A couple of weeks ago my parents came over to babysit the
boys whilst Mark and I went out for his Regimental dine out. The next morning he took Alby to Winchester
where they were meeting up with friends to watch Mister Maker at the theatre. Meanwhile George and I played with my
parents. We sat on the floor, the sun
coming in through the back door window, with George’s drum and xylophone between
us. George would bash his drum and
shout, then my dad would have a go, then George, then my dad, then George…Then
my dad would hold the drum or xylophone up to George’s ear to let him hear the
note ring out. He used to do the same to
us when we were very young although that time it was with a tuning fork.
It was one of those pure, simple, happy moments. And it
lasted. We must have sat there for over
half an hour with George. Him playing
with the instruments, flapping his arms, yelling, looking around a bit and then
bashing the drum or xylophone again and us echoing and copying where we could. Those moments of such happy awareness you
think you are almost having an out of body experience taking in every tiny
detail. I came close to grabbing my
phone a few times to document the moment but I held back and settled for a
mental photo instead. I captured the
image with my soul instead of with my camera.
Probably for the best as I can be a terrible photographed at times and I doubt my iphone would have actually done
any justice to the moment.
My dad is the one who brought music into my life. I don’t know when music first entered his
life but it has been a passion of his for the whole of my life. He played guitar when I was younger, he still
does now, but it wasn’t only that. He
used to fill the house with classical music.
I remember so vividly trying to have a lie in when I was 17 or something
and him doing his normal Sunday morning thing
- waking up and getting himself sorted and then booming some symphony or
another through the speakers loudly enough to ensure that no matter what room
he was in or what job he was up to we heard it.
It was 9:30am and I was so angry with him that morning. Now though (possibly because he isn’t waking
me up anymore) I love that he has music in his blood. And I love it even more so when that gets
shared with the boys.
And that Sunday morning it was brilliant. My parents are amazing and I’m not sure if it’s
ever just been the four of us: mum, dad, George and me. There’s usually a raucous pre-schooler in the
room taking up a large part of, well, of everything – space, attention, noise,
imagination. And it’s brilliant when Alby is there, obviously. But this was special too and I will hold onto
the memory for as long as my brain allows.
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