teenagers | Dani Stone

WHY DOES MY CAR SMELL LIKE A TRASH DUMPSTER, is something I may have asked in my outside voice this morning when I slid into the van to take the kids to school.

To clarify, I would describe the status of my housekeeping skills as, “comfortably lived-in, but never a pig stye.” We keep our cars the same way. You might find a stray backpack or gum wrapper, but that’s about it. Trust me, The Colonel wouldn’t have it any other way.

Immediately I turned to my son, because unless I had mistakenly purchased milk, tuna, eggs and meat from the store, then unwrapped them and left them in the back cargo bay of the van under a grow light for three days, I had a feeling the smell could be traced back to him.

He’s 13. He’s a slob. God love him. He’s always on my smells-radar.

Me – Jacob – Why does my van smell like death?

Jacob – *looks around wildly* *mumbles* It’s probably the taco wrapper in my bag.

Me – What? Seriously? Get it. Now. *eyes of irritation*

Jacob – *Opens his backpack, retrieves wrapper without commentary, gets out of car, proceeds to trash can*

Jacob – *Starts to put on seat belt, stops* – Oh, wait. I think I have one in my other bag too. And I don’t think I finished that one.

Me – Tacos? From where?

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Dad and Jacob – Both of these fellas had a big week!

Over the years I’ve heard a handful of phrases that have rocked me to my core:

~Your Grandma Gordon has stomach cancer

~Your baby’s head is right THERE, do not push (This was said to me during a routine checkup for my firstborn who wasn’t due for another 6 weeks. Surprise!)

~Your daughter has a rare brain disorder

~Your father has cancer

and last week:

~We think Dad had a mild heart attack.

The message was delivered by my sister, Melissa, via voicemail. As I sat in a Girl Scout meeting and listened to her explain the situation on my cell phone, the shrieks of my daughter and her fellow scouts faded away. Missie’s voice was deliberately calm because apparently even though I am the oldest of five children I also have a reputation for overreacting. It’s not uncommon for my brother to tell me, “settle your crazy ass down.”

My sister swears she left everyone the same kind of slow gentle voice mail message, but I’m betting she’s a liar-face. She could just as easily have been talking to a child, small animal, or someone who was heavily medicated. I mean, it’s not like I fall out on the floor and start shouting, “Help me, Jesus,” like a guest on Jerry Springer, but I am prone to bouts of uncontrollable sobbing at the mention of illness or accident so in hindsight, that was probably a smart move on her part.

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