You are currently browsing the category archive for the 'Fears and phobias' category.
Last month on our trip to the pumpkin patch, DynaGirl insisted I take a picture of this:
A closer look:
That’s all I have to say about that.
So awhile back I posted one of those lame “How well do you know me?” Facebook quizzes. One of the questions was:
My biggest fears in order from greatest to least are ____________.
a) spiders, public restrooms, dirty dishes.
b) public restrooms, dirty dishes, spiders.
c) dirty dishes, spiders, public restrooms.
Most people got this question wrong.
This morning as I was folding laundry on the couch, I picked up a towel—a big, white, fluffy, beautiful towel—only to find that a spider—a big, black, creepy, ugly spider—was lurking within its folds. I dropped the towel like it had a spider on it (because it did!) and screamed. But I dropped the towel on the couch. No way was I going to live with the idea that a big, black, creepy, ugly eight-legged beastie was inhabiting the inner recesses of my loveseat, so I picked up a corner of the towel and flung it on the ground away from the couch. I thought maybe it would crawl out of the towel so I (actually, I was hoping I could talk Mr. T into doing the dirty work) could properly attack it with the business end of my husband’s hiking boot, but it didn’t. The towel was silent. Eerily silent. And still. Eerily still.
The towel and spider were now in the middle of my floor, trapping Mr. T in the kitchen and preventing me from carrying out the rest of my morning motherly duties of lunch making and laundry folding and floor sweeping and all that other crap. I bravely walked up to the towel and lifted up one corner.
Me, to Mr. T: Is it there?
Mr. T: I don’t see it.
Me, trying to flip around another corner of the towel: Do you see it?
Mr. T: No.
Me: Did you see it when I flung it onto the floor. It’s in the towel, right? It’s not still on the couch, right?! Please don’t let it still be on the couch!
I thought about just smashing the crap out of that towel in such a way as to ensure that nothing could have survived, but it was one of my good white bath towels. I haven’t had them very long and they were kind of pricey. I went into the kitchen and started digging around in the drawers.
Mr. T: What are you looking for?
Me: The tongs. The good ones.
I couldn’t find the good ones. I could only find the flimsy ones that were a good 1 1/2 inches shorter than the good ones, but I was desperate. I went over to the vicinity of the towel and leaned over as far as my arm would stretch and tried to pick up the towel with the tongs. I couldn’t. They weren’t strong enough to hold 30×56″ of fine loop Egyptian cotton goodness. Darn those flimsy tongs!
Mr. T, searching the kitchen in earnest: Where are those good tongs?!
He couldn’t find them, but worked up the courage to spread the towel out the rest of the way. There was nothing there. There was nothing there! Do you know what’s worse than having a spider on one of your best bath towels? Having a spider on one of your best bath towels and then not having a spider on one of your best bath towels with no earthly idea of what happened to the damn thing in between those two states of being! It could be anywhere!
Mr. T: You probably flung it off the towel when you threw it off the couch.
Me: But where? Where would I have flung it to?
We looked around and then Mr. T spotted it on the dining room wall, a good twelve feet away.
Mr. T: That thing’s huge!
I searched for a weapon. Mr. T brought out the big, rubber mallet from the kitchen.
Me: We can’t use that, we’ll put a hole in the wall.
The spider dropped to the floor, so I knew I had to act fast—any further delay and I’d risk losing him in my house. In my house! I finally settled on some rolled up newspapers, covered my eyes with one hand and brought down my other with the full force of all my fear and fury. I got him.
Me, handing Mr. T a stack of napkins: Could you get rid of him please?
Mr. T: With napkins?!
Me: Well, what do you want to use?
Mr. T: Something stiffer?
We debated for a few minutes until finally I took matters into my own hands—well, not my hands (shudder, shudder, shudder!)—and scooped it up with the cardboard wrapping from the last of the pineapple snack cups. I carried it across the dining room and tossed it out the back slider door, all the while hoping that spiders didn’t play possum and chanting, “Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up.”
Needless to say, it was a most traumatic and distressing way to start my day. It’s like when you narrowly miss getting in a car accident and your heart is palpitating for several minutes following the near death experience.
So here is my rationale behind the biggest fears:
I’d rather do dishes than take care of any kind of business in a public restroom. And I’d certainly much rather take care of all kinds of business in a public restroom than have to deal with a spider.
I’m not sure how long it will be before I can use that towel again, let alone hang it up in my bathroom. Or put it in the linen closet. Or fold it. Or pick it up off the floor.
We survived the pictures! I can hardly believe it. If anything, they went too well as I had a most difficult time deciding which poses not to buy. She just looked so darn cute in all of them that I could hardly bear the thought of them not being admired by someone. Anyone. Well, not some creepy person. Do you ever have guilt over allowing a perfectly delightful image of your precious child to be thrown away? I almost feel like I’m abandoning them. And the sales girls totally know it and use it against me. Manipulative benches.
