When I was about 11 I went out to breakfast with my parents and used my finely honed mental skills to have the waiter bring me a jelly basket filled with orange marmalade. No, this is true. I didn’t ask for orange marmalade, but that was what I wanted and that particular muscle in my brain made it happen.
This kind of thing – it’s dropped off over the years. I no longer, apparently, have the ability to start stalled cars or cause pucks, balls, or runs to slip into place just before the buzzer rings. (L’s baseball team’s record can attest.) I’m sure my declining capacity for magical thought is a combined result of age and knowledge. A cup of tea sipped down in under 25 seconds isn’t going to protect me from the monsters of midnight, and a homemade potion offered to the gods of childhood on a foggy spring morning isn’t going to keep me young. I will, like the rest of humanity, have to rely on pore reducers. And the monsters? They slipped away along with my own powers. Which does seem fair.
Still, I fall back into that habit of flexing that side of my brain when things seem on the brink. Like, am I really going to be able to accomplish the many, many things I need to this morning before trotting off on a school field trip? If I could use my mind like a third hand, I might. It could make the sandwiches. And write the note to the babysitter about dinner, rainy day activities, and what to do if the power goes out.
But, onward. As mothers everywhere are scolding, “This oatmeal won’t make itself!”
Have a sweet rainy day, dears. If you need me, leave a message via telepathy and we’ll see if it works.