I Think She Gets It From Her Father

Our regular Tuesday morning trip to Wal-Mart has been postponed indefinitely today. We cannot leave the house because I have no door key and my husband is 30,000 feet over the Midwest somewhere, with his.

Why don’t I have a door key, you ask?

Better ask my daughter, who likes to play with the stretchy arm band it hangs from, and is the last one to have seen it. Way too complicated to explain here all the reasons I keep my keys separate. But if you have a pre-schooler or younger, you know the endless fascination keys hold for them. Plus there’s a little pink, breast cancer awareness charm in the shape of a bird on mine.

I suppose we could go, and when we come home I could do what I did yesterday morning and crawl through the laundry room window. That was after I discovered she had latched the screen door eyehook, and shut the back door so that she couldn’t open it again, while I was outside with the dog. But I’m wearing white pants today, and yesterday I was still in my pajamas and bathrobe.

When I realized this morning that my key was “missing,” I asked her where she had put it. I looked in all the places she suggested. I encouraged her to help me search. And then I pretty much lost my cool and sent her to her room. After about an hour and a half, still with no key to show for my efforts, I told her she could come out. I was sitting on the floor in the living room, trying to look at things from her level – maybe see something I missed earlier – when she came and sat on the coffee table, next to me. Folding her hands precisely in her lap, she looked at me and said, “Okay, now, Mommy. Let’s talk about why you got so mad at me.”

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