Rock a bye baby. Rock around the clock. Crocodile rock. I love rock ‘n’ roll. Rock the Casbah. Rock your body. What rocks your world?
The rock ‘n’ roll kind of rock is not really what you’ll find here. It’s also not a geological discussion about the rock of Gibraltar. There’s no game of rock, paper, scissors going on and it isn’t a pet rock fetish image post.
My youngest is the collector of all thinks rock. They are gathered from the ground, carried around in sweaty clenched fists and then stuffed deep into short pockets. Some are discarded as a matter of course. Others are left, long forgotten, to dwell in a resting place until reunited with their fellow rock garden friends. Some of the favoured rocks get taped to a piece of paper to make nature scenes. I wonder how these rocks feel.
My favourite, however, are the ones left in the dark crevices of pockets where they mingle with dirt, lint and tissues. They’re about to go for a spin and if they’re lucky they’ll be flung free from the depths and be shiny and clean when they come out of the washing machine. Yes, these are my most cherished rocks. They have already been through so much and yet they threaten to deem it necessary for me to buy a new washer. If I’m really in luck I’ll hear them clunking around in the machine mid-cycle. Deep sea diving past my elbows through the murky water and dodging seaweed-like clothing, blindly trying to reach the illusive culprits is not one of my favoured activities.
Stern warnings ensue with sweet child o’ mine and a detailed description of what rocks can do to washing machines. It seems to make little difference as he runs off to find new rocks to freshly pluck from the dirt, squeeze tightly in his palm and then firmly plant in the safety of a pocket. Pet rocks are not far off. I can feel it in my bones. At least they shouldn’t go through the wash.
I love you. You rock!