When a Tree Falls

Day 48 - 3:35pm, 17 February 2019

Weather-wise, it is a day of two halves. The first half is grey and wet; the afternoon is bright and summery, albeit with a little wind chill thrown in. I take the two youngest to the park and leave them to play while I aim to finish off a poem that has been neglected since the beginning of the year.

I re-write the first three lines before I am interrupted. The first request is that I take a photo. I put my pen carefully on top of the notebook to make sure I don't lose any of the pages. I take the photo and sit down, once again putting pen to paper. The second request, take another photo. Once again, I take the photo, I try once again on the poem. Next, Little Miss wants my help to navigate from one section to the next on the climbing frame. I stand back and try to talk her through it, where to place her foot, how to swing her bum round . . . she panics. So I physically manhandle her into the correct position and she slides over. 

I give up on the poem and put the notebook away, and watch her do it a second time as if she had done it every day of her life for the past seven years. She is delighted, hugs me and begins to play with her brother again. Take a photo they demand as they stand side-by-side on the two swings. 

I try to remember back to when I was a child. There were lots of photos, but I don't remember expecting to have my every move recorded. Its as if something only has any worth if it is photographed or filmed, ready to be shared with the world. It's the modern-day equivalent of if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Except it is now, if a child does something during the day and no one is around to film it, has it really occurred?