'Papa, Playschool, okay?'
Okay, say I, secretly hoping for this Sunday morning quietness together.
'Papa bring coffee.'
I place my cafetiere, which she has already ritualistically plunged, and cup on the coffee table. To her, I am now here to sit, quietly with her, for some time. Papa is not working this morning. She roots around in her small collection of DVDs, all of which she knows almost by heart, and then presses the 'open' button and waits for the little drawer to slide out smoothly. She inserts the DVD, less smoothly, and presses the appropriate button (where did she learn this?). She takes the remote control and jabs the largest button, and the screen flickers to life.
'There's a bear in there, and a chair as well.
There are people with games, and stories to tell.'
Here eyes grow wide as the balloons float across the screen, and we sing together.
It is the little moments with her that keep me rooted in the present. Sitting on the sofa, a small, warm body still in her onesie, curling into me. Wriggling feet which push into my thigh. Wild, curly hair smells sweet from yesterday's shower after the swimming pool. Teddy nestles between us, sometimes an arm or an ear held by an ever-less podgy hand. Sweet songs and bright colours parade across the screen, and for an hour, I am hooked in this peaceful, simple world. And it is to be relished. As I see her joy and wonderment at an animation of This Little Pig, she sees how to make finger prints, or an orchestra is produced from kitchen utensils, I too am swept up in simplicity. She spontaneously breaks into a dance, as she repeats the words to a nursery rhyme she doesn't yet understand.
Beauty in this simplicity. Children draw us back to that. This is one of their gifts to us.