But the pictures are done! And now I can breathe easy. Well, not quite yet, I guess. There is still the possibility they will get lost. That happened to me once before with Mr. T. We had had the most perfect photo session in the history of cheesy department store photo sessions, and two days before I was to pick up the finished prints, they called to tell me they had lost them and I would need to come in to have them retaken. I cannot even begin to describe the trauma of that event. It. Was. Ugly. Given that experience, I guess I won’t claim the victory until I have the pictures in my hot little hands. It’s going to be a long, anxiety-riddled 10 days.
But enough about me. Anything stressing you out lately?
Yesterday I made an appointment to have BigHugs’ picture taken. So you know what that means—some time in the next 24 hours she will either come down with a cold, a raging case of pinkeye or have some other kind of face-maiming accident. She hasn’t had a professional picture taken in over 2 years. Can you guess why? It seems almost irresponsible of me to risk my child’s health and safety this way with an actual scheduled appointment, but for some reason I felt it must be done. I’m hoping this time the universe will prove me wrong. Prove me wrong, Universe! Prove me wrong!
And now, on a more serious note: a Bythelbs special comment.
Yesterday something else happened that turned my world upside down. Black is no longer black. White is no longer white. Everything is just a big fat puddle of muddled gray. And just when I was thinking that things might be starting to calm down—that maybe we’re getting ready to move past all of this election drama and settle into our new reality. But now I’m not so sure we’re ready to move on together. It seems that we’re as divided as ever.
I consider myself to be a very open-minded, reasonably non-judgmental person. I like to think of our little blogging community here at Bythelbsia as a safe place for people of all persuasions, walks of life, values and ideas, but even I’m having difficulty reconciling my affection for dear friends with their individual beliefs and opinions. No, I am confident I can get past this. It may not be today or even tomorrow. But the day will come again when I can see you all as the good, good people that you truly are regardless of your Cheetos-density preference. It will come. I must believe it.
I’m not completely convinced I’m ready for this. It may be too soon. A part of me is still grieving over the loss of my last beloved list of wacky search terms. But sometimes you just gotta move on, right? As part of the healing process, no? Disasters strike. Trajedies happen. Stuff gets lost. It’s the circle of life.
So just for kicks, I’m going to throw in a fake. Whoever can correctly guess the faux wacky search term wins a prize. I don’t exactly know what yet, but rest assured it will be something awesome. Or at the very least of little or no monetary value, which with me is pretty much the same thing as I live and die by the motto “There is no charge for awesomeness.” Have you ever gotten a bill?
look alikes obama—Funny, I’ve never gotten that one before. Kurt Cobain, Sam the hobbit, Tommy Lee? Sure. But Obama? For some reason I’m imagining this gentle googler is Italian.
sock monkeyu—”If a-you say I look alikes obama a-one more time-a, I’ll sock monkeyu in the face-a!” Because sometimes cultural stereotyping is just funny. Or not.
“invisible woman” fetish—Is this the science model? Fantastic Four? Are we talking burqas, here? I’m curious. And also disturbed. Anything with “fetish” attached is automatically a candidate for pervert status, as far as I’m concerned. Unless, of course, it’s a cowbell fetish. That is perfectly understandable. And acceptable. As long as you’re using the cowbell for good, not evil. Do not desecrate the cowbell, sir! Do not dare!
washing machine illustrated—What kind of sicko gets their jollies from washer centerfolds? Are some models sexier than others? Does it make a difference what’s in the load?
“top 10″ “innocent search terms”—I suspect this person is really looking for obscure or underground not-so-innocent search terms and is covering his buttocks with the “quotes” in case his boss is monitoring his lunch break computer activities. Plausible deniability, you know? “I have no idea how I got on this invisible woman fetish forum, sir. I was looking for something wholesome!” “And how do you explain these washing machines?” “All right, all right! I confess!”
sock monkey writer—That’s me.
monkey spanked—Step away from my blog, sicko! Go back to your washing machines!
how to sock monkey—Latest dance craze. All the kids are doing it.
sock monkey bra—Is this for you or your sock monkey? I’m not so sure I’m crazy about the idea of anatomically correct sock monkeys.
sock monkeys instructions—For? What exactly are you trying to get your sock monkey to do? I can’t help you unless you can be more specific.
sock+monkey—Equals awesome.
how many lbs socks to make sock monk—Are we talking Gandhi, Friar Tuck or Tony Shaloub? It makes a difference.
sock monkey goes to hollywood—This sounds like a promising movie franchise: Sock Monkey Goes to Hollywood, Sock Monkey Goes to Camp, Sock Monkey Goes to the Monestary.
sock monkey in love—See above.
i am atwittered about going to the farm—Me too! Those turkeys are vicious little bastards.
circus animal crackers pink tastes nasty—Is there really a difference between the pink and white? Really?
bulk mothers circus cookies—Is this so you can pick out all the white ones? Cookie bigot. You’re probably trying to get rid of those rainbow sprinkles too.
meaning of none taken—They’re trying to say you didn’t offend them. But frankly, I’m a little offended by your ignorance and/or stupidity. Idiot. No offense.
