By Patti Parish-Kaminski, Publisher
Losing my mind after “sharing” my car with Mr. Kaminski.
Every once in a while, I am brutally reminded that I was raised as an only child. It often rears its ugly head when a certain word comes up. This word is much like a foreign language to me, although when I had two children, I was forced to become familiar with it.
In all fairness, I do have to take responsibility for the multiple child thing. I told Mr. Kaminski straight up that it was two or none when it came to babies. Raised an only child, I didn’t want that experience for my babies. I wanted them to have a sibling, a playmate, a peer who would always be in their corner – for life. So, we chose two. After all, I have two hands and could keep one on each of them. That was my logic.
So, when Bub came along, Sassy was beyond thrilled. She had her baby. When we brought him home, she told me immediately, “Put him in my bed Mommy.” The die was cast. They were peas and carrots – until Bub became old enough to want exactly what Sassy had, usually in her hand.
That’s when I was forced to begin implementing the word, the one I was not at all familiar with. Y’all are likely thinking the word is “no,” which honestly, I was not told much growing up. Truth be told, I’m not at all accustomed to that word as an adult. Likely that’s an only child thing as well.
The word left me on unfamiliar turf, but with dogged determination, I plodded along regardless. I looked it up; I listened to other mommies with multiples use it. It was definitely a “do as I say, not as I do” situation.
“Share with your brother,” I would tell Kassidi, who was the definitive ringleader in all sibling matters. And yes, I kinda choked saying “share.”
Fast forward just last week, and the dreaded word popped up. I needed to drive Mr. Kaminski’s beast loaded with supplies so he could meet me on the road to head West. That, of course, meant that he would have to drive Bonita in his vehicle’s absence. I hated it like poison, but I acquiesced taking one for the team.
You see, I have never “shared” a vehicle. I have had a car since I was 15 years-old, and it was always mine, meaning no one other than the repairman, ever, ever drove my car. On the few occasions during our marriage when Mr. Kaminski drove my car – sharing, right? – I have just about lost my mind. I know you’re thinking it’s me. It’s not. It’s him.
I got in my beloved Bonita for the first time after “sharing” with Mr. Kaminski, and it was chaos. First off, I couldn’t even locate the key. It was not in its place. Yes, the key has its own place. That was a total “Where’s Waldo?” situation.
Once the key was procured, I got in. The steering wheel hit me above the Rio Grande in a very uncomfortable locale, if you know what I mean. I’ve learned, however, through the years to program my seat, so I simply hit the Number 1 to right it.
Once started, the volume of talk radio assaulted me. I didn’t even realize Bonita had talk radio. Then, as I started to back out, I thought I had gone blind. The back windshield was black as night. Apparently, Bonita has a screen that you can employ to completely black out the back window.
I hollered, loudly, for Mr. Kaminski to remove the rap star wanna be crap from my back window – immediately. That feat accomplished, I thought I was good to go, until I saw the pressure of one of my tires – at 17.
After a 35- minute initial wait at Discount Tires, sweet Justin informed me that there was a nail in my tire. That went down like vinegar. Nearly three hours later, my tire was repaired. I then headed home so I could dispose of the fast-food containers Mr. Kaminski left as a gift for me on the floor board.
No, I don’t “share.” It doesn’t work out well for me. See y’all next week – on the porch!
Patti Parish-Kaminski
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