Lately we've created a place in our house, which, if it were orbiting, lightyears away from an early Star Wars set, would best be described as fun-sucking void where no sounds of glee can be heard.
It's next to the refrigerator, between the kitchen and dinning room.
And I am the gatekeeper.
Now as gatekeeper, I have standards to uphold.
Whenever there is even the hint of an uplifted lilt in a tiny voice over the steam of peas or the froth of milk, I stand there, arms crossed, breathing with my loudest ujjayi breath, lording over the proceedings.
"THERE WILL BE NO MIRTH IN THIS HOUSE," I bellow. "I HAVE DECREED IT and I. AM. YOUR. MAAAAUUUUUTHER. LUUUUUUKE."
And the giggles just bubble over the edge of the dinner table, popping each other as they multiply.
Even Silas thinks Darth Vader is funny.