Mimes--I'm Regressing

I wrote about Mimes a couple of days ago, how there are different stages we go through in life.  Here are the stages if you didn't read them before:

Stage one: Innocence

This is a person who's never seen a mime.  They're happy (SORT-OF) but don't know what they're missing.

Stage two: Seeing Stripes

This is a person who's seen a mime.  Envy hasn't had time to brew in their heart.  They smile at the mime and wave.  The mime waves back--since that's still allowed in the miming industry.

Stage three: Hater

This is a person who's seen a mime, but HATE them.  This is where envy has crept into their mime-loving soul.  They hate mimes because they're really the mimes' biggest fans.

Stage four: Becoming Your Enemy

This is a person who decides to become a mime.  Less than 1% of our population has the courage to reach this point.  I know that's sad and hard to swallow--but it's true!  It's hard to get to this stage, but you'll know if you make it there because you will completely lose your voice and your kids will LOVE being around you.

I'm sorry to inform you that I've regressed from a classic Stage four Aspiring Mime to a Stage three Hater.  Why?  Because my children practically cast me from my Mime-loving pedestal.

I loved mimes.  I was ready to become one.  I thought I could stop talking just like Miss Gilbert in "Eat, Pray, Love," but I wouldn't have to travel half-way across the world to do it.  I'd just don a stripey mime-suit.  But no, my children had to turn the idea on me.

I felt excited at first because my second oldest daughter, "The Hippie," stopped looking for Boggarts in the walls.  She was so obsessed with Spiderwick and Boggarts that everywhere I turned, all I saw was honey and traps set to catch brownies.  Well, miming cured her.  She stopped whispering to hob goblins and began eating imaginary apples.  I thought that was gold, pure and sweet, until my girls wouldn't talk AT ALL.  They still giggled--sure that was all right--but wouldn't talk to save their lives.

I said, "Wipe off the table."

My oldest daughter,  "The Scribe", shook her head.  She touched the table and acted as if it was scalding hot.  "The Hippe" followed suit.  They turned to each other and winked.

"You can't wipe the table?"

They nodded vigorously.

"Because . . . "

They touched the surface and I swore it made a sizzling sound.

"It's too hot?" I asked.

They grinned, then "The Scribe" acted as if blowing up a huge balloon.  That thing must have been bigger than a planet because it took her long enough.  Then when she'd finished, she handed me the balloon's string.  I knew it floated above me--in her imagination.  That was great, but the table wasn't clean!  I looked at the table.  "The Scribe" motioned to my balloon, bowed, and both girls started skipping from the room.

"Oh no you don't!"  They turned.  Their fingers pointed to each other and did a bunch of alien hand signals.  I hated that!  It reminded me of going to a restaurant where fellow customers talk in a different language NO ONE else understand.  You wonder if they're bashing you--right out in the open.  It's the worst form of mockery.  You feel too stupid to stand up for yourself, yet if you do, they can deny the whole conversation!  Well, that's how this felt.  I didn't know what my girls discussed until they started swinging invisible lassos over their heads.

So, they wanted to play it rough?  "I can play this game," I said and rolled up my sleeves.  I wasn't about to go down like Gulliver in his travels with the little people.  "Bring it on!"  I zipped my lips and threw the key way down the kitchen sink.  Those girls, with the fiery eyes, still swung their lassos, but were about to meet their mime-loving match.

Just when they threw the ropes, I pulled out a huge pair or invisible scissors.  It cut through those ropes faster than a hot knife through butter.  I laughed--because that's how bad I suck as a mime--I know mimes aren't allowed to laugh.  My girls paled.  I'd ruined their ropes.  Maybe they would have to wipe the table!

They made some swords.  They looked like big ones too.  They jumped next to me and fought before I could make anything new.  I remembered those scissors, thankfully.  Sometimes it's hard battling kids' imaginations.  They don't forget a thing and they never miss a beat.  The scissors seemed to do the trick though, since I could parry and cut.

Soon my girls backed against the table.  I cackled, feeling the power of victory--thank God for scissors!  That's when "the Scribe" stepped back.  She let her little sister battle me alone.  I knew "The Scribe" was up to something bad.  She wouldn't leave "The Hippie" for just any dumb idea.

As I watched bits and pieces of what "The Scribe" did, fear filled my movements.  She acting as if cutting the pipes, gluing the sections together.  Then when she got to the flint igniter I knew I'd lose.  She'd made a . . . A SPUD GUN!!!  I don't know if you know this, but in the mime world nothing can best a spud gun.

My lip quivered.  I edged back.  My girls guided me until I was the one backed against the table.  I felt like they had me walking a plank.  I wanted to say a farewell--my last words on Earth--as "The Hippie" touched the table and winched.  She purposely reminded me that I could either cooperate, lose by sitting on the table of fire or get shot with the invisible spud gun.

They had me, they really did.  I'd lost my scissors somewhere along the way, and knew one move could be my last.  Then a smile slithered across my face.  I had a fantastic idea.  I'd make a potato-proof wall.  I'd do one "talk to the hand" motion and the wall would be up!



It was a great idea--in theory!  I made the wall.  My girls looked at each other.  I continued reinforcing the wall.  I glared through it.  How did it feel trying that on for size!!!  Not even a potato launcher could fire through a wall like the one in front of me.  I crossed my arms and smirked.  They could try getting through that, but I knew nothing could break down my wall.  That's when "The Scribe" started messing with her side.  That wasn't allowed.  What was she thinking?  She made something, slowly altering my wall and I didn't like it one bit!

Before I completely knew how to react she'd made a doorknob IN MY WALL!  She motioned for "The Hippie" to do the honors.  They opened, my wall and stepped through, still holding the potato launcher!!!  Couldn't they just leave my wall alone?  I'd been so proud.

So, I lost the battle of imagination, but at least my girls did end up wiping the table off.  They still aren't talking much unless we're around other people.  If this keeps up today we might go to a play land, just so they'll have to talk.  I don't know If I'm ready for another mime battle, but I need to prepare just in case.  What in the world is better than a potato launcher--nothing that's what.  Nothing except a bigger one.  All right, I'm glad I wrote this, those girls are going down!!!