April 8, 2019

wherein infanticide is contemplated

Against the odds, my family functions reasonably well, given our collective memory issues.  Between the meds prescribed to P.J. and me and The Kid's ADHD and adolescence naissant, we are making our way through the world with Swiss cheese for brains.

Thus it is in a state of unequivocal hypocrisy that I consider murdering my child.

Fun fact:  One of The Kid's chores is helping me carry up groceries on Sunday afternoons.

I grabbed my purse and coffee this morning, ready to set out for the drive to work, and found when I stepped into the garage that yesterday, after grabbing the grocery bags, he left the garage door open (which happens sometimes) and also left the back door of the RAV4 wide open (which has never happened before).  

I think I'm supposed to be happy that no one crept into our house last night and killed us and/or stole all our shit, but all I could think of in the moment was that it's spring and the weekend weather was clement and all manner of flying and creeping things have been awake and about and vigorously asserting new life.

I wanted to drive the van instead and let the car sit untouched until next winter, when I would push it out of the garage, fling the doors wide and let icy breezes purify it.

I had to force myself to climb in and hit the road, convinced there were at least fifty-eight spiders in the car with me, together with two or three creatures of as-yet-unidentified genus and species, and probably also a mouse.  I endured seventeen miles of creeping, tickling sensations affecting both ankles, my right shin, and my neck.  The ankles were the worst bit.

It's going to rain today, too.  The creatures are going to form a new ecosystem in my car because the rain will keep them from wanting to exit the vehicle.  My only hope is that there is a mouse and that it will eat all fifty-eight spiders and anything else it can find.  And that it will be stuffed after the feast and will be sitting somewhere under a seat, belly swollen with delicacies, with its front paws resting on its abdomen, and will have no inclination to get up and run across my feet while I'm driving.  

State Farm would have a difficult time understanding the macabre aftermath of a mouse running across my feet.

I want to kill him for leaving the door open, yet I can't bring myself to do so much as text The Kid and berate him.  I'm surprised at myself; normally I don't bat an eye at lighting him up over some transgression based in forgetfulness.  He's easily pushed into feeling down on himself about his memory these days.  He also has a natural talent for pointing out instances of my hypocrisy, complete with imaginary charts and graphs.  Both of these things play into my hesitation, but more to the point, there's nothing he can do to go back in time and fix it.  There's no benefit to saying a word about it until the next time he's helping with groceries.

Of course, I'll probably forget.


  1. Oh!! No!! you won't!!.

    As the kid doesn't seem to harbour any great fear of critters (he did bash in the head of a snake), I suggest you send him into the RAV4 with a torch, gloves, a suitable screw top container and make him search the thing from top to stern, TWICE, and any money he finds is his.

    (That combined with the possibility of a science project of what a "Contained eco system looks like after two days" - may make the search interesting)

    1. I don't like the "any money he finds is his" part. The rest sounds lovely.

  2. I like Carol's suggestion. No judgement, just "clean up your mess."
    I don't see anything wrong with picking your battles and letting it go, either. Clearly he didn't do it out of malice and it's doubtful he'd do it again, right...?
    I love the fat mouse in your car. Mail it to me. Don is insane when it comes to bugs, so any help we can get in that area makes us both a trifle less crazy. Him because less bugs, me because less him being bugs about bugs