So, can you spot the imposter?
I’ve spent the past 6+ months talking up the potty to BigHugs. We even purchased some fancy shmancy Dora and Curious George pannies. (Yes, I know it’s “panties”, but they’re “pannies” at our house.) The one time I tried to actually put her on her little potty, she screamed. She was fine until her bare bum hit the cold plastic and then it was all over. That was probably five months ago now. Ever since then, whenever we would say, “BigHugs, do you want to try going potty on the toilet?” her response was always, “No, thank you.” At least she was polite about it.
As her third birthday approached, we thought we’d use the big girl angle. “You’re going to be three, BigHugs, and you’ll be a big girl. Will you be ready to use the potty when you’re three?” At first she balked at the idea and offered her usual “No, thank you”, but after a few weeks she gradually seemed to be coming around. We even heard an occasional “When I’m three I’m going to be a big girl and sleep in my own bed and go potty on the toilet.”
Well, three has come and gone, my friends, and all is quiet on the porcelain front. She absolutely refuses to even entertain the idea. We don’t even get the no thank you’s anymore—now it’s, “Stop talking to me.” Or rather, “Stop talking to me!!!”
The other day I thought we had a breakthrough. BigHugs had been complaining about a sore bum. I explained to her that it was because of the diapers, and once she started going potty on the toilet she wouldn’t have that problem anymore. I dared ask, “Are you ready to go potty on the toilet now?” She responded with a heavy sigh, “Ohhh-kay. Sure.” Huh? What was that? Well, at that point it was bedtime, so I thought we’d give her chair a spin in the morning. Puh-haw! By morning we were back to, “Stop talking to me.” Minus the exclamation points, though, so that was nice.
Here’s a conversation we had 30 seconds ago.
Me: What do you think about the potty, BigHugs?
BigHugs: Give me a kiss.
Me: Do you want to go potty on the toilet?
BigHugs: No.
Me: Why not?
BigHugs, running from the room: Because. Voice fading in the distance. I’m going to bed!
Having done the whole potty training thing three times already, I have a little bit of experience with this. I have long ago come to the conclusion that you can not force a child to go potty on the toilet. Sure, you can try, but for me it was a road to nowhere. Or a road to pain and frustration and an inordinate number of pee pee pants and floors. When I allowed my children to decide they were “ready”, it was a much more pleasant experience. With my first two this was around three years old, one a little before and one barely after. With Goose it took a little longer (surprise, surprise), but she was potty trained before three and a half. So I suppose BigHugs still falls in the normal range for my offspring.
I’m just ready to be done with the diapers. So very ready. And by all accounts, so is BigHugs—she wants her diaper changed almost immediately at even the slightest hint of moisture, she retires to a private room and shuts the door when she needs to take care of business, and waits until we get home to do so—except for the whole refusing to sit on the potty thing. I’ve tried bribery. With toys. With candy. With money. She didn’t bite. I’m afraid I find myself at the mercy of a three year old. Again. Sigh.
Do you have any potty success stories to share? Sorry, Madhousewife, feel free to make an off-topic comment.
As I’ve been writing this, I keep hearing “Potty talk. I see your potty talk. You make my potty talk when you’re next to me.”
Oh, and while we’re on the subject, I’m babysitting tomorrow morning for another diaper wearing almost three year old. I can’t remember the last time I babysat a child in diapers. I just hope her daily constitution does not take place between the hours of 9 am to noon. I have always had the hardest time with other people’s children’s diaper deeds. I mean, as a mother, at some point you stop dry-heaving when taking care of your child’s fanny fallout, but other people’s children are a whole different animal. It’s almost other-worldly—like they’re a different species or something. Is it just me? I don’t know what it is, but I’m not sure I’m up for it tomorrow. *shudder*shudder* Keep your fingers crossed for me!
So I had been debating whether or not to call the restaurant. Maybe this was a prime opportunity to break this vicious cycle of obsessiveness over insignificant lost items and just get a life already? I could just accept the fact that I had lost a child’s jacket, right? And anyway, was it worth the risk of getting my hopes up only to have them dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks of reality?
But I took a friend’s advice and called the restaurant. A lovely woman answered the phone.
Me: Um, yeah, I was in there the other night with my family and I wondered if maybe I, uh, left behind my daughter’s jacket. Do you have like a lost and found or something?
Lovely restaurant woman: I’ll check. Just a minute.
Four minutes la-tare…
Seriously, I was sitting on the phone forever. Had we been disconnected? Were there really that many items in the lost and found? This is one of our favorite little hole-in-the-wall family type restaurants that rarely has another soul in site when we go to dine—everyone who had ever been there in the last year would had to have left multiple items behind in order to explain the length of time it was taking LRW to check. My girls were watching TV. I heard an advertisement for the Indiana Jones sound FX whip in the backgroud with the Da-da-da-da, Da-da-daaaaaaa, Da-da-da-da, Da-da-da-da-daaaaaa and images of warehouses with eternal rows of shelves a la Raiders of the Lost Ark were conjured up in my mind and I began to feel myself slipping into a snake-pit of despair. Even if we had left the jacket at the restaurant, it would never be seen by human eyes again!!!
