It was thirty degrees or so. Father and Husband were looking under the hood of the car, trying to figure out how to change a headlight bulb. Fletcher, almost two years old, a bit tired, running around the driveway, with pink-eye. I was waiting to be able to drive the car so Fletcher and I could go to the pharmacy to get something for the pink-eye.
So, Fletcher wanted in the car. I thought that was a great idea. Into the car seat she went. Then she saw my keys. She wanted my keys. I gave her my keys. Then I closed the car door.
No way did that just happen. Fletcher locked the car. Shit.
Shit shit shit.
She's got the only key. Inside the car. The locked car.
We pled with her "Fletcher, push the button again! Please, won't you push the button? No the other button! Please. . . " And then she dropped the keys on the car floor.
Then promptly fell asleep.
In a small town, when you lock a child in the car (BAD MOTHER), the cops come. Like six cops came, because they had nothing better to do, I guess. First they tried those long flat pieces of metal that you shove in by the window to unlock the door (Slim Jim), but those didn't work. Then they got this fancy new set of tools that includes a wedge, a thing that looks like a blood pressure cuff, and a long bendable metal pole. But the cops, bless their darling redneck souls, didn't have a deft hand among them.
Finally, about an hour after this all began, a locksmith came. And Fletcher woke up. He tried all the same tools, none of which worked, then pulled out one last tool. Fletcher was crying now. The Wonder Tool eventually worked wonders. The cops finally left, and the locksmith wouldn't take our money, instead just wishing us a Merry Christmas.
Merry Christmas to you too.