If you don’t know what’s going on, click here to start at the beginning with the introductory post.
The game starts us idly on the front lawn of our empty house. The paper boy instantly arrives, but I make a point to usher him on his way in case I forget which kids I own and end up having to take him in too. I mean, eight kids, that would just be ridiculous.
I suppose furniture and food are the first priority, so I set Patty to check the newspaper for a job. While she handles that, I begin the arduous task of clicking on each child to individually send them inside the house, a task requiring about as much micro management as a competition-level game of StarCraft II.
Possible jobs: criminal (decoy), business (coffee courier), science (test subject) or military (latrine cleaner). Children are the future, so Patty takes the humiliating science job in the hopes of improving the future for all of the world’s children. Also to find a cure for THE HULK, or possibly just irradiate a wife for him. Even though the pay is actually the best of the four options, at $44 an hour it really isn’t going to get us very far. But maybe the scientific test subject job has other kinds of benefits – maybe as it is, Patty just isn’t being exposed to enough depleted uranium over the natural course of her day.
I use the meagre starting cash to fill the house with eight beds and a television. But oh no – in the excitement of looking for a job and arranging furniture, I’ve forgotten to feed my seven children all morning. I set Patty to make brunch and immediately she begins to worry about money.
Myself presently having trouble working out how to actually feed the children, I try selecting a kid and telling them to interact with the fridge, but to no avail. I try to leave a plate of salad on the floor in front of them, but I can’t make them interact with it. Could it be that these seven starving infants just don’t understand the value in a low calorie, high roughage diet?
Eventually, Patty just ends up putting the food in the fridge. At this rate we’re going to speed past brunch and lunch, and Patty will have to resourcefully invent an entirely new meal just so the kids don’t die of starvation on day one.
- Possible name: “lunch” + “dinner” = “linner”
- Honourable mention: “dinner” + “midnight snack” = “didnight snack”
I figure out Patty just has to prepare a dish, then once it’s on the counter I can tell her to call the household to a meal. Finally, my children won’t go hungry after all! I do this, and she snatches the food and immediately walks into the bathroom, whereupon she begins eating the meal alone on the toilet.
I now see that wanting to feed my children is too grandiose a notion, so trying a different track I set Patty to change the diapers of every single child. Bear with me – my thinking is that maybe if I wish to put more food in the children, I first I need to sure up some room in their colons.
Changing all seven children, of course, requires clicking them all, then clicking the “Change diaper” option. Boy, lemme tell you, parenting really takes it out of your mouse-clicking finger. We manage to get it done, but about fifteen seconds after she’s changed the final one, nearly all of the seven children stunningly soil themselves. After yet another hard-core session of clicking, her work is done.
Let’s just summarise Patty’s behaviour here for a second, apropos the recent inexplicable popularity of diaper changing:
- Preparing a meal for her children: so traumatic that she must retire to the bathroom to gorge herself sane
- Changing fourteen diapers in two minutes: fine
Now every single child is screaming for food, and I finally work out that by selecting Patty and clicking on each child one by one, I can get her to feed them individually. I should mention that by this point it’s 9:00 P.M., and all eight of us really should be getting to all eight of our beds for the night. Par for the course, I have absolutely no idea how to put any of these seven distraught children to bed.
After much ineffectual clicking and re-clicking, I resolve to allow Patty to nap restlessly in her bed while the children sit unsupervised in the dark until morning. Hey, parenting is about compromises. Sometimes you just have to compromise the well-being of your children for some me time.
At 12:00 A.M., Patty awakes to nearly all the children screaming, and, strangely enough, wanting to go to bed. It’s like The Princess and the Pea with you guys!
Again I spend some time inventing various creative combinations of clicks to get the children to bed; eventually I realise, with a wretched chill, that I’ve spent all of my money on beds, and not cribs as I should have. The children are fundamentally incompatible with the furniture I’ve bought. They will never sleep.
Blearily entering Buy Mode, I find that even with the most efficient arrangements the strange shape of cribs means I can only fit a maximum of four in the bedroom. Alright kiddies, we’re just going to have to write up some kind of time-share schedule for sleeping. It’s okay, I’ll laminate it and everything.
My solution is to fill the entire house with cribs and sell the seven excess beds, along with the front yard plants, for crib money. Patty finally manages to get to bed at 5:41 A.M., ready for a hearty three-and-a-half hours of sleep before she has to get up for her job as a scientific test subject.
All just to put food on the table for her seven children. Or perhaps on the toilet, for herself.
You can click here to go to Septomom Day 2: Malcontent in the Middle.