What is this?

The weather in Cardiff today was autumnal, so R and I took the Boy Wonder to the National Museum, which is renowned for being child-friendly. In search of model dinosaur skeletons, we first had to walk through some displays about the creation of the universe and the beginning of life on earth. Unsurprisingly, none of this interested him, until we came to an exhibit about volcanoes, which riveted him for several minutes. On being assured that the glowing plastic "rock" underneath the audio-visual screens was just pretend, he gingerly touched it and then explained to me very seriously that we wouldn't be able to do this if it was real because it would be "esstreemly hot". He then ordered us all out of the volcano room so that the flowing lava on the screens wouldn't reach us: "Quick! Run away!!"

The dinosaurs were fairly interesting, though the woolly mammoth models were better, but the next room that really caught his attention was one with a large display of minerals. At the entrance to this was a cut section of amethyst geode, almost a metre square, and when I pointed out how much bigger this was than the palm-sized one we have at home, he agreed with me that yes, it was very big. "Absolutely huge!" I said. "No, said the Boy, admonishingly. "I's not huge. I's very big." That's me told, I thought. But next up was a vast crystal, and I tried again: "Look at this crystal - it's enormous!" "Yes, it is!" he agreed. "In normous! Absolutely in normous!" By this time R was almost crying with suppressed laughter.

B's next discovery was that if he put his hand on top of one of the uplighters next to the crystal, it turned red. I explained, not without trepidation, that this was because it was lighting up the inside of his hand and showing the blood - triggering a minor reprise of the intense disagreement he and I had had earlier in the day about whether the stuff that comes out of your knee when you fall over is blood, or flood. Try as I might to remind him that a flood is the thing that happens when there's been too much rain, and the water collects in a huge puddle that splashes all over the car when Granddad drives through it, he won't currently back down, and is displeased by my stubbornness: the red stuff in your knee is flood, and that's all there is to it.

After a trip to the café, where the Boy demolished a large Tunnock's Teacake, and then for good measure ate half of one of the cookies R and I were sharing with our coffee, I noticed a display of transfer printed wooden  dinosaur toys outside the shop, and told him that if he would like one he could choose his favourite. He selected a red one with a rather cunning hat interesting frilly comb - a Dilophosaurus, possibly? - and I went into the shop to pay for it. When I came back R told me that the Boy had been scathing in my absence about the inclusion of a Pterodactyl in the range of toys, because, "That's not a dinosaur!" I can hardly wait till he meets a grey heron.

Our journey back to the car took longer than it might have done, because of the Boy's insistence on picking up every tree seed he spotted on the pavement, handing it to me and demanding, "What is this?" For the last couple of weeks, since a discussion that frustrated both of us because he couldn't imagine what might be inside a conker, and I couldn't manage to explain it in graphic enough language to help him visualise it, I've got into the habit of breaking open seeds, either with my thumb nails or by standing on them if they're very hard, and actually showing him the innards (a fortnight on, I'm still quite severely stained with black walnut juice), and by the time we were half way to the car I was sticky and gritty from opening seeds and cleaning them to B's satisfaction. Spotting my irritation, R said, "That's enough now, chap. Grandma's had enough of doing this." "Jus' one more...?" said the Boy Wonder, holding out another seed and smiling at me winsomely. "OK," I said, peeling it and handing him the kernel. "And this one too...?" he enquired, indicating another on the pavement at our feet. "Or, not...?"