Why
is it that when you ask your offspring to hang up their freshly laundered
clothes, or put away their shoes before you break your neck tripping over them,
or clear the dinner table before cultures start to fester, they don’t hear you
the first time? Or the second? Or the fifth? And yet when you mutter the words ‘food’
or ‘money’, they’re all over you like a rash.
I
was beginning to think Child #6 was experiencing some hearing loss. She had
just got over a cold, which had involved oceans of mucus, judging by the number
of tissues consumed in just a few short days. But on reflection, that didn’t
account for the previous months of deafness. And then it hit me – I am getting slow
in my old age, obviously, because this was a clear case of selective hearing.
Ah
yes, that old trick. Years ago that realisation would have struck me after
seconds, not weeks/months, so I took a moment to lament my advancing years and
declining faculties. But then I set out to do what I do best: catch one of my
children out.
The
first step was to test my theory. Using my regular voice, which is neither loud
nor shrill (He Who Knows Best might be inclined to start debating this point,
but I will turn a deaf ear), I asked #6 to take the recycling downstairs. By
some miracle, her cell phone was nowhere to be seen, so she did not have that distraction.
But still she seemed not to hear me, or to understand that the request was
fired in her direction, even though I have not started addressing myself out
loud, yet.
So
next I declared that I would dish the ice cream while she dealt with the
recycling. There was a blur of plastics and puff of cardboard and clinking of glass,
and off she went. She was fairly drooling by the time she returned to claim her
prize. It’s a bit like training a puppy, only not so rewarding.
Satisfied
with my results, I decided to confront the issue head on, in a mature and
good-parenting kind of fashion, rather than playing her at her own game and
ignoring her in favour of lying on the sofa and binge watching something on Netflix.
(I will be honest with you, I can’t say I wasn’t tempted by this option.) I
laid out my findings calmly and shook my head sadly as I suggested that she
might like to do as I ask the first time, or even, dare I imagine, before I
have had to ask. I then repeated my words, as her hearing loss seemed to have
set in again. Seeing my face and realising her error – because she is pretend-deaf,
not stupid – she rushed to assure me that she would take my advice to heart and
act on it with immediate effect. She then took off to her room – leaving her dirty
ice cream bowl on the table.
All
I can say is that it’s a good job I will have forgotten about all this by tomorrow
…
Inspiration
struck today at ... MatchaBar, West 15th Street
The
tiny, unassuming entrance belies a surprisingly spacious interior.
Pros:
Chilled and charming, with great décor and window spot worth waiting for.
Cons:
Be prepared to wiggle around a fair bit as you will be sitting on a wooden
bench or a backless chair.
