Our car is such a tip. Which is strange, as my house is
somewhat clean because I keep it that way. I wash a gazillion loads of clothes
every week, I wash the floors all the time, I wipe down surfaces, I even polish
my stainless steel appliances.
So why is it that my car smells like banana, even though I
can’t for the life of me find one in there? That the floor of our car is
covered in millions of sultanas which could easily be taken for an invasion?
There are wrappers, tissues, sticks, rocks, dinosaurs, mandarins and other
fruit-like matter, old balloons, balls, an umbrella stroller, a plastic
motorbike, other peoples picnic rugs, an esky I’m too scared to open, a random
backpack, crumbs, coffee cups and for the love of God, a goddamn Chicken Crimpy
biscuit sitting on the dashboard. I hate that biscuit. We don’t even eat
Chicken Crimpy’s in our family.
I see the Chicken Crimpy every morning as I drive my kid to
daycare. It annoys me but I don’t do a thing about it. I promise myself that I
will, the next time I leave my car with nothing to carry. Ha!
The Chicken Crimpy has been on the dash now for weeks, maybe
months. Last week it brought me to tears.
Someone had parked outside of my house meaning I had to park
50 metres down the street. Now I know 50 metres isn’t much of a walk, I’m sure
my son being the size of a teenager could probably jump it in three go’s, but
walking from the car to my house in work clothes and heels with a busy toddler,
two bags of dairy groceries, my laptop, my backpack, my son’s backpack, Blah
Blah, and a Big M was no easy feat. It was hard. I struggled. I held the tears
back for that whole 50 metres. It took me 10 minutes to walk that small
distance with the plastic bag bursting along the way, 2 litres of milk pouring
into the gutter. Milk that I needed for my son. I got to my house, dropped off
everything then walked the 50 metres back to my car, put Alfie back in his seat
as he struggled and fought, and drove back to the supermarket to get more milk.
The Chicken Crimpy stared at me in the car.
This wasn’t the time to remove it. I arrived back home, this
time having to park further down the street than before. My hands were full
with Alfie and milk, so I couldn’t remove the Chicken Crimpy. I swear it stuck
its little crimpy bit up at me.
My husband walked in from work just after Alfie had gone to
bed. I’d been fighting off tears the whole time, through Alfie’s tea, his bath,
his story. As soon as I saw my husband I sat on the ground, still in my work
clothes and cried.
He asked me: “what’s wrong?”
I cried: “It’s that f#$king Chicken Crimpy. It’s ruining
me.”
My husband looked confused. “Why are you crying about a
biscuit? Do you need me to get you a biscuit? Is that what’s wrong? Is it Tim
Tam time?”
No. I didn’t have my period. No. I didn’t want a Tim Tam.
No. The Chicken Crimpy represented so much more. The Chicken Crimpy represented
time and how hard it sometimes is to do everything and be everything. Why do I
always have to carry ALL the groceries from the car to the house? Why don’t I
do this in a couple of trips? Why do I always say yes to everything and find
myself over committed that I have no time to sit and fart and cut my toenails
and look at YouTube? Why am I always carrying so many items that are awkward
and misshapen?
So after my Chicken Crimpy meltdown, I tuned out of social
media, turned off electronic devices, said yes to only two social outings for
the week, caught up with my girlfriends, cut my toenails, read a book, hung out
with my family without a phone stuck to my face, patted my dog, tended to my
roses and cooked. It was heaven. It lasted a week.
Alfie and I were heading to Williamstown in the car. On our
way to the beach to watch the boats, I stared at the Chicken Crimpy while
waiting at a traffic light. I turned off at the car wash before reaching the
sea and Alfie and I washed the car together. It was the best, we both got
satched from the hoses. We laughed at the vacuum sucking up the sultanas, and
when we found the banana, I giggled remembering the time I handed it to Alfie
mid-car tantrum on a trip to the country.
We finished the epic car clean and continued to the beach.
When we were back on the road I smiled at the clean car, sparkling and smelling
like faded banana. I parked out the front of MY HOUSE and sat in the clean car
for just a few minutes. The Chicken Crimpy remained on the clean dashboard. I
kept it there to remind me that every now and then, I need to stop and smell
the banana.
Mums and dads: Don’t forget to every now and then, Stop.
Collaborate. And Listen. Find your inner Chicken Crimpy.
This post first appeared on
Bubba West.
