mr. monkey is a most excellent uncle. i'm just the person who tells the kids not to eat/jump on/do shit. he can spend hours and hours with them, keeping them entertained and safe. i'm not like that at all. five minutes into playing "volleyball" with the 4 year old i'm bored stiff thinking to myself, kid, come back in 10 years when you can actually throw the ball in my general direction. or in 20 when we can discuss the intersectionality of race and gender.
i escaped upstairs to bed this evening, trying to combat the massive sads that hit me for no ascertainable reason. lying in bed, reading some articles, the entire family suddenly marches into our ensuite led by uncle monkey and his sister, the little boys naked as the day they were born ready to be rinsed in the walk-in shower. i am lying here, listening to the silliness and chatter: "make sure you wash your penis," random weeping, incomprehensible blather of the 2 year old.
the small one just got carried out wrapped in the towel and the older one is trying to convince his uncle to shower as well. not at all how i expected this evening to go, but entertaining nevertheless. i can feel the sads dissipating somewhat under the pressure of silliness.
and just now, lying in the bed, i got handed a small freshly laundered child who needed to watch masha and the bear with me, before being joined by a slightly larger freshly laundered child. 5 minutes of cuddles and giggles and they're gone and the sads have receded a little further still, though i can feel those bastards lurking.