Restaurant Man, maybe Jorge—I like Jorge: Hello?
Me: Uh, yes, I was calling about a lost jacket?
RM: OK, I’ll have somebody check. pause. What color was it?
Me: Pink.
RM: Is it Old Navy?
Me, trying to compose myself long enough to answer without coming off like a total spaz: Yes! Uh, yes, I think that’s it. Um, what are your hours today?
RM: We’re open until 9:30 pm.
Me: OK, thanks.
I immediately hung up and then dialed Chuck’s cell.
Me: Guess what? It was at the restaurant!
Chuck: All right! Good. See? Are you feeling better now?
Me: Yes, except I’m embarrassed about being such a spaz.
Chuck: So she was wearing a pink jacket with a purple outfit.
Me: Yes. That must be why—the color coordination gods must have been sending me some kind of warning. I won’t make that mistake again.
Chuck: So did you pick it up?
Me: No, they’re open until 9:30 tonight. I can get it anytime.
Chuck: Maybe you should just take the girls now and go get it.
Me: There’s no rush. I know where it is. Crisis averted. I think we can move back down to defcon 2.
Chuck: So I can come home now?
Me: Yeah, yeah…whatever. I’ll see you later. pause. Thanks, sweetie.
Chuck: Yep.
I managed to wait 1 hour and 9 minutes before throwing the kids in the car and heading down to the restaurant. I had a nagging little thought in the back of my mind that there was still a possibility that it wasn’t actually BigHugs’s pink jacket. I mean obviously from the conversation I had with the Kohl’s lady I should assume that there’s some kind of little girls losing pink jackets epidemic in our area—I should be careful not to count my jackets before they hatch. But then I walked into the restaurant and Holy hot dog on a stick sweet mother moses, there it was! I had it in my hot little hands!!!
And *sniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiifff* mmmmm….it smells like fajitas.
You should already know I’m a little wacked by now, but just in case you weren’t completely convinced or have attempted to explain away my last trip to Crazy Town as a one time experience perhaps induced by the consumption of large quantities of frosted circus animals, let me assure you that is not the case. I feel I owe it to you, faithful reader, to be completely up front with my psychoses—how else are we to maintain our circle of trust if not through total honesty? Subterfuge has no place among virtual friends. I reserve that kind of deceit for those who know me in person, who might feel somewhat uneasy about my nutjobbiness. But you people can feel comfortable and safe on the other side of cyberspace—I don’t even know where most of you live yet.
BigHugs’s pink jacket is lost.
Yesterday as I was getting BigHugs ready to go out for some errands I realized it wasn’t in the coat closet. She was wearing jeans and a shirt with pink stripes, so naturally I went for the pink jacket rather than the purple because well, you know. But it wasn’t there. I looked on our entry bench, but it wasn’t there. I looked all downstairs and upstairs, but it was nowhere to be found. Then I thought it must be in the van. I’m forever leaving random jackets in the van because either the weather’s iffy and I’m bringing them along just in case or because even though it’s chilly enough to need a jacket outside, the van has warmed up sufficiently while we were in the store that BigHugs or some other child of mine is now suffocatingly hot and must relieve themselves of their outerwear before they faint dead away on the car ride home.
I grabbed her purple jacket and headed out the door and didn’t really think anything of it. Until last night when I finally realized that I didn’t remember seeing that pink jacket in the car afterall. I went back out to the car. It wasn’t there. (I actually went out to check the car four different times, the last time opening the door on the other side of the van hoping that a different perspective would somehow make the jacket miraculously reappear.) I came back inside and started asking the family if they had seen BigHugs’s pink jacket. Did they remember the last time she had worn it? Chuck thought he remembered her having it Monday night when we went out to dinner.
Me: But she was wearing the purple outfit on Monday. I remember she got rice all smushed into her pant leg. I would probably have put the purple jacket on her with the purple outfit.
Chuck: I was pretty sure I remembered her wearing the pink jacket. I remember her complaining about her straps being too tight when I put her in her carseat. But now that you mention the purple outfit, I’m beginning to doubt myself.
Me: She definitely wore it on Sunday.
Chuck: What did she wear to church on Sunday?
Me: She was wearing the brown skirt with the pink top and pink socks and brown shoes. I obviously would have put the pink jacket on her. I must have left it at church.
Chuck: I would have put it in the church bag. I always put it in the church bag when I take it off.
Me: But it’s not in the church bag. I’ve already looked. Maybe it fell out of the church bag. Figures. I spent like 10 minutes after church on Sunday running around returning random stupid belongings to stupid people that had left them behind in the stupid primary room. We even ran Sarah’s stupid jacket over to her stupid house for crying out loud and I left my own child’s stupid jacket at the stupid church. Of course. Of course I did! But why? Why would I do that?!
