I remember the day my imagination died.
That's very dramatic.
What I mean to say is I remember a day one summer where I went to play at a friend's house and we spent hours setting up an elaborate barnyard scene on the oversized farmhouse dining table. Once it was set up and ready to be played with, we set to playing. After a few awkward minutes, we agreed that we didn't really know how to make things up anymore.
I think I was 12.
We're visiting my brother and his family this week, meeting their newborn son. Their oldest is 9 months older than Nico, so there's a lot of toddler running and squeals and shrieks of laughter. I watch them pretend to cook, and act like puppies, and come up with chase games.
Through the cacophony this creates, I try to talk to my siblings and catch up on their lives. When it gets too loud, I tell the boys to quiet down, but it feels wrong to set a decibel ceiling on their fun. They may only have another 10 years of this capacity, and I want them to enjoy it as fully as they can.