Taxi Tales: The Owie Maneuver

On too many days, I feel like a dad driving the bumper sticker-clichéd “Mom’s Taxi,” given how many short trips I take transporting Zach and Zoë to and from school and events around town. Arriving home from one outing just in time to leave on another gets old quickly, and it really wears on me. And yet, as I wallow in self-pity, I sometimes forget that Zienna is right there behind me, mile after mind-numbing mile, stoplight after drowse-inducing stoplight. Considering she's barely able to move or stretch when confined by the straightjacket-like straps of her car seat, is it any wonder that with increasing frequency, when I reach for my car keys, she protests? A play date for Zoë or a sports event for Zach means just one thing to Zienna: being stuck in the car for who knows how long, away from the toys and play she loves so much.

Simultaneously, Zienna has developed a habit—sometimes annoying, sometimes amusing—of parroting the symptoms of any malady expressed within her earshot. If Elmo develops a cold, within seconds Zienna says she has one, too. If Zach stubs his toe, Zienna claims to have done the same thing. And if a neighborhood friend complains of an upset stomach, Zienna immediately reports similar symptoms. And, she's discovered that she need not wait for an external cue, drumming up illnesses and injuries of her own making—some downright comical. “Daddy, I sick” in Twospeak can mean “I need a hug,” “I’m tired,” or a million other things.

I try not to laugh or dismiss her concerns. Instead, I look for their real cause and then dispense kisses, reassurance and distraction. And when there's even the slightest evidence of a real owie, I resort to the time-tested cure-all: the band-aid. We go through a lot of band-aids.

Still, I couldn't help but snicker over an exchange we had this morning. Zienna had woken up cranky and protested mightily about getting dressed. She’d complained more fiercely over leaving the house. And then, even though it was below freezing, she’d refused to get into the car without me. Since I was more concerned about Zoë getting a tardy, I allowed Zienna to stand beside me as I chiseled the rock-hard sheets of ice blanketing our windows. Finally realizing she was cold, Zienna was in no mood for the car seat by the time I loaded her into it.

Thankfully, she quieted down once we hit the road—at least until we headed back up the hill. Though Zienna hates our shuttle missions, once we’re out, she dislikes even more heading back home, where she was suddenly begging not to go. I reminded Zienna that her favorite TV show, Sesame Street, was about to start, but she claimed she didn't want to watch it. But at least her tantrum subsided—briefly, anyway. Seconds later, she began quasi-crying ("fake crying," as Kelly and I call it). What on earth could it be now, I wondered.

"Daddy?" she sobbed.

"Yes, sweetie?" I replied, with as much verbal sugar as I could pour on.

"My finger has a owie," she replied, no doubt referring to yet another ripped cuticle brought on by dry hands so common in our low-humidity climate.

"How did that happen?" I asked, with restrained concern.

"My finger got a owie from being in the car too much," she replied emphatically.

"How did that happen?" I asked again, fighting back laughter and not knowing what else to say.

"I dunno," she replied. "But my finger been in the car too much."

At that point, we turned onto our street, and I was left to ponder whether my girl had been working the mechanisms in her small but growing arsenal—my guilt over dragging her around so much, and her recognition that owies get you attention—or if this was just a spontaneous and accidental coupling of the two. But I tried not to smile, knowing that wouldn't help.

And I promised a band-aid as soon as we got home.