After I yelled at all the kids to brush their teeth and get their pajamas on, Chuck left the room and went upstairs. I felt bad. Yesterday was our anniversary (fourteen years!) and here I was all beside myself over a silly lost jacket and driving my poor husband away. He came downstairs a few moments later. He had gone upstairs to change out of his pajama pants and into jeans. It dawned on me as he was putting on his shoes that he was going over to the church to get the jacket.
Me: You don’t have to go to the church. It’s no big deal. I can go tomorrow.
Chuck: I’m already dressed and it will only take 10 minutes.
Me: No, really, don’t go. I’ll stop obsessing over it, I promise. I’ll just go tomorrow.
Chuck: I’ll be back in a few minutes. Where do you I look again?
Me: I would think it would have to be in the primary room or the chapel overflow. But seriously, I can look tomorrow. Really, I can wait.
Chuck: OK, see you in a minute.
Me: Or maybe it’s in the library lost and found?
Chuck called a few minutes later. My heart raced. He had found the jacket and was calling to put my sad little crazy mind at ease. But no. He couldn’t find the jacket. Had he checked in the primary room? Under the table in the primary room where I usually stash all our junk? On the hooks outside of the primary room? In the library lost and found? In the chapel overflow? On the coat racks down the halls? Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes and yes. It wasn’t there. Oh where could it be?!
He came home and I tried to retrace my steps again. Maybe she had worn the jacket on Monday. I had gone to Kohl’s. Maybe we left it there. I got out Sunday’s Kohl’s add to check the store hours. It was open until 10 pm and it was 9:30 pm, so naturally I got out the phone book and called the store.
Me: Do you have a lost and found?
Kohl’s lady: Yes, did you lose something?
Me, resisting the urge to say “duh”: Yes, I was in a few days ago and think I might have lost a little girl’s pink jacket there.
Kohl’s lady: OK, I’ll go look in the box. Just a minute. pause. OK, I do have a little girl’s pink jacket. Hallelujah! It has a crest of somekind…uh…um…could you maybe describe the jacket?
Wait, did she honestly think I was some weirdo stealing person calling up random stores and reporting random missing items in the hopes of getting lucky and scoring myself a little girl’s pink jacket? Really?
Me, playing along: This would be just a plain pink sweatshirt type zip up jacket. I think it’s from Old Navy and it would probably be size 3T.
Kohl’s lady: Sorry, this one is OshKosh and has a crest on the front.
Me: Oh, OK, thanks.
My hopes were dashed. What are the odds that they would have a little girl’s pink jacket when I was looking for a little girl’s pink jacket? And then have it turn out to not be mine?! Oh the bitter irony!
It was late and I still hadn’t gotten the kids to bed. I grilled them one more time. Had anyone seen the jacket? Do they remember if she was wearing the pink or the purple jacket when we went to the restaurant? Mr. T thought she was either wearing the purple jacket or no jacket at all. Chuck thought maybe she hadn’t been wearing a jacket afterall. But that didn’t make any sense. It was cold. I had been wearing a jacket. Chuck had been wearing a jacket. Of course we would have put BigHugs in a jacket. What kind of parents did he think we were? Maybe the jacket fell off the booth seat onto the floor while we were at the restaurant. But why would we have left without putting the jacket on? It was cold, remember?!
We had family prayers and Mr. T asked God to please bless that BigHugs’s jacket would turn up soon. And then I said goodnight to all the kids and they each in turn said that they hoped we would find BigHugs’s jacket before heading upstairs with their dad who was tucking them in because mom was still beside herself and obviously in no state for bedtime stories. I sat on the couch and wondered what on earth was wrong with me.
Chuck came back downstairs and again apologized for the lost jacket and not being able to find it.
Me: It’s so stupid. It’s a jacket. She’ll outgrow it in a few months anyway. It doesn’t matter.
And here’s where survival mode kicks in, folks. I can a) try to convince myself that the jacket was indeed too small and virtually unwearable anyways and go out and buy another jacket (it will have to be in a bigger size, of course, to keep up the illusion that this whole scenario is actually plausible) or b) concoct an outrageous story of how the jacket was lost and cannot possibly ever be found and how grateful I should be that we escaped with our lives and that all we lost was a jacket that needed to be replaced anyways because it was getting too small.
I choose b) a lot. It’s my coping mechanism of choice and not just for lost items. For example, whenever I start to feel down about putting on a few pounds I just pretend that I once weighed 500 pounds and have lost like 350 pounds, so of course now I look absolutely fabulous despite the fact I’m carrying an extra 20 pounds around. Hel-lo, what’s 20 lbs to 350?
So with the jacket, perhaps we were involved in a near fatal car accident. I lost control of the van after swerving to avoid a family of ducks crossing the road and we flew off the side of an embankment, narrowly escaping the raging river waters below, sending all of the loose articles in our vehicle flying in all directions and out the open windows, including BigHugs’s pink jacket, before miraculously landing to safety on a floating boat dock.
