Behind the graffitied wall and above the green canopy of cherry trees, dark clouds gather. Churned sand sits uninvitingly in sodden clumps. Fat raindrops pearl off metal and rubber, out of the wood seeps a dank mossy smell.That moment on a wet day when the rain fleetingly holds its breath; we are alone in the playground.

Our shoes squeak as we clamber onto the plastic trampolines. Two children dwarfed by school bags trudge past in yellow anoraks and glance enviously in our direction. Up and down, side to side, one foot, the other foot – we jump and shout and shriek and spin. I am as thrilled as my children: snatched pleasure on a day we’d given over to jigsaw puzzles and colouring crayons.

As the first new drops fall, tiny and barely perceptible, we jump more furiously. The heavy summer air presses down upon us, but this is a moment to be extended not curtailed. Our arms flail as the wind whips around the climbing frames and nudges the swings.

The rain falls faster and harder now. I know my cotton jacket will not hold. Hoods low over our brows, defeated but still elated, we abandon the playground to deluge and march homewards. Tugging a breathless, soggy child with each hand, I shiver inwardly, deliciously happy to be here.

“Window,” he shouts, “A window!” One hand points skywards and the other tugs at my skirt insistently. It is an ordinary morning along our ordinary route, but my son has seen something exceptional. Though all the houses along the street are fronted with windows, I know by the piercing excitement in his voice and the determination of his point, that I am yet to spot the intended one. I follow his gaze beyond the ground floor, up the side of what appears to be a large windowless wall, until my eyes alight finally upon a tiny, very high window, interrupting the grey concrete’s monotony. I, too, am thrilled of course. “You’re right – a window,” I say, “What a surprise.”

Another day, we are indulging in strong coffees at a pavement cafe whilst watching the world – an activity that feels long barred to us by the constraints and unpredictability of small children. But now, as has been the case the last month or so, the children play happily around and beneath the table, clambering back on to our knees for fleeting cuddles and slurps of apple juice. It is one of those precious moments you think your life has not been too drastically changed by the arrival of your children after all. Then goes up the double strength shout, “Ants – ants! Look ants!” Both children crouched by our feet stare with the intent of zoologists at cracks in pavement, in and out of which trails of ants scurry. It seems to me, I have not paid any attention to ants (apart from the vicious biting type in my parents’ back garden) for years, decades indeed. But there, on the pavement, in amongst the bikes and the dogs and the chatter and the lingering wafts of distant cigarette smoke, the little crawling ants do appear miraculous.

They have a way, these children, of re-opening my eyes to the world. When I think about it, they must have always been seeing things differently from the moment they were born, but it is since their impressive and powerful acquisition of language that this new perspective of theirs is particularly compelling. Walks in the park become a flurry of aircraft spotting and shopping expeditions the place for marvelling at the bounty of fruits on display. It as if I I have been swept into a magical world of little balls in airports (metal spheres topping posts marking off the security section); tiled kitchen floors scattered with near invisible individual pumpkin seeds and raisins, and skeleton grape bunches decorated with those tiny, remaining, stunted grapes.

And it is not just what they see, but how they see it. Objects and images are constantly reinterpreted. The Nike tick on their father’s trainers is a moon; the yoghurt pot a bucket; a cartoon snake on a pair of socks a worm. It is an infinite and imaginative list, which I wish I’d had the foresight to note down at each fantastical occasion.

But beyond the anecdotal, I suppose these observations are most interesting when we start thinking about how learning must be a two way thing. Children are so much more than the passive receptors of information. They spot and spy and learn from all sorts of things we lofty-headed, over-educated, washed-out adults might never have seen. Their ideas are for listening to and their marvel for relishing in. If I accept their view of ordinary as exceptional, perhaps they will one day listen intently to what I can tell them too.