the children are congratulated with “good job” as they slide down the metal sheeting, as they dig into the sand. Such good children doing such a good job. Delightedly learning what approval sounds like. It is loud, chirps and comes to you in sing song waves. It pitches up and down. It says you are loved for doing, for doing a good job.

A good job feels like love. Perhaps love is a good job. Doing something well means you will feel love, be lovable. But what if you do a bad job?

Why is it that now we call children sliding or climbing or rolling in the sand or carrying a bucket of water to a dog, why is this now a job? All these children need now is someone to calculate their worth and claim a portion of it.

But the cell phone parents wouldn’t understand this. If they were told it was them, they would deny it. Yet if they were shown it in some other, perhaps they would see it, although I doubt that they can translate that reflection, not these moderns born post TV. These moderns born to talk to the distant ones. These moderns pressing their ears to the pulsing electronics. That distant voice held closer than their own child. The child doing such a very good job.

Makes me feel so much comfort and joy