The little boy I wrote about in my first blog - the one who was instrumental in my young ones discovery of race - gave my another surprise today.
I have been dealing with the problem. Perhaps, you'll disagree with the way I've done it - perhaps you will agree. But at least I'm not guilty of causing the boy our his family grevious bodily harm.
I've been ignoring the boy and his family, waiting for a report from the creche - that I suppose won't come. I have been giving the boy the death stare and putting my child in other play groups in the mornings, so that at least in my mind he will not have as much access to her. And off course, I've been interrogating her in the evenings - not really interrogating, but you know what I mean.
The other day, the grandfather picked the laaitie up - he greeted as friendly as he could - and I ignored him flat. "You bloody racist, I kept thinking," trying to keep my cool.
As I said before, children, I believe, do not think in colour. The think in terms of attitudes towards them. If they have fun with someone, they will play with them and not because someone is not the same shade as them.
I have been ashamed, I must admit, on the way I've treated the boy. It's really not his fault. But I'm not Nelson Mandela, who forgives so easily. Would be great country and world if we all could.
But this morning, my shame grew even more than I could imagine. As I was bending to drop my child's bag - I felt a pair of arms around my legs. I smiled as I looked down - thinking I'll see my little princess' smiling face looking up at me.
Instead it was the little boy - giving my a huge hug... laughing as only a healthy, playful little child can.
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