I will stand at the top of the stairs and scream to my children that dinner is ready, a half-dozen times. Each eliciting zero response. They are either engrossed in a movie, or playing “the silent game” championships, or have only been a figment of my imagination for the last six years.
My foundation-splitting war cries reverberate throughout the house, pleading with them to come upstairs and ingest the fuel required to keep them alive—like Aragorn rallying his men, “There may come a day when you all will be self-sufficient enough to feed yourselves, BUT THAT DAY IS NOT TODAY!!!” Yet, I am only met with the decaying echo of my own voice.
So naturally I vault the baby gate and stomp down the stairs for effect.
“Did you guys hear me calling you?”
But, try and silently shake a bag of M&Ms into your hand on the other side of the house…
My kids can hear fine.