Once upon a time, many years ago, when I was immersed in the magniloquence of parenting advice and recommendations, I seriously entertained the idea of crafting activities (and doing craft activities) designed to increase the intelligence of my children.
In some cases, I actually did follow up on the entertained idea. I read to them nightly, and did puzzles and built never-ending Sodor-esque railways that traversed the length and breadth of the house.
I stopped short of building cubby houses out of blankets and dining room furniture, although I did let them figure it out for themselves. Rarely, if ever, did I partake in the construction of anything made from cardboard, and aside from throwing handfuls of little Easter eggs into the front yard once a year, and letting them collect what they could find, I’ve not really gone out of my way to devise any formal problem solving activities.
I left that for the educuation system, although I did quite enjoy doing that whole “Why do you think?” whenever they asked “Why” anything. Repeat for “what” and “how” type queries.
Given my desire not to go out of my way to construct such activities, I am most peeved that they have taken my most innocuous of behaviours to challenge their own minds. Or, perhaps, I’m not being challenging enough.
Despite my purchase of confectionary-based items that I rather enjoy, and my reluctance to eat such items just because they are there, preferring to wait until I really feel like eating it for I enjoy it so much more when I am really wanting it, nice stuff ends up sitting in Tupperware for a while.
It’s not left visible to all and sundry. I take great pains to hide it in the far corners of the top or bottom shelving in the pantry, stashed behind innocent and uninspiring items; the cornflour and breadcrumbs for example. Out of the way. Not visible. Not easy to get to.
Yet still …. still they find it. They cannot find the fruit, sitting in the large bowl on the kitchen bench.
They cannot find the vaccuum, despite tripping over it almost daily, because it hasn’t been put away properly the last time it was thrust upon them.
They are incapable of seeing – much less feeling under their feet – the scattering of two minute noodle bits on the floor; both tiled and carpeted.
But they can find, without prompting, my very minimal, and very much desired, stash of things that I really like. The stuff I want when I want it.
The stuff that is never there when I desire it the most …
my secret stash is not it