Maybe because I am a regular nicknamer, and rarely call my family by their real names, I thought it was time that I had one as well. I tossed a few around, trying them on for size and appropriate superhero-ish-ness. One friend calls me The B, and that seemed short and a propos, but nothing stuck. I went on being regular me.
Until this week.
I have a nickname now, and wow it is a doozy.
The Crusher! Roooaaaar!
I know. I know, you're wondering if my workouts have gotten mondo crazy, and I've become a serious gym rat. Nope. I know, I know, you're wondering if I'm sidelining at WWF. Nope.
What I am doing, apparently with frightening regularity is this:
backing over the kids' things in the driveway.
Bike not put away? Rooooar! Here comes The Crusher! Her blue van cannot be stopped! It will crush and mangle your bike so irreparably, the recycling place will wonder if you were in a biking accident.
Tricycle left with one wheel on the driveway? Roooar! The Crusher will take that trike down down DOWN. Down to scrap metal town.
New scooter left leaning in the garage, too near The Crusher's van wheel? Oh, good. Daddy was driving that day. Crush averted.
It's almost embarrassing.
It's mostly gratifying, how a few inadvertent (really! inadvertent!) mishaps have accomplished what years of nagging could not: kids that are freakishly hasty at putting their bikes, scooters and trikes away.
The Crusher is available and ready to help you with your toy-in-driveway issues.