Conor’s foray into booster seat riding came to an unceremonious ending last night when he opened the car door. ON THE FREEWAY. Yep, that’s right. Apparently he wanted to begin his future as a stunt man.
I thought he had lowered the window a little for air until I saw the door sensor on the dashboard and looked behind me to see that, SWEET JESUS, the door was open! I had a mild cardiac arrest and an out of body experience while pulling off the freeway and onto the side of the road.
Ever lose your cool as a parent and find yourself launching into a nonsensical tirade, filled with things you would never actually say if you were not scared out of your ever-loving mind? Things that totally undermine your position as a sane and responsible parental figure? That’s what happened in this case.
My moment of parental genius went a little something like this:
DON’T TOUCH THE DOOR!!!!!!! NOBODY TOUCH THE DOOR!!!!!! DON’T PUT YOUR HAND ANYWHERE NEAR IT!!!! YOU DO NOT EVER EVER EVER TOUCH THE DOOR HANDLE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?????? WE WERE ON THE FREEWAY!!! [At this point I think Conor understood that touching the door makes Mommy yell and repeat things. He might have also been wondering how he would possibly exit the vehicle if he wasn’t allowed to touch the door. I did successfully establish our location, however, which is helpful.]
If you EVER do that again, I will tan your hide. [I did actually use this phrase. Apparently it was a good time to introduce the kids to cowboy terminology.] You will find out what “spanking” means, young man! [What, because I would define the word? Or would I (shudder) make him use the dictionary by himself?]
Do you know how dangerous that is??? [Obviously not or he wouldn’t have done it, so I decided to clarify, using concepts beyond his grasp.]
You could have been killed! If I’d had to swerve, or stop suddenly or been hit by another car, you would’ve fallen out and… [dramatic pause while I searched for a slightly less graphic way to say “been squashed under the wheels of a bus.”] been killed! Killed! [redundancy is key for emphasis.] Do you understand me, Conor? Killed!
You are going back in your baby seat until you are old enough to understand that sitting in a booster seat comes with responsibility. [He was probably wondering if responsibility was something akin to chicken nuggets and if it came with a side of french fries.] You have to sit up in your seat with your back against the thing. NOT leaning forward. NOT sticking your hands out the window. And NOT touching the door handle! [Sometimes when I’m very upset and flustered I lose words and can’t finish ideas, so it’s best to shut up and settle into a brooding silence until I’ve calmed down, which I did at this point.]
Conor was so impressed with my bad@ass mama lecture that he promptly lost consciousness from fear. Or possibly awe.
I took this picture when we were parked safely in our driveway.
Note: Let me preempt the onslaught of bad mother, hate mail by saying that, though Conor does meet the minimum height and weight requirements for booster seats in the state of California, I fully agree that he is not ready to be in one. I jumped the gun and overestimated his maturity. Also, I had activated our child safety door lock on Conor’s side to thwart any high-speed escape attempts, but the switches are on the individual doors and someone, probably Stuntman Junior himself, must have deactivated it.
I put him back in his car seat today. And hermetically sealed his door. And shot him with a horse tranquilizer. Because I’m a good mother.
Fathead Follies 
And I thought I was the only mom to use horse tranquilizers on my kid. It’s nice to know I’m not alone.
You are not alone. And they make road trips just that much better. Just think of how much fun you would have flying down the interstate in your Beemer rental with your kid drooling in the back seat. Those are memories to cherish…for you…they probably won’t remember anything.
Know a kid who really did play stunt idiot. Broke his arm.
YEA booster seats!
I married a stunt idiot! According to his mother, Hubs tried to escape out the door of his father’s jeep when he was 9. I suppose it’s genetic then. I can’t really blame Conor for simply fulfilling his destiny as a Redican male.
I do believe that not wanting your kid to die is the definition of “good mother”. I may be mistaken, though. I’m looking forward to the trolls setting me straight on this.
I find that my definition of a good mother changes from day to day. On good days I can raise the bar. On bad days I’m just happy I kept the kids alive.
I love that you took something that was harrowing for you and made it hilarious. Brava!
Thanks, Courtney! I figure I should laugh about it now, because when they bring it up in therapy later it probably won’t be as funny.
I don’t think you become a full-fledged mother until you have had one of those “moments”. Did you get the taste in the back of your throat as your stomach is trying to jump out of your mouth?
Why yes. Yes I did. I also had a vein that threatened to explode out my forehead.
Forget learning the definition of a “spanking.” Wait until Conner fully grasps what it would mean to have his hide tanned. Ouch (and ick).
I don’t even have a full understanding of it. I watched a lot of Clint Eastwood and John Wayne films with my dad growing up, so apparently that phrase was just lying dormant in my brain waiting to be used. My brain under stress will just sift through old obsolete phrases and select one at random.