Every couple of days, someone will break out of boredom and start building a tower on the living room floor.
Always the goal seems to be the same: how tall can we build it?
They come from all corners of the house, these children, none of whom can resist a tall, tall tower. The big ones roll their eyes (at themselves?), but still they come, they stack blocks carefully, higher and higher. They are kind to the littles, if only briefly. They take over when their shorter siblings can no longer reach the top.
Excitement builds as the tower climbs higher. We do not have enough blocks to actually reach the ceiling, but it seems that this possibility continues to exist, tower after tower.
We stand back, watch, and say little. We hold our breath, and smile softly. The children are playing together. They are working toward a shared goal. They are being gentle and inclusive.
Sometimes, it feels like a science experiment. We can be detached and objective, observing, making small notes.
And then, at other times, it's a challenging study of discipline and morality instruction. Our hearts swell and collapse. We feel all together a part of it: responsible, required to manipulate, especially involved.
Always, every single time, the tower crashes noisily back to the floor.
And then the blocks are collected before the children scatter once again to different corners of the house.
We exhale, prepare another meal, and brace ourselves for whatever might come next.
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