After reading a blog post HERE, I left a comment about being the bloody oracle. Anyone else suffer with being this maddening deity? While I realise, and think it’s quite sweet really, that my children ask me where everything is, it doesn’t mean I have to sodding well like it. Especially not when I have a large number of children—it seemed a good idea at the time (only joking, love them really)—and all of them ask me throughout the day, one after the other, preferably each child requesting I know something more than once, where their gear is. Especially not when it’s my writing time they’re interrupting with their queries.Imagine it:
John caressed Marjorie’s buttocks (Mum, where’s my shoes?) (In the shoe rack where they’re meant to be. *cue Mum’s smugness at her delicate dig*) and felt the heat of her arousal pressed against his leg. She gasped (Mum, where’s my purple wotsit with the sparkly bits on it?) (*Grits teeth* What sparkly wotsit?) (You know, that wotsit I got at that party.) (I have no idea what sparkly wotsit you’re talking about *Pant! Pant! Lord give me strength!*) (But I need it!) (Do you? Righty ho. Perhaps try your bedroom? *I need a bloody skillet to wrap about your head.*) and reached her hand up to cup his cheek. (Mum, where’s my—) (You’d better not be asking me where your shoes are again, boy!)
And on it goes.
Of course, ever since they can remember, Mum has always sorted things out, knew where everything was, so, as they’ve grown they refuse to think for themselves. It’s easier to ask Mum instead.
Where’s my oracle? *stamps feet* Where’s the person I ask? *throws self on floor like a dying swan and makes groaning noises one of the heroines in my books would proud of*
Uh, that would be me too.
I’m all for having an easy life, but at times, my little buggers…uh, I mean darling children, need to take a bit of responsibility for where they put their—wait for it!—“thingy”.
There are numerous things a “thingy” could be, and much as I’d like the ability to read minds, I don’t know what those thingies are when I’m asked where they are.
A classic example: “Muuuuuuuuuuuuuum! Where’s my thingy?”
“I have no idea. If I knew what the thingy was, I might know, but also, unless the thingy was left down here for me to put away—which is usually the case *more Mummy smugness at yet another dig*—why would I know where you put it?”
I am the bloody oracle.
I’ve tried being clever and asking them if they can cast their minds back to the time they last saw their thingy. I know this doesn’t even work for me at times, but hey, it’s worth a shot, right? But they are infinitely cleverer.
“I can’t remember.”
“Ah, you blessed little…sweet child. You can’t remember. That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that one. I mean, remember not to remember where my thingies are.”
Some days I don’t even remember where my head is, let alone my thingy (and if I were a man, that would sound just plain WRONG). Just the other day I made a cup of tea. You know, the British kind with milk. There it sat on the kitchen side, and I’m stirring in the milk after having squeezed the old PG Tips bag and dumping it in the bin. My mind was full of a WIP, and, funny enough, I’d stopped at a scene where my characters were having a coffee. Absently, I reached for my coffee jar and added a spoon to my tea. I've done this before, and it features in my free read, Love Quest, except then I added gravy powder (don't ask...). I must say, the shock that I did this brought me up short. Am I going crazy now? Do I need to watch myself while out crossing the road? Because if I’m thinking about my characters like this, I might do myself some damage.
Anyway, the tea/coffee combo made quite a nice drink. Yeah, I drank it.
So, I may well tell my children that I can no longer be the bloody oracle due to diminished responsibility. “I’m insane, my beauties, so it isn’t safe to ask me where your thingies are.”
Reckon it will work? Nah, I don’t think so either, but it’s worth a try.
Failing that, I can always buy some of these. I heard they were pretty effective.
