Apparently, the sound of children at playing brings a smile to your face. It reminds you that it’s all worthwhile and fulfills you.
I ponder this as I sit and listen to my children at play, one with a cheaparse dodgy Ligth Saber loaned to him by a school friend (recently, like as of 5 minutes ago, removed from the birthday list) which clearly has flattening batteries and sounds remarkably like a pig being slaughtered.
I listen to the sounds of them fighting each other, one with the pig slaughter light saber and the other wielding an invisible imaginary one.
I listen to the cut each others heads off. Or, no, wait, it was a leg. NO IT WAS A HEAD. NO IT WASN’T and I continue to listen, brimming over with fulfillment as they argue over who actually got whom and which body part was amputate as a result.
I listen to the Lego towers smash to bits as the baby throws a basketball into the Forbidden Room, and the deathly screams of the eight year old, now traumatised for life by this act.
I listen to wooden trains being thrown at the wall and the six year old crying, distressed, because his arm was not cut off 23 fucking minutes ago!
And, finally, I listen to the baby fall down again.
My life is complete …