It Was an Accident

It’s Monday morning and time for our weekly Chic Fil A breakfast date with the fam. We’re up and at ’em with the taste of chicken minis practically in our mouths. Socks, shoes, diaper bag… Everybody in the van. Oops sorry, Mia. Mommy’s hand slipped and smacked you in the face while I was buckling you in your seat. It was an accident. Salem, say, “Sister, Mommy’s sorry. It was an accident.” Here Mia, you can play with Mommy’s keys so that forget about the shiner that I just gave you that was an accident. Oops. Forgot my purse. It was an accident. Close the van door. Up the front steps. Pass a groggy husband who says, “Who is in the car with our kids?” “No one, why?” And then it hits me. Beep beep goes the key fab. Kids are locked in the van, the fate of our morning left up to curious little one-year-old fingers and two parents playing charades outside the van window. “Push the button baby. That one, right there. That’s it push push.” Oops. She dropped the keys. It was an accident. Enter tears. Mommy stop crying and call AAA. “Help, I’ve locked my keys in the car along with my one and my two year old. No, I will not hold while you transfer me for the FOURTH TIME!” Ten minutes, $140, and one Thor-look-a-like-pop-a-locksmith later, we’re on our way to Chic Fil A. I guess we’ll be sharing an order of chicken minis after how much that little accident cost us.

Sounds like a case of the Mondays!


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