Similar vehicle to the one my little darling was travelling on
i love my children, but . . .
By Linda V., Guest Contributor
It is sometimes utterly amazing that our children live to adulthood and that we are out of the crazy house to enjoy them. From her padded cell (JK!), Linda V. shares some over-the-top antics of her beloved children.
I love my children, but sometimes when they were young, it seemed they were really on a secret mission to make me lose what little sanity I had left. Two particular occasions come to my mind to illustrate just how crazy life was at times.
The first event occurred one bright, sunny morning as I was deep in the midst of what was for me a daily battle: to use the bathroom by myself long enough to dress and brush my teeth. This day—like far too many when I had several small children underfoot full-time—was a severe PMS day. I was battling hormone-driven irritability, fatigue, swelling, cramping, etc. Behind the locked bathroom door, I was busy dealing with my own personal challenges.
It was already starting out to be a rough day and it was not yet 8 AM. I rushed to throw some clothes on for the day. Meanwhile, my preschool daughters stood, as was their usual practice on such occasions, knocking and insisting they needed my immediate attention. My oldest daughter persisted over and over, “Mommy, mommy! Open up right now, it is ‘portent!”
This particular morning, I snapped back, “Look girls, even mommy deserves a few minutes alone to go potty and to get dressed. Go play!”
Their incessant whining and demanding soon was coupled with kicks at the bottom of the door. This had me yelling in frustration, “Stop it right now! Leave me alone for five lousy minutes!” Jerking open the door to further lecture them on proper bathroom courtesy, the sight that greeted me stopped me mid-rant.
You could hear a charged silence that only crickets dared to break. In the open doorway of my front entry, there was sunlight streaming around the silhouette of a very large state highway patrolman. Hooked to the other end of his hand, was my darling 2½-year old son. Nodding toward him, he asked, “Does this belong to you?”
I thought, ‘Oh crap, what now?! Did he just hear me screech at my kids?’
I gulped and meekly replied, “It depends . . . what’s he done?”
He replied, “He was riding his tricycle down the center yellow lines of the blacktop. That was bad enough, but when I pulled up behind him, he did not bother to try to move or get out of the way. Even when I turned my lights on, got out of the car, and walked up to him, he did not even flinch or try to run from me.”
This was the scene of the crime
Resigning myself to another humiliation, I answered, “Yes, officer, that belongs to me.” I felt like the straight man in a Keystone Kops comedy. You know the one who always has the pranks pulled on him? That pretty much summed up my life at that point in time.
He turned to leave, with a suggestion I try locking him in or tethering him to a tree next time. Then he sauntered out the door.
Sooo, I took his advice to heart and went to town that very day and got 100 feet of rope and a harness so I could secure my son to the tree by the back door of our unfenced yard while he was outside playing.
The first event occurred one bright, sunny morning as I was deep in the midst of what was for me a daily battle: to use the bathroom by myself long enough to dress and brush my teeth. This day—like far too many when I had several small children underfoot full-time—was a severe PMS day. I was battling hormone-driven irritability, fatigue, swelling, cramping, etc. Behind the locked bathroom door, I was busy dealing with my own personal challenges.
It was already starting out to be a rough day and it was not yet 8 AM. I rushed to throw some clothes on for the day. Meanwhile, my preschool daughters stood, as was their usual practice on such occasions, knocking and insisting they needed my immediate attention. My oldest daughter persisted over and over, “Mommy, mommy! Open up right now, it is ‘portent!”
This particular morning, I snapped back, “Look girls, even mommy deserves a few minutes alone to go potty and to get dressed. Go play!”
Their incessant whining and demanding soon was coupled with kicks at the bottom of the door. This had me yelling in frustration, “Stop it right now! Leave me alone for five lousy minutes!” Jerking open the door to further lecture them on proper bathroom courtesy, the sight that greeted me stopped me mid-rant.
