“You’re late!”
“I overslept.”
“Then you won’t have an excuse for sleeping on the job.”
That was unfair, since the Girl never had a chance to nap, even though there were times she really wanted to. And in this instance of listening to the usual motherly gossip celebrating the arrival of new births within their group, she really wanted to.
“Twins!”
“How are they?”
“One is outgoing and happy. The other is shy and reserved. They’re like... I hesitate to use the term Day and Night, since they’re more like Dusk and Sunrise.”
“How fortunate!”
“Not as fortunate as you’d think. I can’t decide on their designations. It’s so much harder when it’s just two of them.”
“I remember my first twins. They looked alike, but couldn’t be more different. A doctor did separate tests for the two of them which revealed some very interesting results. He asked them to create a story involving dolls and their accessories in front of them. The first child was able to do fantasy roleplaying with no problem. The second child asked, ‘What’s their motivation?’ to which he replied, ‘Anything you want.’
“She looked at the dolls uncomfortably and didn’t want to look at them anymore. When asked why she didn’t engage with them, she said, ‘I didn’t know where to start!’ The child was overburdened with choice - she couldn’t decide which toys to focus on. She wanted to use every single piece, exhausting every possible combination, and couldn’t stand to leave a single one unused, saying, ‘I wouldn’t want them to feel left out!’
“How’d you plan their designation?”
“I decided to keep the sensitive child.”
“You’re far braver than I am. I would’ve sent the unimaginative one out into the wild.”
“It’d be so much easier if I had triplets.”
“Speaking of triplets, how’s yours doing?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. One is currently incapacitated, one is missing, and one is bound for parts unknown.”
At this kind of party gathering, it didn’t look like there’d be any work getting done. The Girl expected to find refreshments there, but everyone present was hoarding their own portion. Not having eaten breakfast earlier, she’d hoped for something to eat, but none of the Mothers were willing to share. To further complicate matters, the extra pounds she’d put on while pregnant hadn’t entirely gone away. She thought all those nutrients would’ve been flushed out when she flushed out the baby, but it turned out it wasn’t as simple as that. The Mothers tried to reassure her with words of advice such as:
“Didn’t you get the memo?”
“We’re supposed to bring our own snacks.”
“You could stand to lose a little weight.”
“Losing weight is easy for me!”
“All you have to do is lose the will to live.”
“Granted, there’s the risk of death, but that’s a risk worth taking.”
“Don’t talk to me about food,” one Mother piped up. “My kid refuses to eat anything too fancy. Nowadays, he’s reduced to eating the blandest foods possible, yet looks so happy while chewing you’d think he was eating cultivated masterpieces. He’d eat rocks if I didn’t stop him. I had to teach him how to make his own bland porridge. Despite how easy it is to make, he always winds up leaving such a mess.”
“Don’t talk to me about messes,” another Mother pitched in. “Every single morning, my kid gets up, and after breakfast, will rush out to the playroom. But he never plays in it. Instead, he’ll pile up the biggest toys and dump them on top of each other, one at a time into a tower of mess. Then he’ll sit back, satisfied with his work, and go off not bothering to play with any of the toys. And he’ll scream his head off if I dare tamper with his stuff, even though it takes up half the room. So I have to wait until he takes one of his rare naps before I can finally dismantle the pile without his noticing. After he wakes up from his nap, he won’t care if the pile is gone. He’ll just look and sniff in that general direction. What drives me nuts - and this is true - is that he creates the exact same mess every day. Without fail.”
“My kid is very neat,” another Mother bragged. “He insists on using new spoons every time he takes a bite of soup. ‘You can use the same spoon!’ I says. ‘I don’t want to put dirty spoons in my mouth’, he says.”
“At least your kid eats normally,” another Mother sympathized. “Mine has a tendency of eating foods separately. Instead of eating stew drenched in sauce, he drinks the sauce THEN eats the stew. He was surprised to learn this wasn’t considered normal.”
“You think your kid’s finicky?” another Mother joined in. “My kid’s so fussy with the kinds of foods he eats. He doesn’t want to eat anything that’s too crunchy around the edges. Then he didn’t want to eat foods mixed together. If there’s a sandwich, he’ll scrape the contents off, then lick each condiment individually before finally eating the bread. At least he’s not eating it in alphabetical, colourful or atomic mass order.”
“Well, at least your kid enjoys what he eats,” the first Mother said. “My kid has no taste. No matter what I prepare for him - whether it’s the elaborate masterpiece I’ve whipped up or the quickest blend of whatever’s on the shelves, he always responds with the same answer. Our conversations basically consists of:”
‘How’s the food?’
‘Edible.’
‘How’s lunch?’
‘Edible.’
‘How’s dinner?’
‘Edible.’
‘I’m afraid I burnt it a bit.’
‘Don’t worry. It was still edible.’
‘Did you enjoy the scrumptious meal?’
‘I ate it, didn’t I?’
‘I put a lot of time and effort creating this. I’d appreciate a little more response from you!’
‘Alright... it’s very edible.’
‘...Don’t talk with your mouth full.’
“Days later, out of the blue, he spontaneously said, ‘I want to be a Hunger Artist when I grow up’, which is different from what other children usually want to be. He was quite adamant about it, even as I tried to dissuade him from the job. ‘Being a starving artist isn’t as glamourous as you’d think’, I says. ‘But I’m so qualified for it!’, he says. I’d still support his boneheaded decision no matter what, but I still worry about his future. I worry that he won’t have enough to eat, and how he’ll support himself, if he’s hungry all the time.”
“Better than my kid. He wants to be a panther. A pink one. I told him they didn’t exist anymore. ‘Sounds like the perfect time to be one! We could use more panthers in this world!’”
“They haven’t even met, and your kid’s already beating mine in the job department!”
The First Mother took some brief satisfaction from these words.
The Girl sat there grumbling, both in her throat and tummy. All this talk of food wasn’t endearing her at all. Being a Hunger Artist didn’t sound so bad if it meant she’d get paid for it.
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