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One sunny Sunday in Buenos Aires, my daughter and I were playing her favourite game on the swings. She was two at the time, and would happily spend the best part of an hour sailing backwards and forwards through the air, occasionally tilting her head to look up at the sky. I liked to push the swing from the front so I could watch the permanent smile on her face as she fully enjoyed the moment. Every few minutes, in my naive, adult way, I would suggest she have a go on the slide or the seesaw, assuming she must be getting bored. I couldn’t understand how she could spend so much time on it.
Obviously, I was using my timescale, not hers. Every now and then, I would stop pushing the swing to check my smartphone for emails, browse the newspaper online, or send a message. I did this strategically so that before the swing lost momentum and she had to ask me, I would resume pushing, and her curly locks would once more flutter against the back of the seat.