You could hear a charged silence that only crickets dared to break. In the open doorway of my front entry, there was sunlight streaming around the silhouette of a very large state highway patrolman. Hooked to the other end of his hand, was my darling 2½-year old son. Nodding toward him, he asked, “Does this belong to you?”
I thought, ‘Oh crap, what now?! Did he just hear me screech at my kids?’
I gulped and meekly replied, “It depends . . . what’s he done?”
He replied, “He was riding his tricycle down the center yellow lines of the blacktop. That was bad enough, but when I pulled up behind him, he did not bother to try to move or get out of the way. Even when I turned my lights on, got out of the car, and walked up to him, he did not even flinch or try to run from me.”
This was the scene of the crime
Resigning myself to another humiliation, I answered, “Yes, officer, that belongs to me.” I felt like the straight man in a Keystone Kops comedy. You know the one who always has the pranks pulled on him? That pretty much summed up my life at that point in time.
He turned to leave, with a suggestion I try locking him in or tethering him to a tree next time. Then he sauntered out the door.
Sooo, I took his advice to heart and went to town that very day and got 100 feet of rope and a harness so I could secure my son to the tree by the back door of our unfenced yard while he was outside playing.
I knew it looked bad, but with three preschoolers and an infant at home, I was not confident how else to make sure he was safe during the moments I was not able to be right at his side.
I wondered if anybody could see from the road. It did appear a little “strange” to have a little boy on a rope. But I couldn’t have him run to the road again. Just because he came out OK the first time in “kid versus car,” doesn’t mean he would come out so well if there was a next time. So it was on. My next thought was, ‘I wonder how this will appear to customers of my husband’s garage and towing business a couple of buildings away—if they could see it.’ Oh well, here is another one to add to the list of my husband’s concerns about reflections of our family’s behavior that might adversely affect our business down the road. I knew he would likely say, “Why can’t you keep those kids under control?” Sure enough, I was not disappointed.
That afternoon, when our teenage babysitter arrived and saw my son on a leash tied to a tree, she was shocked. She tried not to show it. In reality, she was a bit afraid to ask why and hear the answer. When I explained what had taken place that morning, she calmed down. She already had her own experiences with that little boy. He had a long, illustrious history of being an escape artist and had put her through quite a few hair-raising moments, as well.
Thus, ended the day when I entered the realms of the meanest mommy in the county for tying my young son to a tree. Terror has its own rewards: a body harness, a 100 ft. rope, and a huge tree.
The second incident transpired just year or so later, while we were in the middle of adding a large two-room addition onto our small house. The wood sub-floors were down and the children were having a great time riding their tricycles around and around the rooms before the dividing walls got put in. It made a great race track and they were taking full advantage. I was trying to fix a casserole for dinner and get everything arranged for the evening, because I was expecting the high school bus with my babysitter any minute. I was hurrying to get everything finished for her, so I could leave to attend a church meeting as soon as she came in.
Suddenly, I heard blood curdling screams erupting from the addition. I dropped what I was doing and ran to see what had happened this time.
The sight that greeted me was enough to send my heart racing. There stood my son with blood spurting from several holes in his head. His sister was screaming in frustration at the top of her lungs, as well. As I dashed to try to apply direct pressure to stop the flow of blood from the wounds, I realized what had happened. Apparently, they were having a disagreement about something, and my nearly four-year old daughter had decided to solve the problem by clobbering her brother, who was just 16 months younger. To this end, she had grabbed a hammer that a worker had carelessly left out, and whacked her brother several times with the rounded end. Upon brief examination, it appeared she had gotten at least three good strikes, and there was blood gushing from everywhere.
The princess, in the addition,
with a hammer
An unanticipated outcome of applying pressure to a series of profusely bleeding head wounds is that you are stuck in one spot. This occurred to me as I was kneeling, using both hands, attempting to stop the flow, while the blood continued to run down my arms in rivulets, dripping off my elbows onto the new wood floor. Thoughts wildly raced through my mind. ‘What am I gonna do now? Do I let go and let him bleed harder? Do I run for the phone, a towel, or mop, or what?’ There was blood everywhere—my clothes, new floor, kid’s clothes, kid’s face, etc.
