children + communication = mom in looney bin

Yesterday I spent most of the day doing this.

It was actually kind of relaxing as my partner prepped the old, original doors by sanding them down and puttying the holes and scratches. All I had to do was use a brush and paint the doors with primer.

The Benjamin Moore down the street recommended we use oil primer to seal the old wood properly. The doors are original to the house (1949) and in dire shape. They look ugly too. So this summer, my partner decided to do something about them. He started but then got called away to work so I offered to do the priming.

It’s messy, painting with oil. I turned off the AC and opened all the windows to keep the air flow going, and luckily it was a pleasantly hot rather than oppressively hot day.

I took one break to walk Jasper, beyond that I was busy with the the doors.

At some point in the afternoon the girl child announced she’s going to her friend’s and she’s bringing an overnight bag because it’ll probably turn into a sleepover.

(Doesn’t it always? πŸ™„ )

Immediately I’m thinking I gotta drive or bike her over but what about the paint, or maybe someone could pick her up…

You know, mom thoughts.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take the TTC,” she said as I stood there dripping paint on the floor. (TTC is the Toronto Transit Commission. She takes transit to school on the days she doesn’t walk so she’s familiar with hopping on the streetcar.)

The friend lives close to the school my son went to for five years and is easily accessible on foot (30 minute walk), by bike (but she has to cross a busy street) or by public transit.

I said ok.

“Text me when you get there please ” I said no less than three times.

You know where is is going, right?

Sigh.

After 20 minutes of painting I should have heard my phone ding.

I went to check.

Nothing.

So I texted her.

Still nothing.

I waited a while and assured myself that she’s a responsible, smart kid but has the attention span of a fruit fly when she’s having fun with her gal pals.

Another 10 minutes passed and I called her.

Nothing. Went straight to voicemail.

Don’t panic, I told myself as visions of Holly Jones and Tory Stafford entered my brain. These two tween girls were abducted and killed years ago when my own kids were still small, and I couldn’t help thinking about them.

Or about Kristen French and Leslie Mahaffy, brutally kidnapped, tortured, sexually assaulted and killed by Paul Bernardo when I was in my early 20s. Sigh.

See how these names are ingrained into my head?

About a half hour after she left I texted and called the mom. She didn’t answer.

I emailed the dad (he works from home). Nothing.

Argh.

That’s when my son emerged from his fortnite coma in search for food.

“Go bike over and verify visually she arrived,” I directed him. “Text me when you see her.”

He grumbled.

“Only if you give me money for ice cream,” he responded.

Kids! Argh. Didn’t he notice I was worried?

“You have your own money,” I told him. “Can you please go and check for me? I’m really worried here. Either that or continue painting while I drive over.”

Last thing I wanted was to put my paint covered body into the car.

He left.

“Get your ice cream AFTER you text me!” I yelled after him.

Sheesh.

While he was gone, I heard the phone. It was the mom.

“She did arrive, they’re across the street playing with the toddler,” she said. “I see her bag and phone, she must have dropped it and left right away.”

BIG EXHALE.

“Thanks for getting back to me,” I replied. ” She was supposed to let me know when she got to your house. Anyway her brother went over to check on his bike, he’s probably going to yell at her. Tell him not to.”

In the meanwhile the dad emailed me too. Assured me all was good.

Later, I texted my girl again. She must have realized by now that I had been looking for her. I know both parents would have talked to her about not communicating with me.

Anyway, this is how she responded to my last two texts:

Send wine. Or bring some when you visit me in the looney bin.

PS Yes I like Dr. Pimple Popper. Because the patients she treats are so appreciative that someone cares about their plight, that’s why. πŸ™‚

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15 thoughts on “children + communication = mom in looney bin

  1. Great post!
    When my girls were in high school, my eldest, then a senior, drove her sister, then a freshman, and other friends to and from school each day. On days I was at work they would text me to let me know they were home and safe. Sometimes they would forget, and I’d call or text always asking this question: Are you home and safe, or dead on the side of the road?
    My all time favorite response was from my eldest: I’m dead on the side of the road, but Thing 2 was kidnapped by the Russian circus.
    I know 85% of you knew your girl was safe, it’s that 15% that’ll make you crazy! 😜

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I’m a bit of a freak when it comes to this, even with Hubby. You text when you get there. ALWAYS. So far my kids are mostly homebodies and we haven’t run into this too many times. My daughter is about as freaky as I am, though, and if she were to ever forget and not text me, I’d be in meltdown mode. Potentially on the line with the police while I hunted her down.

    Liked by 1 person

      1. Not necessarily. It is still very possible the guy was just THAT guy that expected something he didn’t get. It’s just that it may not be the only possibility. In these situations, you can kind of pick and choose how you want to see it. If you tend to be really self-conscious, then it is easy to go with the more negative view. I’m pretty certain that is how I would have taken it if I’d managed to keep looking long enough to see it. I’d like to think I’d take the the nicer way, but I doubt I could get over my own insecurities enough to do so.

        Like

  3. All three in my family have stressed me out: the husband, the stepson, and the grandkid. I am thinking of running away but I know they are all stressed out also this month and we have nowhere to run, so I guess we will all stay and make the best of it.

    Liked by 1 person

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