The Toy

Having twins isn’t easy.  Swimming the English Channel isn’t easy either, but it’s doable, with some practice and training.  I haven’t found any training for raising kids.  Sure there are books, though one has to wonder if all the books on the market actually work.  Don’t believe me, just look at the newest generation.  I rest my case.

Of course I can’t place all of the blame on the parents.  The kids are involved in the “raising kids” process, too, aren’t they?  Maybe if the little buggers actually LISTENED to their parents, a great many problems could be avoided, like injuries, hurt feelings and most importantly, parental stress.   But then again, maybe problems shouldn’t be avoided altogether.  Kids might actually learn something from falling down literally or metaphorically. And then, they’d listen!  Or maybe not.  Did you listen to your parents regardless of how many thousands of times they told you they knew better?  And you, and me, turned out relatively ok, didn’t we?  Well, I did.  Who knows about you?

So I’m driving little Archibald (not his real name) and Mortimer (not his real name, either) on their way to their new summer camp yesterday.  Their previous camp ended last week unceremoniously.  They had a talent show on the next-to-last day, which Sergeant Major Mommy (SMM) taped on her cell phone and kept viewing for three days to the detriment of the kids (and daddy) when she literally stayed in bed and watched the video and then kept saying “Awwww” every three seconds.  (Note: imagine hearing THAT for three days in a row!)  Nevertheless, the camp ended and everyone said Good bye, See you at school or see you next summer or see you on (any one of the thousands of) social media sites (where people don’t actually see each other anyway).

When we leave the house, little Archie decides to take one of the birthday toys they had received the preceding week.  Mortie chose not to take anything.   So, we’re off.  Not three minutes into the drive does little Mortie decide that “the toy” actually “belonged” to him and that little Archie should share it.

Archie respectfully disagreed with Mortie’s assessment and counter-offered that he would share “when he was good and ready.”  Now, keep in mind, that Mortie is a consummate (or will be someday) attorney.  He replied, “Now, see here, Archie.  That particular toy was given to me and even though it was given under the pretense that we would co-own “the toy”, it does rightfully and dutifully belong to me and the only reason you have it is that I have given my consent for you to play with it.  However, at this time, I am revoking that consent and thus, you are legally and responsibly bound to return said item to me, it’s rightful owner.”

Archie said NO! and the fight ensued.

The only thing that saved them (and daddy) is that they were both buckled into child seats.  Otherwise, well, who knows what kind of devastation would have occurred?

Daddy is driving and trying to remain cool, calm and collected while quietly chastising their behavior and keeping the car on the road while navigating the twenty-five hundred traffic lights and hundreds of blind drivers in the three-mile drive.   Nevertheless, daddy, rather uncharacteristically, says in a borderline loud voice “Stop it.  If I have to stop this car, “the toy” will become an ex-toy and it will magically transform in a reverse kind of metamorphosis into “car food”. The term we had for that kind of condition in Ohio was road kill.”

The two Vikings suddenly realize the severity of the situation and the urgency in daddy’s voice and they lowered their bazookas and quickly ceased all hostilities.

We arrive at the camp, the little buggers, daddy and “the toy” in perfect condition.  When I asked them later in the day if they learned anything from “the toy” incident, they replied, Yeah, keep all toys out of Ohio if you don’t want them to become road kill.

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