I wondered if anybody could see from the road. It did appear a little “strange” to have a little boy on a rope. But I couldn’t have him run to the road again. Just because he came out OK the first time in “kid versus car,” doesn’t mean he would come out so well if there was a next time. So it was on. My next thought was, ‘I wonder how this will appear to customers of my husband’s garage and towing business a couple of buildings away—if they could see it.’ Oh well, here is another one to add to the list of my husband’s concerns about reflections of our family’s behavior that might adversely affect our business down the road. I knew he would likely say, “Why can’t you keep those kids under control?” Sure enough, I was not disappointed.
That afternoon, when our teenage babysitter arrived and saw my son on a leash tied to a tree, she was shocked. She tried not to show it. In reality, she was a bit afraid to ask why and hear the answer. When I explained what had taken place that morning, she calmed down. She already had her own experiences with that little boy. He had a long, illustrious history of being an escape artist and had put her through quite a few hair-raising moments, as well.
Thus, ended the day when I entered the realms of the meanest mommy in the county for tying my young son to a tree. Terror has its own rewards: a body harness, a 100 ft. rope, and a huge tree.
The second incident transpired just year or so later, while we were in the middle of adding a large two-room addition onto our small house. The wood sub-floors were down and the children were having a great time riding their tricycles around and around the rooms before the dividing walls got put in. It made a great race track and they were taking full advantage. I was trying to fix a casserole for dinner and get everything arranged for the evening, because I was expecting the high school bus with my babysitter any minute. I was hurrying to get everything finished for her, so I could leave to attend a church meeting as soon as she came in.
Suddenly, I heard blood curdling screams erupting from the addition. I dropped what I was doing and ran to see what had happened this time.
The sight that greeted me was enough to send my heart racing. There stood my son with blood spurting from several holes in his head. His sister was screaming in frustration at the top of her lungs, as well. As I dashed to try to apply direct pressure to stop the flow of blood from the wounds, I realized what had happened. Apparently, they were having a disagreement about something, and my nearly four-year old daughter had decided to solve the problem by clobbering her brother, who was just 16 months younger. To this end, she had grabbed a hammer that a worker had carelessly left out, and whacked her brother several times with the rounded end. Upon brief examination, it appeared she had gotten at least three good strikes, and there was blood gushing from everywhere.
The princess, in the addition,
with a hammer
An unanticipated outcome of applying pressure to a series of profusely bleeding head wounds is that you are stuck in one spot. This occurred to me as I was kneeling, using both hands, attempting to stop the flow, while the blood continued to run down my arms in rivulets, dripping off my elbows onto the new wood floor. Thoughts wildly raced through my mind. ‘What am I gonna do now? Do I let go and let him bleed harder? Do I run for the phone, a towel, or mop, or what?’ There was blood everywhere—my clothes, new floor, kid’s clothes, kid’s face, etc.
While I was kneeling, trying to stop the worst of the flow, trying to figure out how to keep the blood off my pants, and what I should do next, I heard Marilyn, our teenage babysitter, enter the house.
She came looking for us. The sight that greeted her was horrific, with all the blood dripping off him and me and pooling all around us on the new floor. It must have been even more shocking for her as he was still screaming. Now I had another challenge, because she slumped against the door jamb, her eyes began to roll back, and she got white around the mouth.
I screamed, “Don’t you dare faint on me! I need help and you are all I have. Dang it, Marilyn, don’t you dare pass out!”
She revived enough to lunge backwards and disappeared into the hallway. I had some moments of doubt as to whether she would come back, but shortly she reappeared with a couple of towels in her hands.
