Little Fumans
I was driving my youngest to Forest School, enjoying his chattering in the back. He was dressed up in his waterproof camos (he’d been longing for rain, just so he could wear his waterproof outfit!), and he was telling me about his buildings, and the creatures living in them. “They’re actually fuman,” he said, and I smiled. With three older siblings, most mispronounced words don’t survive very long, but fuman is still around. I love hearing him say it, for at nearly 8, he feels hugging and kissing me goodbye at Forest School is embarrassing, only to be endured with eye-rolling and a longsuffering sigh. I think 8 is still little. Not many of my children’s stories contain fumans. They all love telling or imagining stories. My littlest one sits next to me when doing his morning Kindle time, and I can hear him whispering stories whilst wandering around his Minecraft village. My older boy has a very long-running, complex story called Angry Parrots, based on his teddies. Only one of t...