It's half past six on Sunday morning. Drowsy I stumble around. The last night was to short. I know it’s my own fault. I should have gone to bed earlier. But never mind. Today is Father's House day. I drag the old Lego toy box of my son in the living room. In case that the little boys wake up, I want to be sure I can offer them some entertainment. Even before I've closed all night lights, opened doors and cleaned and tidied up, a little man stands in front of me. A With a big grin he looks at the toy box and empties it. He starts playing happily. Shortly after, Thomas comes and brings me a coffee to wake up. We sit together on the bench sipping our cappuccino and watch the content little guy in blue pajamas. His hands are rough and wrinkled like those of old men. It’s an evidence of its past life style. He asks mischievously through the gap between his front teeth for a cup of cocoa. Probably he got inspired through our slurping and until breakfast it’s still a while. I mix some Milo for him in a mug and can’t believe that this little guy a few weeks ago had to fight on the street for survival. He lived with his siblings on the roadside. His father was long dead, his mother disappeared. After waking up in the mornings he had to look for a way to make money to buy some food. He didn’t know what childhood was.
And now he sits here on the floor in our living room and enjoys building robots, like any other boy his age. But we don’t know his exact age. We think he might be seven or eight. Maybe we even have to pick a date for his birthday. Perhaps we just declare the day when he came to us as his birthday: St. Nicholas Day in 2011.
Suddenly my fatigue is gone and I think that everything we do is worth it!
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