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Carver Communications - Index

Carver Communications - 6.1.08 - Index

By Cathey Meyer
Cram-The-Minivan
“Touch my feather!” This was the
request of my four-year-old nephew. I
should mention, for some unknown reason,
I was incarcerated in a family minivan
with four adults and a four and five-yearold
on a ‘short’ trip to a family function.
Unless you are the parents of any sweet,
young thing under the age of 24, traveling
in confined spaces with developing minds
should equal any probation (pending or
projected) required by law to serve.
Anyone who has paid a mega-fortune for
an airline ticket has shared the same
thoughts. If the youngin’s need to scream,
holler, kick the back of the seat or make
eye contact, you should receive some compensation
for your prison, I mean sitting,
assistance.
Before anyone gets critical of the
lack of patience for tolerating youngins,
please note I love my nieces and nephews
AND all their animals, blankies, stuffingless-special
sleep pals, contagious diseases,
incubation car seats, regurgitated
food choices, second drinks from sippy
cups and their deconstruction of my nonchild
proof living quarters. However, Aunt
Cathey does deserve a ‘pass’ on some funfamily
adventures and for me, that
includes the ‘minivan trip’ to anywhere. I
am excellent at “I’ll meet you there,” when
the family needs to gather in public spaces.
I will go on record here to note that I thoroughly
enjoy my roll as Aunt Cathey and I
generally find most children sweet, innocent
necessities to repopulate the earth; but
in my cranky, menopausal state of patientless
old age, I find having space to myself
a small joy in life.
Sometimes in life, however, we
must take one for the ‘team’. The first ritual
of the cram-the-minivan game is seat
positioning. The driver’s seat can only be
occupied by a DNA match to the car-seat
crowd. Apparently my FBI training as a
terrorist escape driver is substandard for
the requirements of toddler projectile
vomit obstacle driving. Shotgun in the
minivan generally goes to the eldest or
most handicapped of the group who only
June 1, 2008 REAL ESTATE NEWSLINE 7
has to pick loose cheerios off the area
instead of scraping unknown powdery substances
from the seat. Try as I may, I am
never the eldest or most incapacitated of
any group. In the minivan seating chart,
all that remains are two bucket middle
seats and an uncomfortable back-row rumble
seat. Foolishly, I thought I might score
one of the middle bucket seats, but as it
turns out, alto a cappella choruses began as
each child realized only one child ‘gets to
sit next to Aunt Cathey’.
Who thought I could cause such a
ruckus in the under-six crowd? I understand
the dynamics of the loudest screamer
wins the battle—after all I used to negotiate
real estate contracts—so in the interest
of peace (as much as possible in the
under-six crowd) I agreed to ride in the
middle—of the uncomfortable back-row
rumble seat, squeezed between two oversized
car seats. The mom and Uncle
Carlton won the luxury of their own space
in the middle row bucket seats. The dad
and grandpa covered driving and shotgun.
Aunt Cathey and company secured the
tailgate.
I told myself, “Just don’t make eye
contact . . .” but before I could blink, a wild
arm flailed across my chest. “Gimme that!
I want to show it to Aunt Cathey. Look
Aunt Cathey! Look!” Apparently, the
under-six set does not rely on eye contact
for conversation. As I turned to look to my
right, I felt an immediate yank at my hair
to the left followed by, “Touch my feather.”
The word ‘feather’ is apparently a
‘clue’ word in the world of germaphobicyuppy-parents.
To his credit, my nephew
had scored a rather interesting feather—I
assume from a bird. My niece, not to be
out discovered, was holding a worm of
some sort which made me ponder what
else might be hidden in the crevices of the
non-escapable backseat.
“Where did you get that feather?”
Came the scream from the mom in the
middle bucket seat. The feather of
unknown origin was now tickling my ear.
Where it came from was not as much a
concern for me as to how close it was to
puncturing my eardrum. The worm was
now settling into my forearm. “Give me
that feather!” were the next words I could
decipher from the screaming that followed.
“I don’t have a feather,” announced
my nephew. “I have bird skin and I want
Aunt Cathey to touch it.” ICK. I would
have touched a feather, but calling it bird
skin creeped me out—but not as much as
the worm inching its way up my arm.
“Aunt Cathey, where is Henry?”
asked my niece. Apparently the worm had
a name and I had flicked him forward into
Uncle Carlton’s hair. “Where’s Henry?! I
want Henry!” This was an ear piercing
(and not for earrings) scream.
“Where did you get that feather?
Get your fingers out of your mouth! What
are you eating?” The mom was in investigative
gear. The grandpa was trying to
turn off the radio, not understanding this
surround sound could not be muted. The
dad was slowly pulling out of the driveway.
They say it is the first five minutes of
any trip that sets the pace. I only had 95
minutes more to touch the feather.