It was vacation time, and (say it with me) the kids were bored

IT

was vacation time, and (say it with me) the kids were bored.

We’d done jumping jacks, we’d painted, we’d played every outdoor game that we could, we’d baked and crafted and read stories and had baths. I had run out of ideas.

“I’m also bored,” I said.

That stumped them. They suggested I do jumping jacks, and I managed 30, to rousing cheers. They suggested I do a handstand. I found, to my amazement, that I could still cartwheel across the room. My little audience went wild. They suggested that I paint the walls. I demurred; I know my children’s helpful inclinations, and preferred to tackle that particular task in the dead of night, undisturbed. They suggested I bake them treats, but didn’t have the patience to wait for me to actually bake anything. I suggested that I have a nice quiet bath. They said worriedly that that sounded far too boring.

We sat opposite each other on the floor.

“We’re boooooreeeed!” the children began again.

Inspiration struck. “You think you’re bored?!” I said. “You have no idea what it means to be bored! None! Let me tell you a story, an incredibly boring story, a story so boring that the person writing it can’t stop himself from continuously mentioning how unbearably bored he is.”

I jumped up, entered our guest room, climbed onto a chair, and reached up to the top shelf of the closet. I felt around until my hand closed over a leather-covered little book, still perfectly preserved.

“This,” I told my children in a hushed voice, to prolong the moment of blessed silence, “is your great-great-grandfather’s diary. He wrote it when he was traveling from Liverpool, in the UK, to Sydney, Australia. In those days, the journey took weeks and weeks and weeks by boat.”

I saw I had the children’s attention.

“Here’s how he starts: An abbreviated chronicle which excludes all personal and private thoughts, hopes, and fears.

“That means,” I explained, “that he’s not planning on saying anything interesting at all. He is just going to spend the entire diary talking about how bored he is. He is then going to send the diary off to his long-suffering wife, whom I’m named after.”

Little Aharon frowned. “Being on a boat is fun!” he protested.

“Let’s see,” I suggested, and began reading, a highly abbreviated version. Even I got bored of reading how bored my dear ancestor was on his boat.

Sunday, Jan. 6, 1946

Here goes the first day’s impressions. We boarded yesterday at 4.00 p.m. and only started moving today at 9.30 a.m. There appears to be a pretty drowsy crowd on board. Food good.

Jan. 7

Ship rolling a little and many already down. Micky dodged breakfast and just lay down on a deck chair.

“Micky,” I explained to the kids, “is your great-grandfather Michael. He got seasick.”

Encountered dirty seas at about 11.30 p.m. when we ran into Biscay. The seas were mountainous, and the ship tossed about like a cork. I shall not expect any large attendance in the saloon for breakfast.