Child #3 has been making a habit out of removing his straps while I’m driving. I’ve tightened, re-tightened, brought the upper chest connectors up right under his chin, yet there’s still the sound of that little click that causes me to panic and sweat, until I can pull over to jump out of my seat, rebuckle, and scold him.
I’ve threatened him with the “if you unbuckle your seat again I’m never going to drive you anywhere.” Those threats are followed by tears, and “but I want to go to the zoo” cries. But those tears mean nothing in #3’s world. It’s all empty promises and salty streams. Moments after we drive away, I hear the window roll down and giggling. 3 has unbuckle his chest strap again so he could reach the button to roll down the window and is as happy as a dog panting in the wind. There’s nothing left for me to do other than duck tape him.
During the week of unbuckle debacles, Nonni happened to offer to be our driver. The husband’s truck had broken down, so Nonni became our driver when we needed it. During one of the drives, 1 and 2 began yelling that 3 was unbuckled.
“Unbuckled,” she yelled, her short body only inches away from the steering wheel.
Of course 1 & 2 begin instantly giggling because 3 was about to get yelled at by their Nonni, who, we should note, can’t possible move or turn around without pushing her seat back.
“You think this is funny,” she yells, her eyes scalding them through the review window while I buckle #3. “We can go to jail. Do you know that 3? The police can pull your Nonni over and he’ll make us all go to jail because you’re unbuckled. Do you want to go to jail?”
“No,” #3 says, his lip quivering either from Nonni’s eye darts, tone, or the threat of jail.
“Well then keep your buckle on, because if you unhook it again we’re all going to have to go to jail!”
I wasn’t totally appalled by this Nonni-ism. She’s been threatening my sister and I with this jail bit since we were little. And afterall, maybe it would scare him enough to make him stop unbuckling his chest buckle, because we all know my promise is filled with I-actually-have-to-drive-with-my-son in-the-car holes. I just don’t know how much the local police would appreciate the fearful intent we’ve already linked their uniform and a 3 yr old with.
******
During a brief stop at Nonni’s the other day, 1 hit 2 upside the head. They’ve been trying to aggrivate each other for the past few days, and Nonni just happened to witness a part of it.
Before I could say anything Nonni jumped up.
“What are you doing 1?,” she asked, her hands on his shoulders so he couldn’t turn away from her. “Don’t you know he could go crazy from that?”
I leaned forward to make sure I was hearing her correctly. I was.
“If you hit him on the head he could go crazy and never be right. Do you understand that? Crazy?”
1 shook his head yes.
“Then don’t let me ever catch you doing that again.”
1 slumped back over to his brothers, while I smirked at my mom.
“Hitting someone on the head can make them go crazy,” I questioned.
“Oh shut up, it scared him didn’t it?”
*****
The other day Nonni was in a car accident. Everyone was okay, and the physical damage was minimal. However, the oral use of raw language left a wake of words that are still swirling around my children’s heads.
Coming home from a surprise party that my family had thrown me, Nonni was sitting at a stop light responsible for driving my three children home. Out of nowhere a red suv hit her from behind. The kids and the Nonni jerked forward before Nonni uttered the words, “Son of a bitch!”
Nonni turned to make sure everyone was safe, and then stepped out of the car to speak to the other driver. The driver, who Nonni swears was a large Russian male and was obviously coming from a corner bar that Russians hang out at, took one look at the 5’0 tall Nonni and drove off.
When Nonni got back in the car she checked again on the 3 kids, who were obviously shaken up.
“Everyone okay?”
Everyone nodded their heads.
“1 are you hurt? Does your back or your neck hurt?”
Apparently Nonni was very concerned because 1, 2, & 3 were not really responding to her.
“Nonni, you said some really bad words.”
“I did not 1,” she replied.
1 again insisted that they had all heard her.
“Well what did you hear then,” she questioned-expecting 1 to respond in the first letter of the word, such as “the B word” or the “s” word.
“You said mother f@$!#.”
Nonni gasped, “Nonni did not say that!”
“Yes you did,” he replied. “That guy drove off and you shook your hand at him and began yelling ‘You Mother F@$!#.”
When my husband and I arrived home, my energy still high from being caught off guard for a wonderful surprise party, I was greeted by 1 who practically soared down the stairs.
“Mom, we were in an accident and Nonni said bad words like Mother F@$!#*.”
“What,” I said, turning towards my mother horrified.
“Every one is okay, and I talked to them all about the swearing,” she calm interjected.
I stood confused, my jacket still on, and the clustered thoughts of the whole night filling my head.
“Are you okay,” I asked number 1.
“Yeah, I was scared.”
“I’m sure you were,” I said, pulling him close and rubbing his shoulders. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Lets get you to bed, so I can talk to Nonni.”
My husband took 1 and led him up the stairs.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“Yes, everyone’s fine. I’ll have to check my car in the morning to see if there’s much damage.”
“You didn’t call the police?”
“No. What were they going to do? The Russian guy left.”
“It’s still scary Nonni. You should have reported it.”
“Maybe I will in the am. In the meantime I’m gonna keep looking for that asshole.”
There isn’t much to say about a 5’0 tall, steering wheel hugging Nonni driving around in search of a large Russian man who frequents special bars. But, unfortunately, there’s a lot my kids can says about the words the large Russian man introduced them too via their Nonni that night.
