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Thomas Is A Tank Engine

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I was sitting at the messy play table, with some freshly made playdough. I had the kids helping me roll it out and add colour to it. I had the usual mini rolling pins and cookie cutters out that my helpers were using. 

"My Nana is picking me up today," T said excitedly. "I'm going to stay at their farm."

"My mummy is picking me up today," C replied. The two besties happily chatted between themselves for a bit, talking about their families and who picks them up. Both boys have parents who have split and divorced, so both of them know and understand what it is to have one parent drop them off and another pick them up some days. They're good friends because of that shared experience. 

"Who is picking you up today?" C asked me. 

Normally, when asked this question from the kids I reply that I M.O.W (make own way). It's me, myself and I. I take myself home. But that day, my answer was different. "My friend is picking me up," I told them. My boyfriend, or the grease monkey, as I so lovingly call him, had recently started a new job not far down the road from where the school was, and our hours were similar, so we had been going to and from work together on the days he stayed at my house. 

"Who is your friend?" asked T. He looked down at his hands as they were now stained blue from mixing in the dye for the playdough and laughed. "I'm a Smurf," he said. He then persisted in his question. "Who is your friend?"

"His name is Thomas," I told the boys. 

C looked up when I told them this information. He then stated, "Thomas is a tank engine, not your friend."

Can't argue with that. 

 

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