I briefly thought I was maybe, possibly, probably, most definitely going to die yesterday.
Fine. I'm being a bit dramatic, but am still pretty sure that I shaved two of my nine lives off yesterday anyhow.
The first time was when I went to pick The Oldest up from band practice and asked him if he wanted to drive home. The weirdo laws here state that a learner's permit holder can only drive when there are only adults over the age of 21 in the car, so in a world with four younger siblings, he doesn't have much time without the little people tagging along.
The rest of them were at home, so I figured what the hell.
He has to learn how to do this at some point right?
Now, I know that many of you out there reading have been through this whole teaching a teenager to drive thing, and I applaud you. For real.
It was the most stressful 13 minutes of my life, but we didn't die. He didn't hit anything or anyone, didn't damage the car irreversibly in some bizarre way, didn't get a ticket and didn't have an anxiety attack as I would say
left left left left left left
on repeat with increasing volume and intensity each time to the point where I was willing the car left with my mind powers.
He actually did okay, truth be told.
I didn't freak out at all (on the outside) and didn't yell at him (except inside my head about 73 billion times).
He will get better at this. So will I.
Frankly, I'm taking a victory lap while high fiving myself because I didn't invent and repeatedly use the imaginary brakes on the passenger side that my parents slammed on damn near constantly while I was learning how to do this.
HIGH FIVE, SELF.
After we got home, I texted my husband and told him the big news. Not that this should be big news as the child got his permit last week and his father and I have spoken at length about how I'm going to have to be the one who teaches him how to drive because he clearly CANNOT. Not even negotiable. Nope. All the nope.
His text back?
Was it scary?
Everything about having teenagers is scary at least some of the time.
The good news is that I survived. The bad news is that my brushes with death weren't over.
The second time it happened yesterday was entirely my fault. Because I'm a dumbass.
My name is Kelly, but you can call me Dumbass.
So my knees have been hurting because I have bad knees and shit and when I have to walk around a lot or chase a toddler or basically do anything they hurt. Like even when I'm laying down in bed at night literally not doing anything to aggravate them. It's super rad, you guys. I'm now more than a decade overdue for surgery, but I don't wanna.
I try really fucking hard not to take pain meds though because I practically lived on prescription naprosyn as a teenager and it tore up the entire lining of my digestive system so badly that I learned where every bathroom in a fifty mile radius was.
Too bad. You're the one reading this.
Yeah, so you take a person with raging anxiety and give them a totally FUBAR digestive system, and it's not a pretty picture. I did that for about twenty years if anyone cares to know the details of my life on that level.
I drink kefir now. It helps.
My god, the tangents I can go on.
(you should know this by now, I assume)
Anyway, I took out a few tylenol pills because I was tired of toughing it out and then I couldn't remember if I took them or not. Like I did that thing where you walk three laps around the kitchen because you can't decide if you took them and just don't remember or if you put them on the counter somewhere because you needed to get a glass of water and now you just can't remember where you put them.
Anyway, I quickly convinced myself that I had taken them because I wouldn't be stupid enough to leave anything on the counter.
Then The Oldest, like thirty minutes later, asked if he could take something for his mouth (going into year 3 of braces, he is, and had just been to ortho...we should get frequent flier miles or something for the amount of time and money I give those people). I said yes.
He took them out of the cabinet, put them on the counter, went to get a drink.
I did not connect him asking with the following events. Because I'm a dumbass. (everyone say hi, dumbass)
Daughter grabs them, says hey mom, weren't you looking for your tylenol because you couldn't remember if you took it or not? Hands them to me.
Then I panicked a second because maybe I did leave them on the counter and holy shit I left them on the counter and I just couldn't find them when I was taking all those laps when I wasn't sure if I took them or not and this is terrible and everything is terrible.
So I took them.
About 30 seconds later, The Oldest asks if someone grabbed his tylenol.
Yeah. Yeah, I did. Me, your mother. The Dumbass.
So I immediately start panicking because I know that acetaminophen is actually really fucking toxic, even in smallish amounts. Then I start Googling dosages and start calculating shit in my head about my weight (that's some depressing shit when you're trying to decide if you're going to die based on how fat you are) and how much I took. Figure I should probably try to barf up that last set of pills.
I can throw up like a champion when I'm pregnant or hungover, but the threat of death....NAW WE ARE KEEPING THAT SHIT IN. Go ahead, try and shove your finger all the way down your throat. The best we're doing is dry heaving, sister.
I give up trying to barf, debate telling the husband that I'm going to die. Decide not to because the mere idea of anyone pumping my stomach starts to give me an anxiety attack. Google some more.
And Google tells me the truth.
I was way below the toxic level anyway and all the dramatics were for nothing.
Congratulate myself for the fact that I hadn't told anyone in the house that I was dying, because I didn't die and I wasn't actually going to die at any point I was just being completely ridiculous.
Besides, my liver has been training for this my whole life.
Hey, but I'm alive to tell this ridiculous story, so that's a fucking relief.
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