It is true that bloggers don’t wear underpants.
I mean, we do. But when you’re home Working It at the computer, drinking coffee, the kids are in school and it is Freaking Arctic out … well, who can be bothered?
I did think to myself, as I grabbed the Schmoop-in-a-bucket and headed out to collect Ren from school that I should really consider getting dressed. After all, the last time I drove someone somewhere in my jammies, we were in a car accident. On a military base.
A Lance Corporal saluted my husband while snickering at my cute flannel night shirt covered in a trench coat. Aaaaawesome.
So when I threw on my snow boots and parka, popped a hat on the Schmoopy and headed out into the world I did actually think to myself, “Clothes would be much smarter.”
And then I shut the door.
I got Schmoop settled, hauled on the frozen driver’s side door, got it open, reached into my pocket and …
Holy shit.
Oh no.
Never. I want to say this: NEVER in 20 years of adult responsibility have I EVER locked myself out of a house or car.
This is my second time this year. I blame the baby.
As I mentioned, it was arctic. And the Loser Cruiser warms up nicely when it has the benefit of ignition, which it doesn’t without a key. So I covered the Schmoop in my coat. But not before digging through the pocket and finding …
Mama’s New iPhone.
Angels weep.
I set to work. A call to Sunbeam and Moonbeam — who’s got a spare to the Tilty-Floored Farmhouse? Moonbeam had one, but she’s gone back to Amherst. DAMN. Sunbeam gave hers to Thunderbolt. Thunderbolt is in Rhode Island. Cute Husband said he gave his to Thunderbolt, too … which means we have one unaccounted for, but whatever, I’ll sort that out later.
Sunbeam was forty minutes away but agreed to collect the Doodle from School. Good. I checked the Schmoop’s hands and cheeks — they were warm. I kept the door shut, so mother-freaking-careful not to keep it TOO shut, if you know what I mean.
A call to Happy Progressive Smiles. Just my luck, the Head of School herself answered the phone. In person. Herself.
“Yeah, so,” I said. “I am going to be just little late getting Ren …” She laughed. -That great at-you-and-with-you kind of laugh that makes it all okay. She promised to feed Ren and keep her someplace warm until Sunbeam could get there. Then I shot an e-mail to the folks I was freelancing for that afternoon.
“Stuck in my driveway, locked out. Please look over the material I sent and tell me if it needs anything.”
Then I Googled locksmiths. As the search results came up with phone numbers, Momma’s Little Miracle helpfully offered to dial them for me. The sixth one said he was fifteen minutes out, so that was great.
By then, Sunbeam and her twin sister Tango Foxtrot* had arrived with the Doodle. They piled into the frigid Loser Cruiser with me to wait for the locksmith.
I used Momma’s Little Miracle to memorialize the event:
Sunbeam and Tango Foxtrot were quickly bored, and given that their car was both warm and mobile, they got into it and sped away to hang out with their friends or whatever it is the kids are doing these days.
But it was okay, because the locksmith assured me he would be there any minute.
“Thank God you have the iPhone,” wrote back my client. “Download the fart ap for Ren, that will keep her amused for a while.”
I seriously debated doing that, but didn’t really want to introduce Ren to the idea there was anything for her in my iPhone. Thank God the Loser Cruiser is such a pit, you can find anything back there. I handed Ren her pink princess computer. She searched for the elements Cinderella needed for her perfectly pink tea party while I flung pygmies at volcanoes.
It had now been an hour since the locksmith said he was coming. I called him back, annoyed and very cold.
“Listen,” I said. “I am stuck in this car with an infant and a toddler and it’s very cold. If you’re not coming, just tell me and I will call the cops or something or go to a neighbors.”
“No,” he said. “I’m coming, I swear.”
Fine, all right, whatever. I hung up and decided to start a game of Spite and Malice.
“Who’d da toddler, Momma?” Ren asked, in that oh-so-innocent voice that foretold DAYS of endless reminding of the damage I had done to her fragile dignity.
“Oh, I just said that,” I said, “to make him come faster. If he knew you were a big girl, he might not come so fast.”
“Oh.”
