Anonymous Poster
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- Sep 27, 2005
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Our days have been filled with piglets, orange picking, goat kidding and assorted other farm chores, so we have been keeping a pretty hectic schedule. Maybe I'm overtired, or distracted, or just not using good judgment, but none of this would explain how I managed to run over my son with the family minivan.
I don't know about the rest of you with kids, but OUR farm life seems to be a little too reckless. Our steer Rocky got out of his pasture around supper time, and after fifteen minutes of chasing him around the grove, we finally got him cooped up in another pasture. My son, all red in the face and glowing from the chase looked at me with this twinkle in his eye and says,
"Hey mom, can I ride him"? I didn't miss a beat.
"Sure, go ahead, but only once." I glanced at my husband quickly, wondering if I had actually said that out loud. He had a crooked little grin on his face and I sensed vivid childhood memories coming off him in waves. So I bit my tongue and didn't take the time to reconsider.
My son is not a fragile boy. He's thirteen, yes, but he's five foot nine barefooted and weighs about 175 lbs in his birthday suit. I've seen him bulldog grown men and knock them to the ground during friendly wrestling matches at the local mud slinging pit.
My daughter’s boyfriend was over that evening for dinner and we set out at about eight thirty to take him home. On the way out my son spotted an armadillo on the dirt road, and there was nothing for him to do but try to catch it. This is some type of boy thing, I guess, because he catches them by the tail, holds up his trophy for all to see and then lets it go again. Anyhow, the armadillo ran in a hole in short order, cheating him out of his victory so he vowed to try again on the way home. In preparation for this, when we arrived back on our dirt road, he slid the side door on the van open. I was doing about ten miles an hour, and this was not an unusual occurrence so I went on with my driving, humming, happy that bed was only a few minutes away. The next thing I know, the van slid to a shuddering halt and I looked around to see a kid missing.
"What the heck was that?!" I demanded. “Where’s your brother.”
"He fell out!" My daughter cried.
I threw the van in park and ran around to the passenger side, screaming my son’s name. It was dark, he wasn't answering. As far as I knew he was badly hurt. When I finally found him, he was leaning over, clutching his sides, sobbing.
"Where are you hurt? Tell me where you're hurt!" I yelled at him, gently steering him to the open door of the van where he could sit down. That's when he looked at me and with tears in his eyes said
"You shoulda’ seen your face"!
I blinked and tried to focus on HIS face in the darkness. The little idiot wasn’t sobbing, he was laughing. He wasn't just laughing, he was hysterical. I...ran....him...over...with...the...van, and he was laughing his rear end off. I felt all over for broken bones, thinking maybe he was in shock.
"I'm okay, I'm okay!" He kept insisting.
I was not convinced, so I drove the rest of the way home at about forty miles an hour, suspension and alignment be damned. I got him in the house and made him go change into shorts so I could check him out. The physical damage was minimal, his Wranglers and boot took most of the abuse.
I seem to recall, somewhere in the deep dark recesses of my memory, telling him for the fiftieth and last time that it's not safe to drive with the door open. Such an action would never have been allowed when we lived in the city. I would have stopped the car and not moved until the door was closed. I don't remember exactly when I gave up, gave in, and thought maybe I was being a little too over protective. This is country life, kids are hardier, more daring, and find their fun in strange places, so don't be such a stick in the mud, I told myself at some point.
We are both very lucky that he wasn't seriously hurt. While I see it as a major parenting mistake, my son sees it as a minor screw up that is going to bring him some discomfort for a few days. He will still insist on having that door open to watch for rabbits and armadillos. I will now fight him tooth and nail. Question is, who should win?
I don't know about the rest of you with kids, but OUR farm life seems to be a little too reckless. Our steer Rocky got out of his pasture around supper time, and after fifteen minutes of chasing him around the grove, we finally got him cooped up in another pasture. My son, all red in the face and glowing from the chase looked at me with this twinkle in his eye and says,
"Hey mom, can I ride him"? I didn't miss a beat.
"Sure, go ahead, but only once." I glanced at my husband quickly, wondering if I had actually said that out loud. He had a crooked little grin on his face and I sensed vivid childhood memories coming off him in waves. So I bit my tongue and didn't take the time to reconsider.
My son is not a fragile boy. He's thirteen, yes, but he's five foot nine barefooted and weighs about 175 lbs in his birthday suit. I've seen him bulldog grown men and knock them to the ground during friendly wrestling matches at the local mud slinging pit.
My daughter’s boyfriend was over that evening for dinner and we set out at about eight thirty to take him home. On the way out my son spotted an armadillo on the dirt road, and there was nothing for him to do but try to catch it. This is some type of boy thing, I guess, because he catches them by the tail, holds up his trophy for all to see and then lets it go again. Anyhow, the armadillo ran in a hole in short order, cheating him out of his victory so he vowed to try again on the way home. In preparation for this, when we arrived back on our dirt road, he slid the side door on the van open. I was doing about ten miles an hour, and this was not an unusual occurrence so I went on with my driving, humming, happy that bed was only a few minutes away. The next thing I know, the van slid to a shuddering halt and I looked around to see a kid missing.
"What the heck was that?!" I demanded. “Where’s your brother.”
"He fell out!" My daughter cried.
I threw the van in park and ran around to the passenger side, screaming my son’s name. It was dark, he wasn't answering. As far as I knew he was badly hurt. When I finally found him, he was leaning over, clutching his sides, sobbing.
"Where are you hurt? Tell me where you're hurt!" I yelled at him, gently steering him to the open door of the van where he could sit down. That's when he looked at me and with tears in his eyes said
"You shoulda’ seen your face"!
I blinked and tried to focus on HIS face in the darkness. The little idiot wasn’t sobbing, he was laughing. He wasn't just laughing, he was hysterical. I...ran....him...over...with...the...van, and he was laughing his rear end off. I felt all over for broken bones, thinking maybe he was in shock.
"I'm okay, I'm okay!" He kept insisting.
I was not convinced, so I drove the rest of the way home at about forty miles an hour, suspension and alignment be damned. I got him in the house and made him go change into shorts so I could check him out. The physical damage was minimal, his Wranglers and boot took most of the abuse.
I seem to recall, somewhere in the deep dark recesses of my memory, telling him for the fiftieth and last time that it's not safe to drive with the door open. Such an action would never have been allowed when we lived in the city. I would have stopped the car and not moved until the door was closed. I don't remember exactly when I gave up, gave in, and thought maybe I was being a little too over protective. This is country life, kids are hardier, more daring, and find their fun in strange places, so don't be such a stick in the mud, I told myself at some point.
We are both very lucky that he wasn't seriously hurt. While I see it as a major parenting mistake, my son sees it as a minor screw up that is going to bring him some discomfort for a few days. He will still insist on having that door open to watch for rabbits and armadillos. I will now fight him tooth and nail. Question is, who should win?
