Three strikes and your kids will need therapy

I ran over a cat this week. It’s very dead. I set myself up for it, really. It all goes back to last week’s post when I had the audacity to use the phrase “my success as a parent.”

See, three critical things happened this week, and they all stemmed from that.

The first was Sunday. I was congratulating myself, out loud, for wrangling all the back to school supplies for all three kids.

“Every year, I wait until the day before school, sometimes the day of school, to get their supplies. Well no more! This year, 2.5 weeks before the start, I have 3 piles of crayons, glue sticks, pencils, and play dough.”

I announced this to the general population of the family room. Nobody acknowledged.

I moved in front of the television.

“I said I’m really nailing it in the whole school supplies arena this year.”

Hubs flicked his eyes to me with that look of is that a thing you do? “Okay.”

We heard a crash and a sort of keening sound. When the high pitched “eeeeeeeee” noise started we both ran towards the room that holds the gym equipment.

Middle child had tripped while running on the treadmill.

Let. The. Record. Show…

There are a plethora of rules regarding treadmill use and I can assure you they were all being broken during this incident. However, that doesn’t make it any less awful.

I yanked the emergency stop cord (which he should have been wearing *ahem that’s a rule*) while Hubs ripped the plug out of the wall so hard I’m surprised he didn’t do permanent damage.

Middlest, who knew he should be in trouble for breaking so many rules, hopped up with that look on his face like everything was fine and he didn’t feel anything so we shouldn’t be mad and it’s no big deal and and and…

He had some roadrash but he only spent a day prone claiming he couldn’t bend any joints because his scabs would crack. However, he managed a miraculous recovery in time to swim the next day and spend the week at Farm Camp where he did heavy lifting and lots of creek play. The prognosis is looking good.

But that was strike one. Strike two was the cat. I’m telling you, the thing came out of nowhere. Truly, it hit me, not the other way around. I had all the kids on the way home from Farm Camp and this yellow streak bolts out of the bushes and *thunk* we all gasped.

I pulled over, went back to check, and I’m not an expert but the tongue sticking out was my first clue. In a moment that verged on poetically beautiful, I looked to the top of the silos on the side of the road and saw two vultures perched there. They let out a croak as they bobbed their heads at me, “we’ll take care of this, lady. Drive on.”

The kids know enough not to ask too many questions during the actual moment but they could only hold out for so long.

“But do cats go to heaven?”
“Do you hate cats?”
“Why would you hit it?”
“Mom I have a new rule for you, don’t run over animals that are cute.”
“Why didn’t you pick it up?”
“Should we go back and bury it?”
“How do you know it was a stray?”
“What does feral mean?”
“Is it going to be there tomorrow?”
“I’m really sad, but I can’t wait to tell my friends at Farm Camp.”

My answers were:
“I don’t know, but there’s probably animals there, so why not this cat?”
“I don’t hate cats”
“I didn’t mean to hit it, it hit me!”
“That’s a good rule.”
“I didn’t want to pick it up.”
“We are not going back to the scene.”
“It wasn’t wearing a collar so it’s probably a stray” (that was the wrong answer, because our cats don’t wear collars and now I have to order collars and convince two carefree beasts to wear them…)
“Feral means crazy and out of control” (also a mistake because “you say we’re being crazy all the time, are we feral?”)
“I don’t know if it’s going to be there tomorrow, I can never drive on this road again, I’m a marked woman.”
“Don’t you dare tell your friends at Farm Camp.”

I did go back on the road the next day and the cat was off to the side, in the bushes. The day after that, it was about a mile down the road in the direction of our house. I think it might be haunting me.

The third incident was the truck. Our faithful red truck, which has never let us down, has never not started, has never failed in any capacity; sputtered its last breath. Hubs was a mere 30 miles from the house, on the way home from a work trip, when he called and told me there was smoke, sputtering, and he needed me to come get him. I guess if you’re going to go, you might as well go in a blaze of glory.

I told the kids that the truck broke down and we needed to go pick up Dad. They very quickly and somberly loaded into the van. A squirrel ran in front of the car and one of the kids said, “oh great, I think Mom just killed that grey cat.”

I don’t think Farm Camp is paying off if you think that was a cat.

After a few minutes of blessedly quiet driving I realized some of them had tears in their eyes.

“It wasn’t a cat and I didn’t actually hit it. Why are we crying?”

The eldest, ever willing to be a spokesperson says, “I think we’re just really worried about Dad.”

“Why? We’re on our way to get him.”

“It’s just that he’s never been in a car accident before and I think that’s making us sad and scared,” she whispered.

“Oh for crying out loud. Have you all been sitting back there thinking Dad’s wrecked on the side of the road? He’s fine. The car broke down, not Dad. Here, have a lollipop and cheer up.”

Good grief. Strike three.

I arrived at the gas station to find Hubs squirting water into the radiator from his water bottle. Apparently that was the cure because he was able to limp it home but discovered later there’s a hole in the radiator. How does that even happen? It is fixable, but it was one of those moments that makes you lose faith in the vehicle.

There you have it. I have no successes as a parent and I traumatized the children three times in as many days. But if you need school supplies, let me know.