“Aunty Mandy? I’m bored.” My nephew’s little voice had just the correct amount of whine plus lethargy to suggest he truly believed his words. Before I could respond, however, Joseph jumped in between his cousin and I as if in front of a firing squad.
“No!” He swung his arms wide. “He’s not really bored, Mama. I swear.”
“But I am, Joe.”
“No. You’re not. You’re not bored. Say it. You’re not bored.” Joseph’s words were intense. His eyes focused on B’s trying in vain to relay a message.
“If you’re bored, Boo, I’ll find you something to do,” I said casually.
Joseph swung around. “He’s not bored.”
“Are you sure?”
“Joe. I’m bored. I want Aunty Mandy to find me something to do.”
“B,” Joseph said with only the slightest exasperation, “when Mama says she’ll find you something to do, she means chores.”
“She’ll make you do laundry or dishes or weed the garden.”
“Not if we say we’re bored,” Joseph explained calmly. “She says being bored means having a lack of imagination so she’ll give us work to do. Not fun work.”
I stood and watched this conversation, seeing the light dawn in B’s eyes. “I’m not bored!” The boys ran back into the bedroom and decided to build the tallest Lego tower in the history of the world and I went back to canning jam with a smirk on my face.
Until I realised my children treat me like I’m some sort of chore demanding dictator. The melodrama is strong in those two.