They’re Bored (again) by Andrea Santo Felcone
Ah, Winter Break, my old frenemy. The extra time with family is wonderful, but the extra holiday calories, makes one sluggish. Almost too sluggish to swat at those six dreaded words that started to rear their ugly head again. “I’m bored. What’s there to do?” Ugh. How I hate those words. Maybe because they remind me of my mother’s response: “You could empty the dishwasher.” Or maybe because they make me feel a bit like I’ve failed my children? Like I’ve let the digital devices win. (Screen time is the only time when they don’t complain of boredom.) Maybe I haven’t helped them navigate their way to a rich, creative, interior life—one that can sustain them through boredom? As for the video games: I held out for about as long as someone could. This is probably one of the least technologically-equipped homes around. We recently bought a “flat-screen” TV (I know they are just TVs now) and it felt like the Amish Rumspringa around here. And yet, when we limit “screen time,” within minutes: “I’m bored. What’s there to do?”
As a child, I remember playing in my backyard with one of my closest friends and a stick. We invented “Pioneer World”. The day we found that nearly-buried storm drain…. I can’t begin to describe the excitement. Now, though, screens win over sticks and storm drains. Recently, it’s gotten really bad. I overheard my 6-year-old before bed: “I don’t want to sleep. There’s nothing to do. It’s so boring.” (Note to self: Add “create rich interior dream-life” to our ‘to do’ list.)
This idea of boredom came up in an indirect way again with the 6-year-old. I was packing his swim bag, and he was testing out a new ploy to avoid swimming:
“Mom, what if we were “reversed” today and you had to take your swim lesson and I got to sit there and watch you? It could happen you know, they already have coloring books for adults.”
He had a good point, and after I stopped laughing, “Why do you think they have coloring books for adults?”
His response: “Because grown-ups get bored a lot and this gives them something to do.”
Adult boredom–is that even “a thing”? Hasn’t laundry alone eradicated any chance of adult boredom? However, childhood boredom–Winter Break wasn’t helping this situation. When the kids began to repeat “I’m bored” ad nauseam, I admit, I kicked it “old school” and pointed them to the dishwasher. I wanted to nip boredom in the bud because I knew how deep our boredom river ran….
My husband doesn’t travel much for work, but when he does, Murphy’s Law is the only ruling force in the universe. One week last Spring, he was away. I’d just arrived home with the kids, turned on the dining room light, when—ZAP! SIZZLE!–orange sparks zig-zagged their way across the room. After a moment, I realized … the dining room chandelier was on fire. I knew with my husband out of town, I’d be left to “put out fires,” but I didn’t know they would involve actual flames. I found myself staring at the chandelier bulb (and “stem”) and they were both enshrouded in—actual flames.
It’s VERY disorienting to have a fire suspended in air. Sure, if you’re watching “Cirque du Soleil” you may expect this, but in your own home, not so much. I tell myself if the fire had been closer to the ground, I would have reacted better. The ONLY thing I could think was to go back to my earliest “training” and … BLOW IT OUT LIKE A BIRTHDAY CANDLE. And for a minute there, it wasn’t working. There was no Plan B. If you know me, you know: there’s always a plan for when the first plan fails, because I’m sure the first plan’s going to fail. And now, the old noggin was blank, except for that one neuron in the back screaming, “The way you’ve gotten rid of fires before, was to blow them out. Try that.”
Eventually, it worked. “Neuron” reminded me after I’d blown out fires in the past; there was always CAKE–as a reward. First, I had to make “the call.” If you live in a small town, you know “the call” is to your emergency personnel, but, it’s more than that. In a small town, if you call the fire or police department, the entire force shows up—and the chief of either (or both) of these organizations. And your neighbors. So, you’d better make absolutely sure it’s completely necessary. You “run the algorithm”: number of emergency calls made in the past; how serious your situation; how many neighbors are likely home.
Lovely officer “Superman” (coifed and starched) arrived first, along with every fire truck. “Haven’t I been here before?” Me: “Yes, singed pot handle of ’09.” (Shouldn’t have called that time.) “Superman” instructed us to stand on the lawn as the firemen arrived. He let my youngest try his handcuffs (an image I’d hoped never to see). The chief showed up next, and the neighbors. It’s a big day. Part of a chandelier was on fire. The firemen have completed their work and indicate we are safe to return inside.
Big stuff. Except for one of us … because for one moment, when we’re assembled on the lawn; with fire trucks, police, and neighbors gathered; his brother in handcuffs; a Cajun-fried chandelier smoldering; his mother’s adrenaline still pumping for putting out an-honest-to-goodness-suspended-in-mid-air FIRE, my eldest actually said … “I’m bored. What’s there to do?”
* * *
Looking back, it’s hard not to notice all the parallels to “Gone with the Wind.” I, like Scarlett, surrounded by burnt embers, shaken to the core from having relied solely on my wits to overcome adversity. How easy it would’ve been to utter: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a (blank) about your boredom.” But, I didn’t say that, I would never. Instead, we silently piled back into the house—where my son had a dishwasher to empty, and I had coloring books to fill.
