It started innocently
enough. The boys playing ‘well’
together, Levi helping Drew put on his shoes, pointing out the grayish clouds
and telling me about the BIG STORM COMING!
(They just looked like normal dusk clouds to me.) “Hey boys, why don’t we take the dogs on a
walk?” Yaaaayyyyy….
It’s pertinent to point out that
I have walked the dogs ONE TIME since we moved everyone up here mid-July. It was hot and I ended up wrangling two
leashes, carrying a screaming two-year-old and his bike, and begging Levi to
put his pants back on as he streaked 100 yards ahead of me through the new
neighborhood. ‘Of course,’ I thought, ‘It
will be different this time!’
Two big dogs, two leashes, two
boys on bikes. Out the driveway, turn
left. Levi starts crying because a man
is mowing the lawn two doors down, so we cross the street. Levi starts crying again because the
sprinkler is making the sidewalk wet, so we cross again. Except this time his front tire hits the curb
and the rest of his body keeps moving, belly-flopping him on to the
sidewalk. We all hold our breath, check
for injuries, agree that his tummy hurts, give it a kiss, and continue on our
way.
Another left turn leads to a
looong gradual downhill. Sidewalks are
great, since Levi likes to speed off ahead and I’m 90% sure he’s been broken of
his Milton street-riding habit. (Though
that 10% doubt still gives me nightmares.)
Dogs are terrible on the leash; I’m doing some stunt work keeping the
leashes from between my legs or in a tight spiral around them. I imagine that I look like those chicks who
wave the ribbon on the stick at the high school football games, who couldn’t
make the cheer squad. I’ve got moves!
Garrett (my big dog) decides it’s
time to go #2 so I wait on that. Now I
can’t see either kid but I’m still banking on that 90%. Of course this isn’t a tidy little pile I
have to clean up but a bunch of huge pellets that I have to pinch with my
fingers through a deteriorating Kroger bag.
Eh. Good enough.
Assertively urging the dogs
down the street, I finally see the boys:
Levi pulling up his pants and putting his T-ball helmet back on (because
it looks cooler than I bike helmet?) and Drew with his pants around his ankles
in someone’s yard, trying to aim his little stream over his bunched up
shorts. He proudly announces, “I’m
peeing in the grass!” to which Levi replies, “Yeah, I already peed in the
grass!” Thankfully this particular
neighbor is not outside, but the guy across the street is. He politely avoids eye contact with me.
I announce that “It’s time to
turn around and go home,” to which Levi happily obliges at about 35 mph. Out if my sight again. To Dr.Ew this news is THE END OF THE
WORLD. So he starts wailing hysterically
and throws his bike down in the middle of the sidewalk.
Now, normally my course of
action in this circumstance would be to throw the screaming toddler under one
arm, his bike under the other, hoof it home and let the tantrum subside
there. But I have a leash in each hand,
a bag of shit looped on one pinky, and a Diego water bottle hooked on to
another finger. There’s no room here for
a bike or a two-year-old. I try the old,
“See you later” trick and start walking the dogs home. The tantrum only picks up in intensity and
now there’s a small crowd of preteen girls watching from a few doors up. I make it about eight or nine house away, tie
the dogs to a light pole, and turn around to find a mom with the preteens
staring at me and helping Drew back on to his bike. I dismiss this year’s attempt at any
parenting awards, quickly thank them, scoop up the emotional wreck and the
bike, and attempt a renegotiation once we reach the dogs.
Thankfully Dr.Ew strikes a deal
that he will walk if I haul the bike.
Great. I wonder where Levi is?
We make it about 3 ½ steps when
it starts raining big, fat pellets, which according to Drew, are made of
ACID. Despite the screams he does manage
to trudge behind me the 200-300 yards home while I try to distract him by
catching the drops on my tongue.
Levi greets us naked in the garage
and I immediately release any hopes of making friends who know which house we
live in.