I’m not sure I’m convinced. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a family of ducks around here and I’m fairly certain there are no raging rivers or floating boat docks between here and church or Kohl’s or the restaurant. And how did we get the van off the floating boat dock? It’s not quite right yet—the slightest Christopher-Reeve-penny-in-the-pocket off detail and the whole scenario will come crashing down like a house of cards, and I’ll be doomed to a fate of staring blankly out windows until I cease to exist. Although, perhaps then I could be reunited with the pink jacket.
Help me. Give me a more plausible story to explain the jacket’s disappearance so I can go on. You go ahead and work on that while I look up the number to the restaurant.
Have you seen this? In. Sane.
How much do you s’pose you can make as a “stuffer”?
So Goose’s BFF’s mother invited us to dine with them at McDonald’s Monday, much to the delight and excitement of Goose who rarely gets to experience such a treat since sometime in the past year or so Mr. T and DynaGirl decided that McDonald’s is the Devil’s diner and no persons in their right minds would ever eat there voluntarily, and consequently in recent months the Bythelbs family’s patronage of the golden arches has dropped off considerably. But since Goose is in half-day kindergarten and gets out of school a full 3 hours before her other siblings, Mom will sometimes treat her to a drive thru happy meal. I avoid going in to the Playplace as a general rule because well, it’s a McDonald’s Playplace and it just kind of ooks me out, but I relented on Monday and accepted the invitation to eat inside.
I’ve never quite been able to figure out how the Happy Meal holds such magically enchanting powers over my children. As soon as we walk in the door, they immediately head to the display of that week’s featured Happy Meal prizes, and then there’s the discussion that inevitably follows about which toy is most desired and how death or at least eternal misery is certain if said toy is not present in the Happy Meal box of wonder, and then Mom must always point out that one does not get to choose the toy–a toy is just chosen and it is completely beyond Mom’s powers to change any child’s Happy Meal toy destiny and no amount of begging and pleading can change this. Of course the begging and pleading and hoping and pining and crying and whining continue until Mom threatens to leave right then and there with no Happy Meal box of wonder or french fries or chocolate milk or all-white meat pieces of chicken mushed together and molded into random egg and boot shapes.
Well, Monday was no different, only Goose really was on her best behavior and deserted the begging and pleading for just the hoping and pining for the Disney Princess plastic choker complete with a real live picture of Beauty and the Beast’s Belle on a locket-like pendant filled with perfume balm (it looked like lip balm, but the instructions showed a finger and a wrist and a disembodied nose floating above with some squiggly little lines I took to signify scent). BigHugs on the other hand was completely enamored of the Pirates of the Caribbean pirate ship (this was one of those gender specific boy/girl toy weeks) and went to full begging-pleading-hoping-pining-crying-whining mode. I usually try to stand firm on my principles and not ask the lovely McDonald’s workers for specific toys (because I’m just not one of those parents and I believe in teaching my children “you get what you get”), but I saw the pirate ship just sitting there at the Happy Meal box waiting station and on impulse asked if I might have one of those pirate ships. So BigHugs did get her beloved pirate ship, and I’ll be damned if Goose didn’t get her princess choker! Success! And amazingly enough, both BigHugs and Goose ate their meals without trying to sneak off to the little rodent tubes and tunnels before they had finished, and when it was time to go shoes and jackets were happily reapplied and we skipped out the door on our merry, little way. This was destined to be the best McDonald’s experience ever!
So we got home and Goose was proudly prancing about in her precious plastic perfumed princess pendant and BigHugs wants to know where her pirate ship is. No problem, I had tucked it safely away in the diaper bag back at the Playplace while we readied ourselves for departure. And there it was, except when I pulled it out it was missing a mast. The ship had originally come unassembled with two masts to stick into the deck and stick them I did, but now one was unstuck. Oh well, I figured it had probably just fallen off into the diaper bag, so I rifled through the bag but didn’t find it. So I emptied the bag of the wallet and diapers and little wipeys box and cheerios and Dora fruit snacks and first aidy ziploc with the bandaids and benadryl and the snot rag and everything. No mast. Hmmm. Well, on the way home, I had to stop suddenly for the idiot driver who had swerved in front of me and sent all manner of loose articles in my van flying and sliding all over the place. It probably got knocked out of my bag and slid under the carseat or something. Whatever–I can check it out later or next time I happen to be in the car. Or I can check it out now since BigHugs is looking at her ship a little funny like she knows something is not quite right. I looked under all the carseats and the floor mats and inside the open box of capri suns because hey, it was open and it certainly was not beyond the realm of possibility that a wayward pirate ship mast could have found it’s way inside during a sudden brake-slamming type stop. Hmph. No mast. Anywhere. It is lost and gone forever. I went back into the house and told BigHugs I’m sorry, but her mast was lost and gone forever, but it’s OK because her pirate ship still has one mast and is just as wonderful as it ever was. No biggie. But BigHugs looked sad. “The mast is lost? My pirate ship is broken? Mama can fix it.” “No, honey, I’m sorry, but it still works.” “Oh.” She left the ship on the table and walked away. Even better, I thought, because now I have a reason to throw it away now rather than waiting the customary 2-3 weeks before the lame-oid Happy Meal toy “mysteriously” disappears.
