I begin to type, forming sentences in my head before they emerge from my fingers. I craft my words carefully to wrap them around the meanings that I intend for them.
“MetaKnight!”
“MetaKnight!”
The shouts from my children slice through my concentration. I’ve no idea why they are shouting the name of a video game character while tossing stuffed animals, but apparently it is great fun. The mentally crafted sentences shatter and the meanings drift into the aether. I close my eyes and plug my ears, trying to remember what I’d intended.
“MetaKnight!” Thump! Then a child squeals.
The ideas are gone. They’ve slipped through my fingers. Each time I try to collect my thoughts to capture the idea again, the children make more joyful (or not so joyful) noises. I am glad that they are playing. I’m glad that they have so much fun together. I’m glad that they are being creative and that the electronic screens are all off. But I crave silence, a space to think without their words severing mine.