WARNING: The following contains high levels of sentiment. Readers with a weak stomach and Desci may want to turn away and have a crack at the crossword.
The other day I had the honour of helping do the reading for the prep class at the school that The Boy attends.
I say “the honour” because, with perhaps one exception, they were the happiest, most cheerful little kids I’ve ever come across. They had about them so much spark, so much curiosity, so much energy that they were almost bursting out of their skins with joy.
Reading to them (or perhaps with them, as most of them were pretty much reading on their own) wasn’t a chore – it was a delight.
And this wasn’t some posh-o school in what the media delights in calling “Melbourne’s leafy eastern suburbs”, but a state government school in what was – until fairly recently – a solidly working class area (until lumpen- intelligentsia like myself blew in).
Happily, The Boy is still of an age where everything delights him. Witness this exchange on the weekend;
The Boy: “Daddaddaddad, come and look at Kitty!”
Out we go, to discover the cat having a dust bath.
The Boy: “Kitty’s having a bath!!”
Me: “Yes, Boy.”
The Boy: “In the dust!!”
Me: “Yes, Boy.”
The Boy: “In the dust!!!” *peals of hysterical laughter*
Kitty: “What! What? Stop laughing at me, you human cunts.”
All of which left me wondering, where does it all go? That joy, that wondrous sense of optimism that your day is going to be full of good things and good friends and excitement.
Fucked if I know.