Then: “Momma. When he sees me, he will know I’m a big girl. Not a toddler.”
“Of course,” I said, sensing danger.
“I look like a big girl.”
“You do, of course.”
“So he will know you lied.”
“Right,” I agreed furiously tapping my fingers to flip cards, refusing to make eye contact.
“You lied. And it will be very obvious that you did.”
“Sure will,” I agreed.
Ten minutes later, I was on my fifth card game, Ren had put away her computer and was badgering me incessantly about her status as a Most-Definitely-Not-a-Toddler.
“Because toddlers can’t talk the way I can. Toddlers, Momma? DON’T SKI. Ever seen a toddler ski? And toddlers don’t sit as nicely as I am sitting. Toddlers run all over da place and yell …”
I found it amazing that she was hammering so mercilessly on a single word uttered to a complete stranger on a cell phone but ignoring the fact that it was because of me that we were stuck in the frozen minivan in the first place.
“Hey, you know what let’s do?” I said, spying a birthday invitation in the pile of mail on the floor. “Let me call Julie’s mother and RSVP her birthday party, okay? How about that.” I tapped on the number on my little device of Love and Mercy. Voicemail.
Here is what my message sounded like:
“Hi, this is Liz Schwarzer calling –”
“Momma tell Julie’s mother I am not a toddler. Toddlers don’t go to big-girl birthday parties.”
“–to RSVP for Julie’s birthday. The tea party sounds just great, Ren is so excited.”
“Momma. I did not say I was excited. Don’t lie. DON’T LIE ABOUT ME ON THE PHONE ANY MORE MOMMA.”
“Ren. You are excited about Julie’s birthday, honey!!! HAHAHAHA.”
“LET ME TALK TO HER!”
“Ren, she’s not on the phon-” (sound of phone being bumped, hitting the floor) “oh, shit,” (sound of phone being batted about the floor by cold fingers that can no longer grip. Baby starts crying.)
Finally, I got my fingers around the phone.
“Hi, hahaha, sorry ..” (Oh my God what is Julie’s mother’s name?) “um, right, so we’ll be there. Thanksbye.”
I decided I’d rather be cold than sitting next to an irate toddle– excuse me, WOMAN — so I stepped out of the car to call the locksmith again, and beg him for mercy. He swore he was on his way. It had now been two hours since I called him, two and a half since I had locked myself out. I was very very cold.
I got back in the car to distinct evidence that Ren had been playing with my lipstick.
When I uploaded this picture, I had the answer to the question, "Where is the freaking Dora video?"
I have no idea why that put me over, but it did: I called the fire department. They arrived at about the same time as the locksmith, carrying the same exact tools. The locksmith charged me fifty dollars.
I got back in the house about three hours after I had left it, having spent that time sitting in my driveway contemplating the meaning of life, the brilliance of the iPhone, the utter stupidity of going out in winter without socks, no matter how heavy your boots are.
As I was pounding my screaming feet against the shower floor, I conducted a little After Action Report in my head: Eden had stayed toasty warm under my big coat, so no harm there. Ren was fine. Lipstick seemed like small potatoes. Julie’s mother (“Sandra?” “Cathy?”) was either going to just love me or just hate me from now on, and that seemed like pretty small potatoes, too.
I probably should have given up on the locksmith much sooner, called the fire department or gone to a neighbor’s.
Gee, I should really get to know the neighbors.
“When all is said and done,” I told Cute Husband later, “I’m really glad I didn’t forget the iPhone. For example, somwhere in Hour Two, I was looking up Starbucks locations all over the Commonwealth. I couldn’t get to any of them, of course, but at least I know where they are now.”
“That’s a great combat tool,” Cute Husband agreed. “Somewhere in Afghanistan, some Lance Corporal is programming the lieutenant’s iPhone to find insurgents and latte.”
“I feel like maybe you’re mocking me.”
“Never.”
“It’s not nice to mock.”
“Can’t let anything go, can ya, Ren?”
“Stop it. STOP MOCKING ME.”
“Oh, okay, Ren.”
“Whatever.”
*I have no idea why. I’ve just always wanted to say “Tango Foxtrot.” She’s probably going to kill me when she reads this.
