Our home has been afflicted with a devastating case of minecraft. It came on quickly and it has persisted longer than anyone expected. The children have been severely affected, but it’s hard to say who suffers most.
The desire to plunder the deeps is all consuming. Children well versed in the height of technological achievement are putting unprecedented thought into the gathering, smelting, and forging of base ores into crude excavation tools.
I hear them sometimes, digging in the loose soil of the back yard with tiny plastic shovels. Discussion of minerals mundane and exotic, their uses, accretion depth, and relative rarity, floats aloft on warm evening air. Plans are made for future expeditions into the bowels of a fictional world. The coveting of iron and diamond armours full in their thoughts.
Untold horrors lurking in the darkness carry great weight here. Scenarios and stratagems involving zombies, creepers, endermen, and the all powerful “End Dragon” are fodder for conversation at any time during waking hours. Even in the bathroom.
Getting ready for bed, our youngest was banging vacantly on a wooden nightstand. When we asked him why, he could only answer that he was mining.
He. Was. Mining.
I know that is my fault. I brought the minecraft into our home. I’m the only one to blame.
What have I done.