Fast-forward an hour. It was about 4 pm, and I had approximately one hour before Mr. T and DynaGirl’s piano lessons. The pirate ship was still sitting on the table looking all lonely and sad. I thought to myself that the little lost mast must have fallen off in the Playplace or maybe the parking lot as we were loading up. The little crazy wheels in my head started turning. You know, I thought, McDonald’s is right on the way from the piano teacher’s house. Perhaps I could just make a quick pass of the parking lot on my way home from dropping off the kids–it would only take a minute. If the mast wasn’t just sitting in the parking lot, I would just come home. No biggie. It’s not like I was going to go in and scour the Playplace or inquire at the counter if they had found any spare pirate ship masts floating around. But then I thought, that’s so lame–it’s just a cheapo Happy Meal toy that’s going to be forgotten in about 2 seconds. Drive by the parking lot? Don’t be ridiculous–you’re not actually considering doing that. I distracted myself by helping DynaGirl with some last minute practicing and rocking with BigHugs who was begging for a nap.
It was time for piano lessons and BigHugs was asleep, so I loaded the two oldest in the car and left Goose to watch the sleeping Big Hugs with very detailed instructions about not answering the door or unlocking it or even peeping out the window or answering the phone unless she hears Mom or Dad on the answering machine or trying to operate the microwave or any other electrical appliance (except for maybe the tv that she darn well better be parked in front of without making the slightest movement off the couch for the entire duration of my absence), and reminded her to be sure to run right over to the next door neighbor’s if some calamity should befall our house in the 6.2 minutes it will take me to make the roundtrip to drop off the kids at piano. I drove the kids to piano, thinking all the way about that little plan I had formed earlier in the back of my mind with the quick drive-by perusal of the parking lot, but I quickly dismissed it and decided once and for all that I most definitely would drive directly back home and forget all about it. But then I got to the stop sign–I could drive straight through and go home or turn right and make that quick hop over to MickeyD’s. I was at a crossroads, people. Stay straight and return to the safety of my home, keeping my dignity and sanity in tact or make a right turn towards Crazyville.
I turned right. There I was gunning the pedal to the floor, heading straight off the canyon wall into the abyss of insanity, Thelma and Louise style. And it was strangely exhilarating. Well, maybe not exhilarating, but my heart was racing and my palms were beginning to feel all tight and sweaty against the steering wheel. I pulled into the parking lot and there was an open space–the exact space I had pulled out of 3 hours before. As I pulled into the space my eyes scoured the ground for the tell-tale white mast, and holy cow there it was! Right there! Not a foot away from my now parked vehicle! I wouldn’t even have to turn off the engine and I could be out and in before anyone could know what I was doing! Just one little problem–there was a car parked in the space next to me and its back tire appeared to be ever so slightly covering the helpless little mast. As I got out of the car to make my first extraction attempt I noticed there was someone in the driver’s seat. I would have to be discreet. I quickly bent down (leaving my car door open for a quick retreat) and tugged at the mast. It was stuck. Like totally stuck. I weighed my options: I could accept defeat and just leave, wait for the car to leave or politely ask the driver to just back up the tiniest bit to release the mast. I dismissed the first option immediately. I mean, however crazy this whole scenario was, the mast was right there–I had come too far to give up now. The second option didn’t seem very wise, seeing how I had no idea how long that person might be planning to sit in the parking lot and also considering I had two little girls at home waiting for me who had now been alone for 8 minutes instead of the 6.2 I had originally planned on. I went with the third option. Sure, the lady might think I was completely nuts, but then again maybe she was a mother and would relate to my wanting to mend my child’s broken heart. I wouldn’t have to tell her her vehicle was sitting on a piece of a Happy Meal toy, right? I wouldn’t lie or anything, but I could let her think it was some more valuable possession. That would be OK, right?
I stood up (because I had been crouching by the back tire trying to recover the mast) and tapped on the passenger side window. The lady looked up and seemed somewhat alarmed. She was in the middle of her meal–looked like maybe a quarter pounder with cheese and large fries–and was shaking a bottle of something (ketchup? tobasco sauce?) onto her fries. I smiled my sweetest, non-crazy smile and signalled for her to roll down the window. She just stared at me. I tried to talk to her through the window, but she just pointed at her ear. I came around to the driver side window and tried to speak to her again. She just shook her head. I made another attempt at the roll down the window signal (all the time smiling for reassurance) and she just pointed to her ear and shook her head. She looked like she was probably of Hispanic decent, so I suppose it was possible that she did not speak English and figured there was no point in trying to talk to me. Only it didn’t really look to me that she was mouthing any Spanish words. I’m no professional lip reader, but I can recognize a “No habla ingles” when I see one. I finally tossed my hands up in the air and returned to my car. I sat there in the driver’s seat for a moment and weighed my options again. I thought I should really just leave. I had now been away from home 10 minutes, and it would take me an additional 4 to get home. Who knew when this woman was ever going to leave the parking lot. Maybe she was somebody’s ride and she was waiting for them to end their shift. Maybe I had frightened her to the point that she was afraid to make any move at all. And who knew what kind of condition the mast would be in anyway once her tire rolled off of it. How heavy is a Chrysler Town & Country anyway? Would the plastic of the mast be able to withstand the pressure of the vehicle pressing it into the asphalt parking lot? I decided once again that I had come too far to give up now.
