Summer has begun...actually it's almost half-way over, but our vacations began last week. Kindsay's phonetics dependence has her sending massive texts out to all those in my contacts in my cell saying we're off to "Elay"...I never bothered explaining, but we went to L.A. with some friends and their kids and an hour into our visit I told my friends to get a good look at my kids because it would be the last time I take them on vacay. grrrrrr.
Prior to leaving for Elay, Greg and I are scrambling to get everything together. It's anxiety inducing, cranky making, final straw material. As I'm packing inside, Greg is loading the van. I needed a few things and since we didn't plan on leaving for another hour, Greg suggested I run to the store while he continues preparing the car. Oh the bliss I should have enjoyed. Walking through Target, no child at my legs, no calling for the insubordinate son to return from the toy aisle, no forgetting everything on my list because I'm preoccupied with fighting children. I strolled though...I did stroll. I glanced at the people with crying kids...tsk tsk. Poor saps. I smiled kindly at those threatening to paddle their kids in public. Stroll....
In the meantime, Greg is up a creek with our beloved Kindsay. Instead of offering to help Daddy, she finds her bike buried in the garage and decides it's time to take a ride down the street. She doesn't care that her face is covered with food. She ate and didn't wash herself, so she had the food goatie, and I'm guessing a decent amount was stuck in her hair as well. She was wearing a maxi dress...an older one...but it was a maxi nonetheless. (yeah I know, at least she was dressed!)
So she boards the bike unbeknownst to Greg and takes off down the street with high hopes for a quick sail around the neighborhood, but she got a few feet from the house and her maxi dress billowed out like a sail, underwear on display with her long legs losing momentum. The dress quickly becomes tangled in the spokes which knots up and drags her down. Greg ran out hearing her screams. He said all you could see was this parachute of dress flying over her head, ripping as it caught in the spokes, food all over her face as she wails like a banshee. He had to rip the dress to get her off of the bike, the bike I imagine she will bury back into the garage. I know the neighbors can hear the racket, but they also know Kindsay so I can picture them perking up from their newspapers to discern the horrible sound, realizing it's the neighbors (us), shrugging, then taking a sip of their coffee and back to the editorials. After all, the little yellow bus stops in front of our house everyday, there are no secrets on Carson Avenue.