Playroom

Consider this a "mema" entry; a flexing of the mind while contemplating the narratives to publish. Unplanned, but written with thoughtful consideration, I am left grappling for words to collect the contents of my head while Diego, now a seven-year-old boy, decides to bring his wooden bricks into my quarters and make it his temporary playroom for this evening. 

Of the four kids we are now raising, he would persistently make attempts to extend his zone of control into my room. In fact, earlier today, he was knocking at the door and calling for the Weatherman's name hoping he would be let it. I didn't pay attention, and instead, trailed my gaze on the petty fights and wokeness hell that is happening on Twitter. 

This evening, he succeeded. Maybe, I was just too unbothered while he made those incoherent play sounds, such as "woooooahhhhh ahhh ahhh," or "tshhhh, tsshhhh," while tapping the wooden cabinet beside him to make louder noises. On normal days, I would just tell him to play elsewhere, but I don't know why there's a sudden relaxing of the rules this time.

All I know is that I was meant to write about another story, but here I am writing about the most mundane stuff while admiring my nephew's gift to recreate scenes only he could appreciate.

And as I lay down on my bed while trying to shun the garbled words and the incessant "shhhsss... shhhhhsss..." out of my head, Diego continues with his bricks play. I then come to a realization that this sudden decision to let him take his toys and play with very little restrictions (he cannot put his wooden bricks on my bed), must be drawn out from a very early memory, when it was I, doing those silly sounds and recreating my imaginary worlds in someone else's room. 

There's comfort in remembering. 

I have the entire night to toil for money, and anytime soon, another distraction (or dinner call) will put this child's play to rest. This pause, however, while purely accidental, is much deserved.