The (Not-so-great) Noticer

One of the Mister’s favorite things to say about me is that he could “lock me in an empty room with a tiger and I wouldn’t know it was there until it started chewing on me.” Which, unfortunately, is probably true.
I don’t notice anything. An elephant could cross the street right behind me as I checked the mail and there is a very good chance I would never know it was there.
If a friend changes her appearance somehow – like if she gets her hair cut – unless I’ve seen her in the past day or two, nine times out of ten I won’t notice. The best you can hope for is that I can tell something is a little different, but I probably won’t be able to tell you what it is.
The Mister, on the other hand, notices everything! We’ll be driving down the road and he’ll see a hawk on a tree limb on the opposite side of a field. We’ll be watching a tv show and a character’s bathrobe could be tied on the left before the commercial break and on the right afterwards, and he’ll point it out.
It’s not unusual for us to be standing in a store and the Mister will point out a poster or some such thing (today in Kirkland’s it was a giant tiger painting, ironically) on a shelf, and it will take five minutes of pointing and describing before I have the slightest idea what he’s talking about. It’s sad. If we lived in the jungle, I really would be eaten.
One day a few months ago, for example, the Mister went to work in his usual blue jeans, boots and t-shirt, and came home in a different t-shirt, soccer shorts and somebody else’s rain boots. He purposefully paraded around the living room in his new attire, flaunting the rubber boots right in front of me, for about fifteen minutes. In the end, he still had to point out his change of clothes and the only thing I asked was why he was wearing rubber boots in the house. (There was a reason for the change, but I don’t remember what it was. It probably involved manure of some kind.)
This ultimately begs the question, “What am I going to do when we have kids?” They aren’t going to get in trouble for anything because Mom won’t ever notice they’ve done it. Sure, I may notice that something looks different about one of them or that my flowerbeds look slightly askew, but my greatest threat will have to be, “You just wait until your father gets home. Then he’ll tell me what you’ve done!”
The most common phrase uttered in our house is going to be, “Honey… Did you know that….?” With my response being something along the lines of, “Huh?”
So I’ll either be the most “awesome” mom on the block, where kids can get away with most anything as long as there isn’t blood everywhere, or I’ll be the mother everyone talks about because my child’s hair is four inches shorter on one side and it hasn’t occurred to me to fix it.
Or probably both.


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