Building nightmares

This hasn't been a good week for my instincts as a father.  First I subjected Casey to the horrors of Young Frankenstein, and then I took him out to the store on Saturday. Actually, that was a pretty good trip -- Casey always seems really good for me when we're out in the world, and I don't know what his mother's problem is.

But on the way home, I suggested we stop at the car wash so Casey could touch Mommy's car again without coming away with gray hands. "Car wash broken!" Casey told me. Wow, he remembers that? Two weeks ago we were going to stop at the car wash, but I wasn't given the option at the gas station, so we went home without one. He was pretty upset about it; he'd really had his heart set on going through the car wash. So I told him it was broken, and as far as he knew, that was still the case.

But I picked a different gas station this time, fueled up the car, and got us in line for the car wash. Casey seemed pretty eager about it, until the thing actually started. Even the start of the wash wasn't so bad, when it was just dumping soap on the car. But when the high-pressure spray started and swept past his windows, it got a little too loud for him. I did my best to keep him from bursting into tears, and except for a few panicky squalls, he held it together pretty well. Still ... he wasn't happy and kept telling me in that quavery voice that the car wash was "all done" -- long before it was over.

And then he got home and ran inside the house, threw his arms around Mommy, and started to tell her all about it. You had to know what he was saying, but with a little help from me, we got it translated, and the thrust of it was simple enough: "Car wash scary!" He spent the rest of the weekend randomly exclaiming about car washes. "No car wash!" he'd tell us at dinner. "Car wash over!" he'd tell me as he got up from his nap.

I mean well, but I just keep inflicting mental scars on this poor kid.