Road Rage

Yesterday I threatened to throw Rollie out the window of our moving car.

It all started with these stupid ski goggles.  We were going to walk the dog (for the second time in ten days) and because it's been so freaking cold here all week, my husband broke out this bag of winter gear that we literally haven't touched since our 2001 ski trip. Hats, mittens, scarves, masks,  jackets with disintegrating lift tickets still attached to them...when we were finished getting ready we looked like the Donner party crossing the continental divide.  And trust me, by the end of the day I was about ready to eat my young.

Anyway, Rollie found a pair of old goggles and decided they were just about the coolest things he'd ever seen in his short little life.  Jeff obligingly adjusted them to fit him, and for the rest of the morning, Rollie walked around in them, giggling and running into walls...I guess because the lenses were a little dingy.  I humored him, telling him how cool he looked, even though he really looked like one of those special kids who needs to wear a helmet and earmuffs everywhere he goes.

My compliments must have been pretty convincing, because Rollie wanted to wear them in public so the whole world could see just how awesome he looked. The only problem with this was that even though Jeff adjusted the goggles, they still didn't fit Rollie quite right.  They kept slipping down his face and squishing his nose.  As we rode in the car, I kept hearing little whimpers and whines, and I'd turn around to see Rollie all sour-faced, struggling to keep the goggles in place.

Me: Rollie, what's the matter?
Rollie: My goggles won't work.
Me: What, you mean they don't fit?
Rollie: They're hurting my nose.
Me: Here, let me help you.
Rollie: No, you can't touch them.
Me: Rollie, I don't think you can put them on yourself.
Rollie: Yeah I CAN do it all by myself.
Me: All right, fine, do it yourself.

Still he struggled, grunted and inadvertently kicked the back of my seat as he tried to get the goggles to stay in place.  Every time I offered to help, his refusals became more vehement, (as did my offers), until our exchanges escalated to this:

Rollie: AAARRRRRR!
Me: Rollie, for God's sake just let me help you!
Rollie: Noooo!
Me (now turned completely around in my seat as we go down the freeway at 70 mph...a seat belt cautionary tale in the making): Give me the stupid goggles!
Rollie (holding them over his head) No!  Go away, Momma!
Me: Stop kicking my seat!  You're driving me crazy!
Rollie: AAAARRRRR!
Me: This is ridiculous!  Give me the goggles!
Rollie: I don't need your help!
Me: Rollie, you can't do it yourself!  Wait until we get out of the car!
Rollie (kicking my seat and shaking his head): Uh-Uh!
Me (lunging over the back of my seat and snatching the goggles): No more goggles!
Rollie (bursting into tears): My Goggles!!!
Me (flopping down in my seat and throwing the f-ing goggles on the floor): You can't have them any more!
Rollie (still kicking my seat): Give me my goggles!
Me: Stop it!  You're overtired!
Rollie (kick kick kick): I'm NOT tired!
Me (mumbling so that he probably can't hear me, although I'm sort of hoping he can): Oh my God, I'm going to kill myself.
Rollie: ARRRRAAAAAHHHHH!!
Me: Rollie, if you don't stop whining and kicking my seat RIGHT NOW I'm going to throw you out the window!

Even as I said it, I thought, Ah yes...it has come to this.  Me having a yelling match with my two-year-old.  I guess we were both mentally in the same place, both ready to do each other in out of pure frustration.  It's time like this when I stop and think, wow...I guess deep down we are all two years old.  We can all be pushed to the brink of madness, yelling and whining and mentally stomping our feet and holding our breath.  I can have a temper tantrum just like my son.  But because my vocabulary is more extensive than his, instead of kicking a seat and crying, I threaten suicide and turning my son into a human projectile.  Sheesh.

Two minutes after I'd taken Rollie's goggles away, he fell asleep.  At least I knew his behavior had stemmed primarily from exhaustion.  I'm still trying to think of an excuse for mine.