We wrapped his head in them and threw him in the car and I took off for the doctor’s office to have his head examined. As I held the towels in place with one hand and drove with the other, I wondered if I needed to have my head examined as well. What possessed me to have four children so close together?
When we arrived at the doctor’s office, he said he did not think my son needed stitches, but that could not be determined for sure until after he had gotten the hair out of the way. He just had 3 small lacerations which were revealed after carefully shaving those spots to assure a good view. It was a relief that, after careful examination, he decided there was no real harm done. I took my little boy home with three bald spots shaved out of his hair.
Sometime later, tempted by promises of huge discount pricing on photo portraits, I decided we needed to have family pictures of the children before the baby got too much older. We went to a store in town that was offering a great deal on photographs for this purpose.
The photographer was very engaging with the children. He worked quickly and established a rapport with each of them. He dubbed my younger daughter “a princess” because she was full of smiles and charm for him. She was so pleasant and cooperative. So much so, that he just kept remarking as he snapped photo after photo, “You are just a little princess. What a beautiful smile, princess. You are such a charming little princess.” Indeed, she turned on her best charm and preened like crazy.
He posed sideways to hide
two of the bald spots
When it was her younger brother’s turn, he just had to make a comment about his uneven hair cut “I see you got loose with the scissors there, son.”
I could stomach it no longer; I snorted and said, “Yeah, he got hit in the head—with a hammer—three times.” That stopped him cold. This quite shocked him. I smiled and answered his questioning expression, “The princess did it. Don’t make her mad.” He did not have much to say after that.
I loved them to distraction, but in those days, it seemed my children were absolutely determined to make me lose my ever-loving mind.
She came looking for us. The sight that greeted her was horrific, with all the blood dripping off him and me and pooling all around us on the new floor. It must have been even more shocking for her as he was still screaming. Now I had another challenge, because she slumped against the door jamb, her eyes began to roll back, and she got white around the mouth.
I screamed, “Don’t you dare faint on me! I need help and you are all I have. Dang it, Marilyn, don’t you dare pass out!”
She revived enough to lunge backwards and disappeared into the hallway. I had some moments of doubt as to whether she would come back, but shortly she reappeared with a couple of towels in her hands.
We wrapped his head in them and threw him in the car and I took off for the doctor’s office to have his head examined. As I held the towels in place with one hand and drove with the other, I wondered if I needed to have my head examined as well. What possessed me to have four children so close together?
When we arrived at the doctor’s office, he said he did not think my son needed stitches, but that could not be determined for sure until after he had gotten the hair out of the way. He just had 3 small lacerations which were revealed after carefully shaving those spots to assure a good view. It was a relief that, after careful examination, he decided there was no real harm done. I took my little boy home with three bald spots shaved out of his hair.
Sometime later, tempted by promises of huge discount pricing on photo portraits, I decided we needed to have family pictures of the children before the baby got too much older. We went to a store in town that was offering a great deal on photographs for this purpose.
The photographer was very engaging with the children. He worked quickly and established a rapport with each of them. He dubbed my younger daughter “a princess” because she was full of smiles and charm for him. She was so pleasant and cooperative. So much so, that he just kept remarking as he snapped photo after photo, “You are just a little princess. What a beautiful smile, princess. You are such a charming little princess.” Indeed, she turned on her best charm and preened like crazy.
He posed sideways to hide
two of the bald spots
When it was her younger brother’s turn, he just had to make a comment about his uneven hair cut “I see you got loose with the scissors there, son.”
I could stomach it no longer; I snorted and said, “Yeah, he got hit in the head—with a hammer—three times.” That stopped him cold. This quite shocked him. I smiled and answered his questioning expression, “The princess did it. Don’t make her mad.” He did not have much to say after that.
I loved them to distraction, but in those days, it seemed my children were absolutely determined to make me lose my ever-loving mind.
Copyright © 2014 by Rent's Due Publications
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, click a button on any page to send email with details of the request.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, click a button on any page to send email with details of the request.