Thursday, December 16, 2010

dear car keys:

You are there for the insanity.  You are there in the car when tantrums go down.  You have heard the Veggie Tales Singing Christmas Album over one million times (don’t hate, there’s a surprisingly good rendition of Handel’s For Unto Us A Child Is Born… and 4 others I immediately skip over - you’re welcome).  You are especially there for the dismount.  You see me drag armfuls of grocery bags, library books, diaper bags, purses, snack and sippy cups under one arm and an unwillingly overdressed toddler in the other arm while trying not to brush my lovely pink winter coat on the grime-covered car.  You know I have to get everything from the car in ONE TRIP because if not, poor said toddler will be so beside himself with hunger/grief at my absence that he’ll plow his head through the flat screen.  You are there when we barely make it up the stairs in the garage and collapse through the door into the house in one huge mound of bags, coats, snowy boots and crazy.  And in that chaos, you know that you often get mixed into the madness.


Now, do I immediately dig around to find you and put you somewhere safe?  I apologize that I do not.  I usually run for the kitchen to grab a bottle to stop the Dude’s screaming, or lunge at WonderGirl’s boots before she tracks snow and dirt ALL OVER THE HOUSE.


You know all this.  You do.  So, knowing that you know this, may I make a small request?  Could you please just SHOW YOURSELF when I am late and dashing around the living room screaming “WHERE ARE MY KEYS?!?!”  You know I have very good reasons for not putting you at the top of my list.  I still very much appreciate you.  You are a HUGE part of Team Mom.  You are great, I mean it.  So have some compassion, dagnabit.


Sincerely,


I OWN YOU.  Just sayin’.  I do.

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