Sometimes I make good decisions. Other times I make what I think are good decisions at the time, but they don’t turn out well in the end. And then sometimes I just do stupid, stupid things. Yesterday was one of those times.
Edward, my three year old, is very interested in cars. Lately he has been extra interested in gas and gas tanks. He fills up his toy cars with “gas.” He makes his bike stop at the “gas station” for gas. Every time we walk through a parking lot he tried to open all of the gas caps of every car we pass, despite my repeated pleas to cease this behavior before we all get in trouble. But it occurred to me that he has never really seen an actual car fill up with gasoline.
I mean, he has seen it, from the back seat, all strapped in, but I’ve never let him get out of the car at the gas station, and yesterday he was begging me to come out and see what was going on, so I decided to let him. What’s the worst that could happen?
That was not my stupid decision though. That was okay. He opened the gas cap cover, but couldn’t get the actual gas cap off, so I unscrewed it and swiped my debit card, ready to begin fueling. I let Edward push the button for the correct type of gas, which he was super excited about, and then I started pumping. Edward wanted to help, so I let him hold the nozzle with me as we refueled the car.
That wasn’t the stupid decision either, although it’s getting closer. No, the really stupid thing I did was decide that Edward looked really cute pumping gas, and so wouldn’t it be a good idea to take a picture of him doing it, so I could show my wife, or post it on Facebook or something. I took my hands off of the gas pump and let Edward hold it by himself as I took a step back and snapped this cute picture:
That was the stupid decision. By stepping away and taking my phone out, I had inadvertently signaled to my son that gas getting time was over. “All done gas Daddy?” he asked me, pulling the nozzle out of the car while still squeezing the handle tightly. Gasoline started splashing everywhere, specifically all over me as he pointed it at me and looked confused.
My legs and shorts and sandals were soaked with gasoline as I lunged forward shouting “AAAHHH! STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! ACK! TURN IT OFF! PUT IT DOWN! WHAT THE! AAAHHHH!” He released the handle, stopping the flow of gasoline, and I snatched it from him as I stood in a pool of combustible liquid, wondering if we were all going to blow up. That’s the last time I let my toddler watch Zoolander.
We did not blow up. The gas evaporated fairly quickly, although the smell did not, and I managed to fill the rest of the tank without further incident while Edward hid in the car, keenly aware that something had just gone terribly wrong. And though I did yell and freak out at him, I let him know that this one was not his fault. Didn’t I just say that Edward has no experience with gas stations? And somehow he is supposed to know that spraying gasoline all over one’s father is prohibited? No, he does a lot of naughty things that he knows he’s not supposed to do, but this one was all on me.
Good thing “Wake Me Up” wasn’t on the radio at that moment or you would both be dead