Much Ado About Nothing

I am the most boring person alive.

Apparently, the sound of my voice is so unappealing, uninteresting and unremarkable that it can disappear into thin air. I am the David Blaine of speech. There was a full movie made about the trials and tribulations of King George VI. A full, 118 minute film centered around his and a speech therapist's struggle to make an unsure monarch worthy of his title through bold speech. I have my own movie, that takes place daily, where a woman in sweat pants and slippers from a company titled "My Friend" beats a dead horse with words that can only be heard if you are over 4 foot 8 inches tall. The matinee offers the most bang for your buck as all four children are home. You can see slow motion running and several mouthed, "I thought I told you not to..." as another child runs to me holding a first-aid kit and a mid-size to large-ish clump of their own or a sibling's hair. It's not all glamour and glitter, though. Even if I'm wearing a real bra and regular pants, my words are still magically as light and soft weighted as a single feather in flight. As useless as a Snuggie. As unreasonable as attempting to put on Spanx fresh out of the shower. As hopeless as my deep desire that Footloose be remade with the original cast. Kevin Bacon would reprise his role and be the town's aging and heartwarming shoe salesman; happily selling Capezio dance shoes to all the children he's freed to dance out loud. The kicker is, they wouldn't even KNOW that he is the hero and wouldn't be able to appreciate that they are buying jazz shoes from a legend. It has so much potential. Call me, Fox Searchlight.

I digress. I spend all day speaking and saying nothing. Because, if you aren't heard, does a bear still shit in the woods? Exactly.

But, to wax philosophical, am I really saying anything worth listening to? In between the "gentle reminders" to get up, eat breakfast, get dressed, brush teeth, go to school, get in the car, stop eating glue, no you can not have another snack, clean up, stop riding the baby, if you were hungry you'd eat an apple, no more t.v., did you finish your homework? and, time for pajamas!; Did I say anything fascinating?

On the other hand, IF YOU WOULD JUST LISTEN TO THE WORDS COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH, WE COULD START DISCUSSING COOLER SHIT LIKE LED ZEPPELIN AND WHY PRINCESS MOMBIE HAD SO MANY HEADS TO WEAR IN RETURN TO OZ. Ahem, does anyone have a paper sack handy for mild hyperventilation. Please and thank you.

Really, it's not that I don't have anything to offer, it's that the children and I are in the prime of our parallel living. They are trying to test boundaries. I am trying to set them. They are trying to break barriers. I am trying to duct tape a five-point car seat harness. They are trying to LIVE. I am trying to keep them alive. They are trying to break the barrel lock to the basement door and eat the candy I've hidden there. So am I.

When our parallel travel becomes a four-way stop, I wish on stars, full moons, sleeping bedheads and all of the words whispered and left unsaid, that we've made moments of and spoken of substance; that more often than not, our words were worthwhile and important. I pray that our future conversations, be they mundane or magical, all fall on listening ears.