I tried to sneak a peak at her out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t want to full-on stare at her–I mean obviously this was a very paranoid woman if she wouldn’t even roll down the window for a perfectly unmenacing looking woman with no visible weapon of any kind. (Plus she had to have had a good thirty pounds on me, she should have felt confident that she could take me down if need be.) Who knew what she would do if I spooked her? Here is my mind’s play by play of what happened next: OK, she’s down to her last couple bites of burger. Oh, now it’s done! She’s folding up the wrapper and tossing it into her bag. It should be any time now. Oh crap, here come the rest of the fries! Come on, anyone can eat fries and drive at the same time! OK, the fries are gone. She’s collapsing the red cardboard and putting it into the bag, too. Here comes the drink to wash it all down. Wait, now she’s stopping to make a phone call. That was fast, there must have been no one there. Come on, start the engine already. OK, now she’s cleaning out something from under her nails–must have been the ketchup. She’s got her phone out again. And it’s closed. Here comes the napkin to wipe her face and it goes into the bag, too. Oh, oh! She’s reaching back…yes! She’s got the seatbelt. The seatbelt is now buckled! She’s turning the key in the ignition, she’s looking in the rearview mirror, she’s backing up! And she’s gone! I dashed out of the car, snatched up the mast, hopped back in and after a quick examination saw that other than a few minor asphalty dents and scratches, it was perfectly fine. Oh ho ho, victory was mine!
I sped home. My 6.2 minute round trip ended up being 20 minutes. Goose was still sitting on the couch watching TV and BigHugs was still asleep. I washed and dried the little mast and stuck it back where it belonged and then busied myself with dinner preparations. A few minutes later Goose said, “Hey, you found the mast.” “Yeah,” I said. “Where was it?” she asked. “Oh, around.” There were no witnesses. No one ever had to know. Then after picking up the two oldest from piano I headed back into the kitchen to finish dinner. Mr. T came in and said, “Hey, the mast is back! You found it, huh?” “Yep.” My heart started pounding a bit. Don’t ask, don’t ask. He didn’t probe any further. Chuck came home from work and BigHugs was awake. “Oh, my pirate ship. I found the mast!” she said. “You got a pirate ship, BigHugs?” said Dad. I quickly tried to divert the conversation, “Yeah, we went to McDonald’s today. Dinner’s almost ready.” BigHugs was so excited for her resurrected pirate ship that she kept it by her side throughout dinner. DynaGirl noticed, too. “Where’d you find the mast?” It was almost too much for me. I began hearing a tell-tale Poe-eskian beating, I was feeling a scarlet C (for crazy) burn into my chest. What was this, the Spanish inquisition?! But then everyone dropped it. Deep breath and exhale. It’s OK.
But is it OK? When I was younger, living at home with all of my siblings, there were varying degrees of crazy around my house and my oldest sister used to joke that she and I were the only normal ones in the family, and then I would go into my room and write, “Dear Diary, I am the only normal one in the family.” I’m beginning to think I’ve just been kidding myself all of these years. I mean, I’ve been able to admit for quite some time now that I’m a tad OCD (OK, maybe more than a tad) when it comes to losing things and having incomplete sets of things and really needing to find that last puzzle piece in order to feel like life would go on in any kind of happy way, but after Monday I’m having a harder time laughing off that little bit of nutjobbiness that I used to rationalize away as a somewhat endearing quality of quirkiness. I’m beginning to think I’ve left the little dinner cruise ride around quirky harbor and jumped on the transcontinental non-stop flight to Crazy Town.
I can’t even rationalize the whole adventure as a passing whim, a heat of the moment snap decision. It was full-on pre-meditated crazy complete with the plotting and the covering up–my little crazy wheels spinning in my crazy brain the entire time. I fear I have no defense, and I’m not sure where this leaves me.
Or maybe I’m overreacting? Perhaps, gentle reader, you could offer some reassurance? What do you make of this little incident? Is this totally something you would do? Or maybe not something you would do, but something you would maybe do in your head but not actually ever go through with? Are you finding amusement in the re-telling of my little adventure? Or are you starting to fear for my well-being and the well-being of my children and wondering what kind of moral/ethical responsibility you have to somehow intervene now that you’ve heard about it? Let’s say on a scale of 1 to crazy, you’d give it a …?
Recent Comments