Sandy's Say: Prophetic Mutiny
“At every opportunity I scribble away. Suddenly, to my family’s alarm, I am no longer so readily available. There have been repercussions of course and complaints that there are seldom homemade biscuits in the cookie jar. A year on and the family is still in denial. Neither of them is taking me seriously.’’
Sandy James finds that writing is liberating her underutilized intellect.
And what a brilliant writer she is! Sandy is now being read worldwide on the Net. Her articles are also appearing in a newspaper.
I must confess that I have been known to resort to a bit of self-praise from time to time. It would seem to me to be the only way to get some recognition around here. Pepperings of “My, what a magnificent dinner. Pure restaurant quality” or “Gee, that swimming pool is positively sparkling” go a long way in boosting one’s sense of being appreciated I find.
I blame this phenomenon of being taken for granted on the complacency of familiarity. Believing that adage ‘you can’t have two brain surgeons in one family’- at least not without something having to give - I chose to opt out of the business world by looking after our son and other children in my own home. It was absolutely exhausting, unrelenting drudgery but it enabled me to raise my own child to my personal standards and earn much needed grocery money without suffering the inevitable, hovering guilt suffered by many working mothers. Basically, I was always around to take up the slack, smooth over the emergencies and generally keep the emotional tone of the household ship on a steady course.
Contrary to what those around me may think, I do still have a brain and it remains highly active beneath the repetitive fog of domesticity. I acknowledge that I made a conscious choice to ostensibly dumb down for the shackles and servitude of motherhood. What I did not sign up for was disrespect and trivialisation.
Teenage remarks such as “What were you thinking? You don’t get it do you?” and “You’re kidding, right?” are most disparaging. What can I possibly know? I am, after all, only his mother. He conveniently forgets that it was I who helped him with his Maths and Chemistry when he was flummoxed. (In the midst of this crisis I astounded my husband by asking him to please buy me a protractor whilst he was at the newsagent. I find it to be a marriage enhancing thing this astounding of a husband occasionally. It keeps them on their toes.) With my son, everything I suggest is currently “lame” or “Jurassic” and communication is limited to approximately two questions per day. With such a restriction, I have to consider my questions wisely before using them. Monosyllabic grunting, where a ‘yes’ grunt is indiscernible from a ‘no’ grunt, is the new language around here, unless you happen to be a pretty, young girl in which case, eloquence miraculously returns. What happened to my sweet, little boy?
Faced with this scenario I took it upon myself to adopt a new state of mind. I decided to be a bit selfish for a change, make a bid for freedom and a stand for capability by finally realising my long suppressed hankering to write. To everyone’s surprise I have had a modicum of success with work published in the paper and on the internet. Based on these writings, I have even been offered a paid job with a local newspaper. I’ve finally found a release for that underutilised intellect and at every opportunity I scribble away. Suddenly, to my family’s alarm, I am no longer so readily available. There have been repercussions of course and complaints that there are seldom homemade biscuits in the cookie jar. A year on and the family is still in denial. Neither of them is taking me seriously.
“Don’t you ever get writer’s block?” queried my despondent husband when he came home to find me, yet again, at the computer, engrossed in creating a story.
“Oh no,” I replied cheerily. “I find that I am far more susceptible to ironer’s block or vacuumer’s block.”
“Have the people across the road put their house up for sale?” he asked, trying to change the prickly subject. “I see that there is a sign on their fence.”
“No”, I answered. “That is a sign which advertises Cheryl’s business. She is a property agent who works from home. Come to think of it, I could have a sign out the front of our place saying, ‘Sandy James – Freelance Writer and Poet.’
“Lucky we don’t have a fence then, isn’t it,” he teased as he went off to heat up his dinner.
It was Jesus Christ, we are told (Matt 13:57) who stated that, “Only in his own house is a prophet without honour.” I am beginning to empathise with that very wise man.
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To sample more of Sandy's highly entertaining words please click on http://www.openwriting.com/archives/sandys_say/
