The Beer Chart

As Chickie and I sat at the dining room table, gluing together our latest craft project, he looked up at me like a dog about to go walkies.
“Daddy’s going to love this, isn’t he mummy?”
“Yes, he’s going to love it!”
Rather ungratefully, I thought, it turned out that daddy didn’t love it all that much. He mumbled something about reward charts being for children before wandering off to examine the inside of the fridge.
“But we made little beer glass stickers” I chimed, holding them up. “To motivate you.” He stayed in the fridge. “When you get 5 stickers, you get a real beer!”
Chickie and I looked at each other, wondering how long one man could survive inside a fridge freezer.
“All the jobs are listed down the side. Put the bins out. Don’t leave scissors in Chickie’s room. Wash the car etc.”
Still nothing. Chickie and I went to play in the other room. “He’ll come round to the idea” I told Chickie.

He didn’t. Apparently he had his own system and my thoughtful attempts to stimulate productivity were not required. I didn’t exactly agree as I considered my car wash request of five months ago but thought it best, at this point, to stay quiet. By the next morning however, I was ready to reveal my plans to excavate Accountants inner dynamo. He was less keen. As I began talking about prioritisation, multi-tasking and the perils of procrastination, he made his way back to the fridge, where he remained until he was quite sure I’d gone away.

It was like school assembly all over again. Left to do everything myself. Who turned the music on when everyone came in and went out? Who’d put the date and composer of the day up on the board? Who checked the rain fall and temperature and coloured in the weather graphs by the assembly entrance? Who tapped the barometer and stood outside in the rain with the anemoter collecting wind speed data? Who then compiled all this information into a thrilling report which she also presented each day to keep all informed of the latest weather conditions? Who sat at the front, facing the whole school, in her special chair, wearing her music monitor badge? And I played the recorder along to the hymns. And the clarinet. And all by 9am. Every day, aged 9 years old.

How annoying. Hand higher in the air than all the others, mouthing, “pick me, pick me” as my bum bounced up and down on my little chair. Thinking about it, even my teacher looked irritated by my enthusiasm asking if anyone else, preferably without a lisp, would like to read the weather report. Sadly for him, only Lispy Lizzie was available.

When Accountant returned home, I showered him with kisses, feeling sorry for the poor man that had been too kind to leave the hyperactive kid bouncing on her chair, picking her over a quieter life.