Monday, December 21, 2009

My Children Are Bored

series of pictures of my kids playing with playdough

My children would really prefer that I play with them. Poor, sorrowful, neglected little beings, with no creative direction in life, they constantly besiege me with requests to entertain them.

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But I am doing more exciting things like cleaning the bathroom. And washing 467 loads of laundry, including the bed linens that the cats messed on yesterday. And finishing a bunch of computer work. And feeding the baby. And doing the dishes. And dreaming of a spa day where someone anoints my back with hot stones and lotions while soothing scented candles burn and CDs of mountain streams play in the background and where no one asks anything of me for approximately 12 hours.

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Left to their own devices my pitiful offspring have to come up with their own creative diversions, make their own frogs from purple Play Dough and feed them imaginary food all on their own.

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I recall being so neglected as a child, without even the benefit of a mind-sucking TV for entertainment. For some reason to this day I love creative hobbies, imaginative stories and even hard work. When did all of that childhood lonely misery transform itself into such positive character traits? Am I so sadistic that I would not even go back and trade it in for a more entertaining childhood? Have I come so far as to see that being forced upon my own resources for amusement might actually have been healthy for me?

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My children, convinced that such a thing could never happen in their own lives, instead try to persuade me how deprived they are. They attempt to make me feel guilty for abandoning them to such a state of boredom that they actually have to think of something to do on their own.

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Poor things.

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