Sock Feet on a Cold November Evening Is Not a Big Deal
Shawn and I bought a new car, but that is not what this post is about. We rearranged our very small garage because suddenly it seemed so spacious with a little car instead of a minivan. We stored the summer tires in the garage, hung his commuter bike from a shelving unit and put some cleaning supplies by the side wall. All this and we still have room to walk in and out of the garage.
The other day Scarlett wanted to come inside: this is the story. Instead of coming in through the very open, very unlocked, arguably spacious side garage door, she opted to knock on the locked front door. The dog started barking. She kept knocking. Malcolm, who was close to the front door but does not have the height required to turn the deadbolt nor the initiative to get up from a lounging position, started yelling "Its locked, Gargett*!" She kept knocking. The dog was going berserk.
Since I was much closer to the garage door, I went to call to her through the garage door. Also: I was not feeling generous and did not want to give in to her whims. Of course, with the dog and the toddler yelling and her being so focussed on literally knocking down the door, she did not hear me. This is how I ended up on our walkway on a dark November evening in sock feet. I was unimpressed and I told her as much. Twice. Sternly.
It wasn't a patient positive parenting moment but as we walked in through the garage, in my head I was gloating a little because I had not given in and she clearly understood that she had inconvenienced the family.
That's when life -- a.k.a. Shawn's commuter bike handle -- sucker punched me in the eyeball.
It's November: the garage was black, the handle was black and apparently so is my heart. Karma stepped in and reminded that little girls don't need to be guilted over knocking on doors. We went inside. I apologized, she apologized, found a plastic teething toy in the back of the freezer for the eye, and moved on with our night.
Life made me wear my reminder to work for two days. The moral of the story is don't hang commuter bikes near pathways in your garage. Just kidding. Don't be a jerk to six-year-olds.
* Thats how he says Scarlett.
The other day Scarlett wanted to come inside: this is the story. Instead of coming in through the very open, very unlocked, arguably spacious side garage door, she opted to knock on the locked front door. The dog started barking. She kept knocking. Malcolm, who was close to the front door but does not have the height required to turn the deadbolt nor the initiative to get up from a lounging position, started yelling "Its locked, Gargett*!" She kept knocking. The dog was going berserk.
Since I was much closer to the garage door, I went to call to her through the garage door. Also: I was not feeling generous and did not want to give in to her whims. Of course, with the dog and the toddler yelling and her being so focussed on literally knocking down the door, she did not hear me. This is how I ended up on our walkway on a dark November evening in sock feet. I was unimpressed and I told her as much. Twice. Sternly.
It wasn't a patient positive parenting moment but as we walked in through the garage, in my head I was gloating a little because I had not given in and she clearly understood that she had inconvenienced the family.
That's when life -- a.k.a. Shawn's commuter bike handle -- sucker punched me in the eyeball.
It's November: the garage was black, the handle was black and apparently so is my heart. Karma stepped in and reminded that little girls don't need to be guilted over knocking on doors. We went inside. I apologized, she apologized, found a plastic teething toy in the back of the freezer for the eye, and moved on with our night.
Life made me wear my reminder to work for two days. The moral of the story is don't hang commuter bikes near pathways in your garage. Just kidding. Don't be a jerk to six-year-olds.
* Thats how he says Scarlett.
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