STOP THE CAR!
Ages ago now I taught James that certain phrases have power. In particular, stop the car would almost invariably result in the car stopping almost immediately (within reason, of course).
The purpose of this was as a secondary step to the far more important, my seat belt, phrase. He learned them both at the same time, because they were intimately connected. He should always announce if his seat-belt wasn't on or wasn't tight. This because I had caught myself a couple of times almost forgetting to tighten his seat-belt. The way this happens is he had started insisting that he wanted to climb into his seat himself, so I would let him. But this was in the winter and it was either cold or, toward the end, rainy and awful, so I would close the door behind him while he climbed in and I was getting Daniel in his seat. A procedure only slightly less challenging than getting a cat in a wet-suit (originally written: the Battletoads Turbo Tunnel level, if you're of the variety that understands that reference). That task completed, a couple of times I was sitting in the driver's seat doing the essential back-seat check before starting the car and saw James sitting in his seat, belts all askew.
Worse still was after he decided he was old enough to buckle his own seat-belt. Now he normally won't even let me help, except to tighten the straps. We had started working on my seat belt and stop the car before that happened, but the moment of truth was a month and a half or so ago when it was just the two of us leaving his Saturday morning Gym and Swim class and for whatever reason I completely forgot to buckle him in and he hadn't done it himself. I must have been doing something with our wet swim clothes in the back, I don't remember, but whatever it was my brain was completely somewhere else and I never even thought until we were pulling out of the parking lot.
So these days stop the car is still treated as something that needs an immediate response, but frequently that response is no longer "find the safest place to stop and do it". That's because stop the car now may be because we saw a particularly cool truck. So it's a source of amusement, but unless it's at the start of a drive or there seems to be some secondary factor, it's kind of a "cried wolf" thing. Still wouldn't trade that for the world, though.
That's the preamble.
Saturday afternoon saw James and I at CHEO (how did this turn into a post about what an awful parent I am ... ?) no doubt irritating the other parents in the waiting room because we were being our usual selves. Loud (tending toward raucous, probably), energetic and completely unconcerned that we were the only ones running around and laughing like fools. Best guess right now is that James bent his middle finger back getting out of the car. It was probably caught in the aforementioned seatbelt. There were tears, there is bruising and swelling and there is no real damage. Another awesomely successful trip to CHEO.
So we're driving home at about 3pm on a warm, sunny Saturday afternoon after having spent two hours that, honestly, I think were quality time because we had fun. For reasons I cannot understand, we're meandering back along Alta-Vista rather than the more direct route along Hunt Club or Walkley or even Riverside when I hear an emphatic DADDY, stop the CAR! from the back seat. I laughed to myself and said "what did you see now, buddy?"
FIRETRUCKS!
Okay, thinks I, we did just pass a fire station and the doors were open, maybe we can just look from the side and not get in the way. So I turned the car around and we drove back and parked here. We got out of the car, the whole time accompanied by James' plans for the next few minutes. Daddy, you can see the fire trucks. And I will see the fire trucks. And we will tell Daniel about the fire trucks. And we will tell Mama about the fire trucks. And we will tell Brazen-cat about the fire trucks. You get the idea. He was jazzed.
We weren't even around the fence and looking at the trucks in the bay before three fire-fighters from Station 35 were coming out to meet us. I've never met a fire-fighter that wasn't cool, for the record, but these guys were the coolest guys I've ever met. They invited us in, gave us the tour of the place, showed us the old fire truck and old chief's car that are parked in the back, had James sit in both trucks, showed him the tools in the lockers, shared stories with James about their kids, did their absolute best to follow James' narrative, even got their dispatcher to call in a test message saying hi to James.
They even took a picture for us:
Oh, and yeah, they gave us ice cream. But don't tell anyone, or everyone will be over there looking for some.
The purpose of this was as a secondary step to the far more important, my seat belt, phrase. He learned them both at the same time, because they were intimately connected. He should always announce if his seat-belt wasn't on or wasn't tight. This because I had caught myself a couple of times almost forgetting to tighten his seat-belt. The way this happens is he had started insisting that he wanted to climb into his seat himself, so I would let him. But this was in the winter and it was either cold or, toward the end, rainy and awful, so I would close the door behind him while he climbed in and I was getting Daniel in his seat. A procedure only slightly less challenging than getting a cat in a wet-suit (originally written: the Battletoads Turbo Tunnel level, if you're of the variety that understands that reference). That task completed, a couple of times I was sitting in the driver's seat doing the essential back-seat check before starting the car and saw James sitting in his seat, belts all askew.
Worse still was after he decided he was old enough to buckle his own seat-belt. Now he normally won't even let me help, except to tighten the straps. We had started working on my seat belt and stop the car before that happened, but the moment of truth was a month and a half or so ago when it was just the two of us leaving his Saturday morning Gym and Swim class and for whatever reason I completely forgot to buckle him in and he hadn't done it himself. I must have been doing something with our wet swim clothes in the back, I don't remember, but whatever it was my brain was completely somewhere else and I never even thought until we were pulling out of the parking lot.
James: Daddy! Stop the CAR!
Me: What is it, James? (directing the car in to the very next entrance to the lot)
James: My seat belt!Success. Never should've had to test it, of course, but this is why redundancies exist in any critical system.
So these days stop the car is still treated as something that needs an immediate response, but frequently that response is no longer "find the safest place to stop and do it". That's because stop the car now may be because we saw a particularly cool truck. So it's a source of amusement, but unless it's at the start of a drive or there seems to be some secondary factor, it's kind of a "cried wolf" thing. Still wouldn't trade that for the world, though.
That's the preamble.
Saturday afternoon saw James and I at CHEO (how did this turn into a post about what an awful parent I am ... ?) no doubt irritating the other parents in the waiting room because we were being our usual selves. Loud (tending toward raucous, probably), energetic and completely unconcerned that we were the only ones running around and laughing like fools. Best guess right now is that James bent his middle finger back getting out of the car. It was probably caught in the aforementioned seatbelt. There were tears, there is bruising and swelling and there is no real damage. Another awesomely successful trip to CHEO.
So we're driving home at about 3pm on a warm, sunny Saturday afternoon after having spent two hours that, honestly, I think were quality time because we had fun. For reasons I cannot understand, we're meandering back along Alta-Vista rather than the more direct route along Hunt Club or Walkley or even Riverside when I hear an emphatic DADDY, stop the CAR! from the back seat. I laughed to myself and said "what did you see now, buddy?"
FIRETRUCKS!
Okay, thinks I, we did just pass a fire station and the doors were open, maybe we can just look from the side and not get in the way. So I turned the car around and we drove back and parked here. We got out of the car, the whole time accompanied by James' plans for the next few minutes. Daddy, you can see the fire trucks. And I will see the fire trucks. And we will tell Daniel about the fire trucks. And we will tell Mama about the fire trucks. And we will tell Brazen-cat about the fire trucks. You get the idea. He was jazzed.
We weren't even around the fence and looking at the trucks in the bay before three fire-fighters from Station 35 were coming out to meet us. I've never met a fire-fighter that wasn't cool, for the record, but these guys were the coolest guys I've ever met. They invited us in, gave us the tour of the place, showed us the old fire truck and old chief's car that are parked in the back, had James sit in both trucks, showed him the tools in the lockers, shared stories with James about their kids, did their absolute best to follow James' narrative, even got their dispatcher to call in a test message saying hi to James.
They even took a picture for us:
Oh, and yeah, they gave us ice cream. But don't tell anyone, or everyone will be over there looking for some.
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