It’s called, “I have ears and just because we can’t see each other doesn’t mean I can’t hear you.”
70% of the disaster plotted in this house by people under the age of 12 is stopped before it can start… with just my ears.
Which is amazing because I can’t hear shit. My husband nicknamed me Q-Tip decades ago.
I stop a further 20% with my gift of “been there, done that.” …And then some.
And the last 10% the kids get away with. Either because I let them for experiential learning purposes, or because they genuinely pull one over on me.
I remember wondering as a kid how my mother always knew when I was lying, plotting, and wrong-doing. (The few times I did, because I was an angel.)
Well, mystery solved. Child’s perception: If I can’t see an adult, this is top-secret. Adult reality: Just around the corner through the open door, I am hearing almost everything and filling in the gaps with my own personal experience.
I hear you attempting to dress (torture) the cat for a cameo in your “What The Fox Say” video. Your loud whispers of “stay here Dora, don’t let mommy see you,” have already reached me, and I’m on my way to rescue her.
Neighbors three blocks over heard you trying to get your sister’s stuffed animal, that you threw in the tree, out of the tree with the aluminum bat.
You’re not slick.
(And I hope, actually, that you never get better at this.)
Angie, being Angie. A perfectly imperfect woman, daughter, friend, mother, and wife. I’m a lover and a fighter. I’m up, and I’m down. I succeed. I fuck up. (I cuss). I hope people see things here and in my writing they only think to themselves and are inspired to be unashamed of who they are.
Let’s live life… out loud.