“I locked the keys in the truck and the other set is lost and I haven’t even seen them for at least a week so I can’t even ask anyone to bring me the spare set because they are probably in a coat pocket or one of your church suits or somewhere that I don’t even know and both of the van keys are in there in my purse too so even if I have someone come pick us up and take us home I’ll be stuck without a car and I’m supposed to pick up all these kids from school today that I don’t normally even pick up and Daisy has piano she needs to go to and it’s already way past Anders’ nap and we’re stuck here and I don’t even know what to do and if the car stays in this spot for more than two hours we’ll get a ticket and I’m so frustrated because I know if you were here you could get it open with even just a hanger but you’re not here and I don’t have a hanger and don’t even know how if I did have one and the keys are in there in my purse and it’s cold.”
That pretty much sums up the slightly hysterical, voice cracking with ever-threatening-tears phone call that Mike received this afternoon at work . . . from me. I know I didn’t punctuate any of it, but I don’t think I allowed room for punctuation in my rambling, all-is-lost call for help either.
Sometimes I’m pretty strong – handling and juggling, balancing and figuring, not asking for or needing help; but other times, . . . I don’t want to balance and figure or juggle and handle. I just want to to sit down, put my face in my hands, sniffle in a wholly helpless and unreasonable way and just have things fixed. I just want to be taken care of. . . . I just want to call Mike.
And, as usual, when I do, he remedies the situation for me.
Here the boys are, sentenced to the truck-bed (to keep them from running off or running into the road), while we waited for the locksmith that Mike called to come find us.
It’s nice to have Mike. It’s nice to have someone who will come to the rescue when I’m feeling less “warrior woman”ish and more “damsel-in-distress”ish.
Another thing that is nice to have? Anders. Anders in helmets (or “helmiks” as he calls them). He has them on . . . a lot. And sometimes, when it’s Goldie’s old, Li’l Strawberry Sheriff bike helmet, we are only allowed to call him “Sheriff”.
“I’m not Anders! I’m Sheriff!”