Richard Hearn has it all wrapped up

Imagine if there was a global lost property, where all the lost hats, gloves and scarves of children went. It would be a mountain, a very soft mountain and remarkably colourful, much photographed, I guess, and the sort of thing that would be used to advertise Kodak (in the past) and probably Photoshop (now).

Try and climb the mountain – it would be difficult to get a foothold – and the height and expanse mean that you would be much exposed. What you’d need would be warm clothing. Handy, you’d think, but then you’d find out they’re all too small. This eighth wonder of the world would be, just like some of the other wonders through history, a mixture of the accidental and the deliberate, in that some of the hats, gloves, scarves were simply lost, and some have been purposefully flung from a moving pushchair, or ‘forgotten’ while at school.

This is from personal experience. It probably sounds like I’m grouping my two sons’ attitudes together, but in fact it’s how I tell them apart (that and their faces, of course). Youngest™ loves the layers – the gloves, the scarves, the hat; The Boy has never been keen, shedding outer coverings like a sulky snake.

Youngest™ used to wear a hat all the time, like a miniature Jamiroquai. We’ve weaned him off that peculiar habit (I think we lost that hat) but he still dresses with enough padding outside to be a toddler stuntman, a cushion with legs and attitude. Recently, after accidentally losing some gloves, my wife bought a three pack. Weirdly though, Youngest™ just wanted to wear one, but all the time.

This glove was wanted indoors and outdoors, and he’d hold it aloft like it was a Superhero’s armoury. He’d go to sleep in it. We’d take it off. It would be the first thing he’d ask for when he woke up. I’m sure he dreamt of it too.

The Boy treats outdoor clothes like a superhero’s outfit too, but that’s only because he does the classic kid’s trick of coming out of school with only the hood of his coat on, the rest flapping behind him like a cape. His head is merely a peg. If we ask The Boy to put his coat on properly, he objects, gasping like he’s being suffocated. Even when there’s snow on the ground, ask him to put a scarf on, and he’s winding down the car window theatrically and clamouring for a crack of air.

Meanwhile next to him is a be-scarfed, hatted, and one-gloved Youngest™, content in his layers and wondering what the fuss is about.