I thought I knew what boredom was, then I had kids

Have you ever tried to make a risotto?

Pretty boring, huh?

You stand and you stir and you add and you season and you wonder and your brain seems to swirl down there into that pot of congealed rice and curl up for a little nap.

It takes twenty to twenty-five minutes of unbroken attention to make a risotto. In this age of the short attention span that is legally an infringement of my human rights.

At least that’s what I thought.

Then I willingly sabotaged myself, had kids, gave them names, and discovered a whole new genre of boredom. Right now, in 2017, the thought of twenty to twenty-five minutes to myself with no demands on me other than to successfully make a risotto sounds like bliss.

Heaven.

A holiday, basically.

Now, I have other things to make me bored.

Like reading The Gruffalo for the 57th time.

It’s a great book. One of the best. It can tolerate a good six or seven readings before the joy has been sucked out of it. But then, somewhere between reading eight and fifty-seven, the shine starts to wear off.

“Look,” I think to myself, “we all know how this pans out…mouse, deep dark wood, snake, fox, Gruffalo…do I need to act it out again?”

But I already know the answer.

So I “oohh”, and I “ahhh”, and I fake surprise, and I make my two boys laugh. And off they go to bed.

And I think: “I’ll miss this when it’s gone.”

While I’m joyfully making risotto.


(Image: msChuChu via DeviantArt CC)

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