There has been a lot of rain in England this week, and now it's over our little village has flooded. Not dangerously, but deep enough to disrupt everything. Walking Imogen to nursery school I realised the bonus of using a 70's baby carriage: I could sit her up on the rim and wade through the water in my psychedelic wellies pushing both children! English community spirit came out, in a vaguely war-time mentality. The Womens Institute put up a tea station in the churchyard for firemen and volunteers and the pubs passed out lunch-time pints over the sandbags. I made cocoa for when I picked up Imogen from her morning session and we sat on the bridge, water nearly up to our bottoms, and dangled our boots in the water as we watched it all.
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When Daddy came home, he assumed we hadn't made it to school. 'Oh yes we did' piped up Imogen 'Mummy was Doctor Foster, and I rode the pram through the flood!' She went on to describe the ducks huddled away from the torrent which replaced the idle mill-stream, she told of firemen pumping out houses and people helping each other. We had stopped to pick up groceries for an elderly neighbour on our way home, and she explained why. 'We were brave and the flood was exciting'. I didn't realise that she'd learn about strength in adversity so young, but I'm proud she has. This was one of those days of parenting that could have gone either way, but it ended up being one I will remember forever.
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