Ever Have One Of Those Days?

The fun thing about having little kids at home who are semi-self-sufficient is that you think you can trust them to do the little things, like put both their shoes away together, in the same place, when they take them off, but in actuality, you can’t even trust two-and-a-half-year-olds to pay attention to whether or not they’re wearing shoes.

And sometimes they wear only one shoe.

Which, according to Munchkin, “is fine, Mom. We live in Alabama.” (Or maybe they get that one-shoe-on, one-shoe-off thing from their father, but that’s a story for another time, from a time long ago when we were acquainted with parties that involved alcohol and lasted past 8 PM.)

But back to Those Days.

We had one on Tuesday. Squeaker, Buttercup, and I were preparing to head out for a field trip to the post office. One minute Squeaker had his sandals on, both of them, one on each foot, and the next minute, he was barefoot. And I could only find one sandal. So I went digging in his closet, and I located both of his sneakers and one of his Darth Vader slippers.

The sneakers would’ve meant putting socks on him, and that’s just not happening these days, so I grabbed the Darth Vader slipper. (I love left-and-right interchangeable shoes) (Hush. Slippers are too shoes.) (Yes, they are. We live in Alabama.) I also grabbed the sandal, and I had him put one on each foot.

We were only running to the post office. It’s not like we were going to hubby’s work or Grandma’s house or church or anything. We only had to drop off one package. We weren’t going to be there long.

Except my one package was going to Canada, and it was 3.2 ounces over the weight limit for first class shipping, which meant I had to remove some of the package or pay double in shipping.

So the kids and I (with Buttercup waving a plastic lemon and yelling “BUH-BYE!” at everyone) stepped out of line and over to that nice little counter the post office has where people like me can use their keys to rip into the packages they’ve overpacked and remove that surprise extra book they were going to include in the package (sorry, Sacha), and then re-package it, get back in line again, and this time succeed in mailing the package.

All while Buttercup is still waving a plastic lemon and yelling, “BUH-BYE!” at everyone. (She’s very advanced verbally.) (Or possibly she’s hurtling insults leftover from a previous life in a place and time where lemons were insulting. Could go either way.)

Once we’d successfully paid to mail the package, we traipsed back out to the van. I got the kids strapped in (which is a trick for both of them, since they’ve conveniently both arrived at ages where they’d prefer not to be strapped in), then I strapped myself in, started the engine, and attempted to shift my van into reverse.

And failed.

And that when I noticed that were all kinds of red lights blinking at me on the dash.

My van was running, Iwas pressing the brake, but those red lights were telling me you ain’t goin’ nowhere.

I shut the car off. Turned it back on. Tried again.

Nope. We were stuck.

So I dug my owner’s manual out of the glove box and flipped through until I found the key for the dashboard warnings, all of which translated to, “If this light comes on, you’re screwed.” (We always read between the lines when it comes to dashboard warnings, right?)

Side note: Hubby has an uncanny way of knowing exactly when to call me: when I’ve just taken a giant bite of really chewy food, when I’m in the shower, when I’m coated in some kind of bodily fluid courtesy of the children or cats, you know, the good times.

Back to the story: Right at that moment, the hubby called.

(Really. It was remarkable.)

We had an overly complicated discussion about who would call our insurance company about their towing policy and who would call the nearest service shop to see about getting the van in for maintenance, during which time I unstrapped my kids and let them run around the back of the van. (We live in Alabama. We weren’t the only ones doing this in the parking lot, I promise.) (But we were the only ones with a kid in one sandal and one Darth Vader slipper. Just in case you were wondering.)

Eventually hubby and I agreed that I would call the shop, so I did.

And the first thing the service guy said was, “Oh, I can talk you through how to get your van back in gear.”

Me: “Uh… is that safe?”

Him: “Oh, sure. Absolutely.”

Me: “You know I–SQUEAKER! STOP DOING THAT TO YOUR SISTER!–have two kids in the car with me. Are you–BUTTERCUP! GET THAT OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!–sure?”

Him: “Yes, ma’am.” (I love Alabama manners.) “You’ll be just fine.”

And you know what? He was right. I hacked my car’s safety systems, and I made it home just fine. Which means you should all be praying for me, because today, I have my car and my two children (and one sandal and one Darth Vader slipper) in the shop, and we’re hanging out having a great time, waiting to see if we’ll be able to afford to send them to college after this.

Good times.

(So is this where I plead with you to go buy a book so that my children can afford to go to college? Because if so… Southern Fried Blues is a lot of fun, and you’ll love it, I promise. And it’ll make my frazzled, domestic-chaos-filled day if you’d leave a review too. Pretty please? I’ll not only love you forever, but I’ll write you another book. Promise.)

What’s the most interesting place you’ve ever had car troubles?