to Ed.
Rex The Farmer is incredibly competetive. He has to have the best of the best on his farm. And that “best” includes rockets and dinosuars and boats. Like, Duuurrrrr.
“Oh look Ed!” I say “A racing car on the TV!”
“I’m REX!” He gets a steely glint in his eyes. He clocks the racing car on the telly. He must have it. So, he opens up the gates to his imagination and indeed his farm, and aquires it.
Imagine a voice like Mr Beans. This is how “Rex” speaks. This marks the transformation of how Ed becomes Rex.
“Er, yes” he says, looking smug “I have one of those racing cars on my sshharm, actually”. (that speech impediment again). “Yeah, my sshharm has a big car transporter on it too. It has stairs in it. And a lift. It is pretty massive actually, yeah. You don’t really believe it do you?”
I take a deep breath. He continues.
“There are a lot of different kinds of sshharm, that I have, yeah. Butterfly sshharms. Tree sshharms”.
It is like living with Bubba from Forest Gump talking about shrimps.
Someone on Twitter told me about Open Farm Sunday – where farms up and down the country open up their gates for the day to show people about life on a working farm. How educational and fabulous. And how FREE! Ker CHING.
As a prelude to fun at the farm we stopped off for some fun at the pub and have a bite to eat. The best thing about this specific country pub is that it has an enclosed play area, sectioned off with a big wooden fence. As every parent knows, finding a pub like this is like finding a full stocking on the end of your bed on Christmas morning. Feeling like the government from Escape from New York you can put your children in the play area and know that no way no how can he get out without the help of a one eyed good guy called Snake. Result. Except not today. Today there is a rumour…
“Off you go, Tom!” says a mother, sitting down with her lemonade and lime and magazine.
“Oh, erm, excuse me” says incredibly softly spoken posh toff sat at one of the wooden tables next to her.
“There is a…” starts to mouth words like a deaf person “dog poo in there. I haven’t seen it myself, but I was told about it“. He pulls a ‘knowing face’ and looks like he has just told her about a death in the family.
A stream of chinese whispers about dog faeces begins between the wooden picnic tables placed irritatingly and unnecessarily close to each other in a substantial sized pub garden. It was a tsunami wave of poo…
“Dog poo? In the kiddy area? Dog shit? The crap of a dog? An actual dog?! Dog turd? Have you seen it? No not I, but it is in there. Waiting”
Our friends arrived to join us. Immediately they go to release their children from their hand grips, like letting puppies off a lead.
“NO! Wait!” says Smudge, holding out one hand like a traffic warden, and holding his pint in the other. “There are rumours going around the pub garden of a DOG SHIT in there!”. He looks smug. He has said it the loudest. He has won. I do wonder where Ed gets his competitiveness from. Sorry, I mean Rex.
But we finally make it, without witnessing the legend of the dog poo, to the farm. And it is aces. And here is Rex. On his sshhharm. On his tractor.
So we said goodbye to our friends, and their children, one of them covered top to toe in cow poo and mud where he fell over.
And in the car on the way home, Ed suddenly stops talk of tractors and trailers and pipes up with;
“I showed Emma my Woody!”
*confused glances pass between the husband and I*
“Yeah, my tattoo, of Woody from Toy Story” as he holds his arm out to show us his Woody.
We roll our eyes at each other and comically puff out our cheeks in relief, but to be honest we are both just happy to not be having to engage in more talk of farming equipment and it being a competition. There is calm through the car.
So then, that competitiveness…In writing this blog I ask (honest to God) my husband how to spell “lose” (I am always confused as to whether it is lose or loose). His answer?
“Spell ‘lose’? I don’t. I spell WIN”.
And there you have it. Rex’s Dad.