How Not to Imagine Every Possible Mishap
Still Working on It…Demolition Brothers Debacles Never Disappoint
🧠 Curious about the backstory and who the Demolition Brothers are? Meet the boys here.
I recently read an article that shed light on my tendency to imagine the worst possible outcome in every situation. Through the lens of parenting, this instinct is completely magnified.
For example, my rational brain says my kid will probably make the jump from that big rock across the gap to the brick wall. But my nervous system predicts a stutter-step, slip, face-plant, blood, and cracked teeth.
Even a simple game of backyard soccer sparks visions of sunken equipment in the neighbor’s fishpond, cracked windows, and trespassing — maybe because all of these have already happened, despite my “foresight.”
Am I paranoid? Extra environmentally perceptive? Or just very familiar with my offspring and their shenanigans?
Mulch is one of these variables — our friend and nemesis.
The How Come? Kid frustrated by an uneven sock seam is not bothered running barefoot through any mulched mound. The Why? Guy literally swims in it to the point that I have to vacuum it out of his coarse curls.
Every spring, I buy 20 bags of mulch, two trips to Home Depot, 10 bags at a time, and the Demolition Brothers help me spread it around our small yard.
Do you know where else there is mulch?
Their school playgrounds.
On our rugs.
In our bathrooms.
In my washing machine. In the dryer.
Stuck to most fuzzy clothing.
Sometimes in bed.
And also… in my eye.
Four years ago, when the brothers were 2 and 4, and the How Come? Kid, had just started Kindergarten, I was sitting with other parents at school pickup.
The Why? Guy sporting his typical face covering Batman mask and Kid with a fresh hole in his new school pants were happily playing while the mulch was flying.
They were not the main instigators, but I still got up and ordered them all to: “STOP throwing mulch! It will get in someone’s eye!”
And… that someone was me.
The wind blew and I got a face full. A few days later, when I still couldn’t get a tiny piece out of my iris, I made an appointment with the eye doctor.
On the day of my visit, which included my messy entourage, we negotiated who got to push the elevator buttons after one body slam and before entering the doctor’s office.
While checking in, we overheard a heated conversation about masks — a leftover from the tail end of the COVID pandemic — which provided some distraction during the wait.
Once in the exam room, The How Come? Kid went straight for the rolling stool.
Since he could move, Kid’s first instinct with any object (especially if it had wheels) was to flip it over so he could see how come it rolled, spun, or swiveled. Every doctors office we walked into would get it’s wheely chairs examined and readjusted before the doctor arrived.
The Why? Guy who hates shots, but loves blood and bones and machines that manipulate bodies, blood, and bones, ran strait for the phoropter.
It’s no surprised that this wall mounted gadget, like the dentist’s light, pediatricians blood pressure cuff, are enticing to a monkey bar-prone, button-pushing toddler.
As I settled Kid into the armchair and pulled Guy onto my lap (to prevent them from tormenting the mini sink or pulling out all the tissues), the doctor and assistant entered the room to check my eye.
“I think it’s a wood chip,” I told them.
The young assistant, peering into my eye, muttered, “Looks like a booger.”
The doctor quickly corrected him: “You can’t say booger to a patient.”
Of course, the boys latched onto that immediately.
“It’s a booger! It’s a booger!”
Thankfully, it took less than two seconds to swipe the MULCH out with a Q-tip, and we were on our way (after pulling Kid out from behind the receptionist’s desk).
I’m not sure everyone looks forward to visiting their doctors, but my kids have had good experiences tagging along to mine. When we did eventually face a broken arm, split lip, broken teeth, they already understood that healthcare facilities were safe spaces.
Today, more than three years later, I sit in the exam room alone for an overdue eye appointment. Eyedrops in, eyes closed, nothing to do but relish the silence, breathe deeply, and — maybe — think positively (not imagine the next mishap).
What a great way to start out the day! I think I’m due for a dental cleaning soon.
Originally published in The Parenting Portal on Medium.
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