I learned something this weekend, Ana can’t be trusted.
Yeah, the kid holds her crotch while swearing she doesn’t have to pee, so this should be a given right? I know.
So after picking Ana up from school on Friday, we head over to the gas station because, as usual, I was on empty. When we pull up to the pump she asks if she can get out and watch me operate it. I’m proud to say, my ‘Hell no!’ came out as “Sorry, but you can get out of your car seat and watch from the back window”- I find my patience usually peaks around preschool hours and starts to taper from there.
I stuck the pump into my tank and locked the handle in place (because I like to sit my lazy ass in the car while it fills). Once I was in the car I decide to make a phone call, I mean after all, Ana was quiet and mesmerized by the numbers spinning on the gas pump screen.
So I’m talking, and talking, and then Ana screams “It’s done, Mommy! It’s done!”
I get out of the car (still talking on the phone), pull out the pump handle, and “Holy Shit!” gasoline is spraying everywhere! I start screaming, swinging the pump wildly around like I’m trying to put out a fire with flammable liquid. The man at the next pump starts going “Whoa! whoa!”, and backing up with his hands in the air like I’m trying to rob him. I probably could have yelled “Put your wallet on the ground!”.
I’m so flustered and confused, I can’t think how to stop it. My first reaction is to shove it back in my tank. Bad move. Imagine trying to pee in a Tic Tac container, mid-stream, with a full bladder. The gas pressure was too high, it just splashed off my car and back into my face.
Although it goes against my survival instincts, I remember that I have to squeeze the handle in order to release the lock. O.M.G., it finally stops. And when the panic dies, the burning sensation takes over… MY EYES!
I jump in the car, and now I’m like a blind person, running my hands over everything, frantically searching for water. I can’t see a thing but I notice my other senses have already become heightened to compensate for my recent blindness-that’s how, above all my bitching, I can hear Ana quietly buckling her car seat and whispering, “It wasn’t done, Mommy. It wasn’t done.”
My hand finally comes across a water bottle rolling around on the floor of the passenger side and I’m immediately transported back to 10th grade chemistry class and Mr. Wilcox. He was a sexist son-of-a-bitch, but he could explain an Eyewash Station like nobody’s business. So, that day in the car, I put the mouth of the water bottle over each eye, allowing the water to wash the chemicals away, and give a silent “Thank you” to Mr. Wilcox.
P.S. Mr. Wilcox, you may have saved my vision…but you’re still a dick.
Notice the puddle by the trashcan, that ain’t water.
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