I have reached a point my parenting where I'm realizing my kids are... right there. And when I say that, I mean that they are right in a place that I have zero, to... uh... well, no experience with, because I was an only child. I used to crave a backseat fight, but settled for dramatic music about fighting, and a stare out the window, because reading about fighting, or, well, anything in a moving car, made me nauseous. I don't know... something about objects whizzing past when you are trying to concentrate on something that isn't, has the same effect on me as being stuck in one of those teacups at Disneyland.
Few things make me nauseous. But put me in a boat? I'll puke the entire time. Put me in a car and tell me I have to read 50 pages of a book? Hoo-boy! Tell me to ride in the rear-facing seat? Yeah, asking for trouble. I'll settle for the observation of my surroundings, in a front-facing direction, thanks. Man, I wonder what I would have been like if on-board TVs were around when I was a kid?
Well, anyway, because of that, I have one keen sense of direction, and rarely get lost. I have been paying attention to where I've been going since I could see, basically. But I have no clue how to go about dealing with two warring monkeys in the back seat.
I swear, driving with them is akin to watching an old episode of Geraldo at times, complete with hair pulling, scratching, screaming, talking over one another, accusations of stolen loves, (OK, this usually has to do with dolls and stuffed animals... at least for now,) and chair throwing... or at least that would be the case if they had access to chairs. But they do throw things at times.
Today, as we approached the intersection of NE 15th and Broadway, I was quite glad that we were stopped at a light, as I heard a whi-ssip! past my head, then a Bonk! The latter occurred somewhere close to the passenger seat, as whatever just flew past my head like a giant blood-thirsty mosquito, found a resting spot on the floor in a less than graceful manner.
It took me a second to register what it was. In this case, MicroSqueak's shoe was the momentary unidentified flying object.
Wow. Whoda'thunk'it? UFOs! Really big bugs! Uh... birds? No, Hedy. This isn't Roswell. It's not the set of "Them!" It's not the lorikeet exhibit at the zoo. You are in your car, and that was a child's size 11 Doc Marten Mary-Jane.
I was just glad it didn't actually hit my head. Those things are heavy!
Those girls got an earful after this. I started with: "Dude! What the? Huh? Why?"
I peered into the back seat via rear-view mirror, and saw LadyBug's face go all sheepish, with a small grain of fear. "Uh... sorry!"
"Yeah, right. Let me tell you something! You are lucky that thing didn't hit me in the head! What if I'd been knocked out? Huh? What if we had been moving?! We could have been killed! KILLED! KILLED!!!"
"I said I was sorry..."
"Well, you are... oohh! I... well? Don't do it again! Ever!!!"
"And when we get home, you are going to fetch that shoe, and you are going to help your sister put that shoe back on her foot. Or... there will be trouble! You hear me??"
"K, mom. Sorry."
Those who know me well, know that I don't yell at my kids all that often, but when it's important, it's important!
And... when we got home, she did find the shoe, and help her sister place it back onto her foot. You know? I think I could probably handle a crazy talk show.