Or, Why You Should Leave Your Door Unlocked So People Can Borrow Your Butcher Knives.

When the kids and I drove into town this afternoon to go to the library, the roads were icy. For several country miles, we followed along behind a nondescript car going a nondescript speed. Everything was normal.

Until it wasn’t.

Coming out of an s-curve, the nondescript car slipped into a sideways slide. Its back end fishtailed into the left lane. I said something profound like, “Whoa, guys. Look at that.” And then the car moved forward off the road to the right, except there was a steep embankment in its way, so it reared up and then flipped gracefully over onto its back, crunch.

I don’t remember braking. I do remember jabbing wildly at the emergency lights, barking orders at the kids, and thinking, I am the only responsible adult here, oh crap.

I sent my older son up the road on the other side of the car to stop traffic. My younger daughter ran back to the house we just passed (which happened to be the house of our long-time friends), and I told the younger two that they were not to move, not even to unbuckle their seatbelts. Every single child obeyed me to the letter. This rarely happens, so I’m noting it here. Applause is appropriate.

I ran up to the car. There was a woman in it, hanging upside down by her seatbelt.

Folks, there is something grotesque about a belly-up car with a person in it smack in the middle of the road. It’s disorienting. Cars are meant to roll on wheels at all times. Somersaulting and sticking their spinny legs in the air is simply not acceptable. What’s next: talking cats and dogs?

The doors wouldn’t open. I had to crouch down on the pavement to see inside. How many people are there? I yelled through the glass. One, she said. She was cool as a cucumber.

By this time, my daughter was heading back, the neighbors in tow. Except it wasn’t the neighbors we knew, but guests that were staying at their house. I hollered at them to call 9-1-1 (“I never heard you yell at anyone to call 9-1-1 before!” my kids told me later, all impressed), and then we started working to get the woman out.

Her door finally opened (maybe she figured out how to unlock it?), and the neighbor/guest helped her turn the car off. We still couldn’t unbuckle her seatbelt, though. So I sent my son back to the house to get a knife.

“They never lock their doors,” the houseguests confided.

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “We sometimes stop by to grab rags for dog vomit or to use the bathroom.”

It was reassuring to know that in the midst of flipping cars and freezing temps, we had a fully-stocked house at our fingertips. It was a piece of sanity in a sea of weird.

Soon my son came running back (yeah, I know, running) with two knives. The neighbor-who-is-not-really-our-neighbor cut the belt, and he and my son carefully extricated her from the crunched cave. We sat her on a towel and wrapped her in a blanket, and a couple minutes later the ambulance arrived. (And then another. And then a fire truck and two cop cars.) I wrote out a statement and off we went to the library.

The end.

*Photo credit: the neighbor/houseguest.

Our younger son is a whirlwind of energy, spinning, running, bouncing, wriggling, burrowing, crashing. His raspy foghorn voice has no volume control. It’s like we’re living with a cross between a caffeinated squirrel and a cyclone.

Thing is, he’s real sweet about it, most times. He charges full steam ahead with whatever he’s doing—drawing, hauling small trees indoors, playing flashcards, washing the floor—completely oblivious to the fact that we’re talking to him, yelling at him, screaming for him to PAY ATTENTION FOR ONE MINUTE PLEASE. He’s cheerful, funny, and smart. He’s cuddly. And he doesn’t stop.

Take, for example, the play I already alluded to. It was a fun play, a comedy, and we sat in the front row. On two separate occasions, my son was called on to help: once to pick up matches and push the guy up the stairs and another to help adjust a kingly robe. My son should’ve been engrossed and bedazzled, motionless with enthrallment. Instead, he was rocking from side to side, wiggling, groaning, half-way falling out of his chair. Desperate, I grabbed a piece of paper for a game of tic-tac-toe. Then connect four. Then I rubbed his back. But he gave me loud directions about exactly how I was to rub his back, so I picked up the paper and wrote, “You must be quiet.” He whisper-sounded it out, and then, thrilled at his accomplishment, gleefully repeated it over and over again, loudly. After the show, we sat him down in a chair to practice being quiet and holding still. I expressed my disappointment at not being able to enjoy the show because I had to play games with him. “But Mama,” he said between sobs, “you were the one who wanted to play!”

More recently, there was the seven-hour car ride home from New York. I read out loud to the family and then we settled in for a movie marathon: two in a row followed by an episode of the Waltons. Part way through the second movie, my son started scrunching around in his seat and whining. By the time we got to the Waltons (and the last hour of the ride), he was crying and writhing in white hot agony.

And that’s when it hit me: this child has to move. Sitting still for any longer than a short period of time causes him to short circuit. It’s not his fault. And at the same moment I realized that, I knew the perfect solution. “Give me your hand,” I said. As soon as I dug my fingers into the soft of his palm, I felt his body relax.

For years now, we have given him back rubs during church services, but it wasn’t until this week that I realized why they worked so well. His muscles need help releasing all the pent up energy (or something like that). Isn’t it funny how it takes so long to catch on sometimes?

It’s still not easy. Having a twitchy kid that talk-bellows without ceasing will probably never be exactly soothing. Several times during family reading last night, I broke off in the middle of a sentence to roar SIT STILL and SHUT YOUR MOUTH and KEEP YOUR BUTT DOWN, DON’T STICK IT IN THE AIR. It’s hard to read words when the sofa won’t hold still for all the flopping and jittering.

Now that our son is nearing eight, I’m realizing that his energy levels aren’t the byproduct of early childhood. This is who he is so we might as well adjust and get used to it, heaven help us.