Dear John and Caroline:
Get over yourselves.
OH, I know. Having triplets has been kinda tough. Good Lord do I ever know. It’s pretty much all y’all ever talk about. And I get it — to an extent at least. I mean, a lot of people think buckling and unbuckling one infant multiple times throughout the day is a pain. So buckling and unbuckling three is obviously three times the hassle.
But while you strain your back to securely click in Little Darlings 1, 2 and 3, I’m not exactly whistling Dixie over here. I mean, HELLO? I’m the one who’s actually keeping your kids safe, for crying out loud. Oh, sure, you keep your trio safe, too, but in that safekeeping process at least you don’t get ABUSED like I do.
Think about this: during that first year or so, my job extended well beyond the car. I was essentially a baby-carrying purse back then. One which you toted in the crease of your elbow. Which means that I was in direct contact with your babies’ diapers far longer than I ever care to remember.
Which is why I carried with me the faint yet inescapable smell of urine.
How would y’all like that? If one of the requirements for keeping your little ones safe was to coat yourself in piss-scented perfume, hmm?
So, car seat? Check. Baby purse? Check. Let’s see. What else was I? AH. Stroller seat. That’s what else. Remember the triplets’ first beach trip? And remember how you, John, insisted on running every morning? Caroline suggested you take the bike path. But, NO. You had to go all Billy Badass and cruise the beach, didn’t you? Not sure if I ever thanked you for that. Because, truly, it was awesome having all that sand in my many and various cracks. Really helped diffuse some of that urine smell we talked about a second ago. So thanks, again.
But, hey, babies grow up, right? And they eventually turn into toddlers. Toddlers who need new car seats, right? Ones which don’t double as baby-purses and stroller seats. Just plain-ol’ car seats. Which is why I come in so many models. You know, so you’re not stuck there with nothing as your kids get older. But you already know this because you picked up the toddler version of me so I could continue to keep your kids safe.
And boy, were they ever delightful toddlers, y’all. If delightful toddlers were code for tyrannical brats, that is. (In a cute way, y’all. Like little baby Ceausescus or something.) Oh, I know Caroline. You bellyached throughout the entire toddler years about how you’d become a human jungle gym. But at least you hadn’t become a damn biohazard.
HELLO? Did you ever look under me? Trust me — you’d rather lick a movie-theater floor than run your hand directly beneath me. And no. Those aren’t fruit loops. They’re cheerios. That’s what they look like when they live under a tyrant’s car seat for over a year. You might wanna submit to a laboratory or something. I’m pretty sure that’s a color they haven’t invented yet.
But the cheerios aren’t just underneath me. They’re also all inside me. Your kids used to do that a lot, you know. Stick various foods within my cushions. And the foods would sit there for months. That green bendy thing you thought was Gumby’s leg? Just a moldy carrot, thank you very much. (By the way, they always fake you out on the whole “eating vegetables” bit. Morons.)
And don’t even get me started on the foods they’d stick right on my very surface. Subtly, of course. (They’ve clever little tyrants.) So subtly, in fact, it’d often take you days to notice. Sometimes weeks!
So, gee, John, I know it was tough being the ever-needed referee who mediated the various toddler wars those Caillou-dependent heathens constantly waged, but how do you think you would have liked it if one of those pint-sized bullies wallpapered your ass with a fruit roll up every time your wife drove to Target?
So, yeah, guys, bellyache away about the trials and tribulations of being the parents of triplets. But would it kill you to tip a cap to those of us who are laying it on the line for those three, day-in, day-out? To deliver a simple thank you to those who execute any number of thankless tasks just so they can travel safely in your vehicle? (No easy task, mind you, with ol’ Caroline behind the wheel. Two words, girl. Drivers’. Ed.)
Because, I’m here to tell you, we have it even worse than y’all do. And the fact that you fail to realize as much? Well, I’d say it makes me sick, but I don’t really like to use that phrase all that much anymore. You know, on account of that December, 2010 debacle.
I’ve not been the same since. There’s still a little piece stuck in my buckle, you know.
The real martyrs — aka the Graco seats who keep your children safe
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