I often find myself wondering– if my family were to find itself in dire straits– how helpful would my children be? If we were in zombie apocalypse, “Independence Day” levels of shit, would they help, or hinder?
When it comes to the zombie apocalypse, I’ve already saddled myself with the understanding that in order for them to survive, I’d need to duct tape them to my body, and I shudder to think about how much whining and complaining they’d do if we somehow got slammed with some weird geothermal storm like in “The Day After Tomorrow” and were heaved into the next ice age.
As good as it is to be prepared, to know what you might be getting into, the fact is, those things probably, hopefully aren’t going to happen, so it may be best to focus on what might. REAL life emergencies. Full on Life-Alert style. They may not be prepared for a crazy blockbuster movie-style natural disaster, but are they ready for any kind of emergency that might occur in the household? What would they do if one actually happened?
We can teach them how to use a phone, how to dial 911, we can even teach them the Heimlich or how to perform CPR if we want them to be ultra-ready, but we never know how they’re actually going to perform in the heat of the moment until it happens.
I was shocked by what went down in my house when I was in need of immediate assistance. That sounds like a click-bait news headline, but it’s true. SHOCKED.
There I was, minding my own business. Actually, I was peeing, but that’s beside the point. The kids were upstairs playing, and for once, not trying to rip each other’s head off. Before leaving the bathroom, I always stop and look in the mirror. You can call it “vain”, I call it “making sure my makeup didn’t run and make me look like someone’s drunken mugshot”
I guess I wasn’t paying close enough attention as I whipped my head away from the mirror and headed toward the door, because that mofo caught my pinky toe and bent that shit all the way backwards. ALL. THE. WAY. BACKWARDS. I’m not sure if you know this, but next to childhood and taking a Lego to the arch of the foot, stubbing your bitch-ass pinky toe is the worst pain a person can ever experience.
In this moment, there are only two things that come to my mind, and they both come flying out of my mouth at decibels that could rival a 4th of July air show: “Fuck”, naturally, and “Ow.”
So I’m just standing there in the doorway of the bathroom screaming at the top of my lungs, over and over again, “FUCK! OW! FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK! OWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OW!”
I think this must have gone on for a solid 5 minutes, because I was pretty sure I was either dying, or the toe was going to have to be amputated, or I was going to have to have the toe amputated and then I was going to die. It was a slam so hard that I was actually afraid to look at my foot in fear that I would see my tiny ugly pinky toe nail sticking straight up and faint, hit my head, and die.
I’m screaming so loud, for so long, that in between screams of agony I’m wondering if the police are going to show up thinking I’m being brutally assaulted, or if Satan is going to crawl out of the earth and tell me to shut the fuck up because I’m ruining his slumber, but guess who DOESN’T show up? My kids.
Once I checked to make sure my toe was actually still attached and the nail firmly secured (miracle of miracles, they both were!), I literally crawled my ass up the stairs to see what could possibly keep my kids from coming to make sure I wasn’t actually dying. We’d TALKED about this. We’d TRAINED. We’d PRACTICED. Something important must have been keeping them away. Maybe they simultaneously slammed their toes and we couldn’t hear each other over our own screams and they, too, needed assistance.
It must have looked like the zombie apocalypse in my house. I’m crawling, moaning, one bum leg dragging behind me, hair and face disheveled-
but somehow I manage to make it up the stairs, and down the eerily quiet hallway to the playroom only to find my kids perfectly fine, attached toes, playing with Legos.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU COME SEE WHAT WAS WRONG?”
They look like they’ve seen a damn ghost.
“What happened?” they asked, shocked looks on their faces.
“DID YOU NOT HEAR ME SCREAMING? I SLAMMED MY TOE ON THE DOOR! WHY DIDN’T YOU COME AND SEE WHAT HAPPENED?”
Blinks. Blinks some more.
“We thought you were yelling at the dog.”
I was yelling FUCK! OW!
The dog’s name is PASCAL.
FUCK! OW! …. PASCAL…. I want to be mad. I wanted to scold them for not coming to my rescue like the mamas boys they should be… but… I can hear it.
The moral of the story is: Don’t name your dog something that sounds like an exclamation of panic and pain or your kids might leave you to die.
Dear people writing articles on ways to get siblings to get along, I'll save you the time. The answer is "Don't let them play together"
Please stop Complimenting my kids’ “Good” Behavior goo.gl/fb/rwfojS
Hard pass from me pic.twitter.com/VayvW1eopK
I've gotten to the point where I'd let my kids summon a demon with a Ouija board before I'd let them play Monopoly together again.
Parenthood is when you start counting the minutes to bed time before 11am.