Let me paint a picture for you. It’s a Thursday. I have a shitty day at the office that starts stupid early and begins with my eldest not really wanting to let me out the door (and I really don’t want to leave either).
Terrible day, so I want to brighten it up. You know how it is right ladies? So I call the hubs, who has the boys for the day: “hey, let’s meet at the beach – you bring the toys for the boys and I’ll bring a picnic.” Why not right? Flash forward, my little family and I are loving the time at the beach. I’ve forgotten all about getting cut off on the highway and almost ending up in the lake, getting reamed out by a very important contact with work, dealing with a myriad of technical issues all day with my internet service provider, and oh yeah – did I mention? We’re on day 4 with little or no sleep the previous nights because both boys are struggling to sleep through right now. Mama’s got nothing left in the tank so this outing is really important to her mental health. Fuck it: what I really want to say is that it is absolutely imperative that we go to the beach for two hours that evening, get home with little or no protests from mister terrible twos, and get everyone in bed in time for a glass of wine before I fall asleep sitting on the couch.
It’s precisely when I’m admiring my little people and my husband so expertly finessing the parenting role when I realize (we have two cars at the beach because we met there, remember?) I CANNOT find the car key to the one car. The temporarily borrowed one. The one I borrowed from my MIL for a few days. Yep, it’s nowhere. We’re at a beach. My hubby specifically put it in the stroller cubby that CLOSES so that his knob wife wouldn’t lose it (I lose everything, and fall a lot – more on that in future posts).
Commence epic beach search and all the FUCK MY LIFEs you can imagine a person carefully whispering under her breath so that her toddler doesn’t repeat the next day at Montessori.
Flash forward again. Mama has flipped the giant, chained-to-a-tree park-size garbage can on its side and is RUMMAGING THROUGH THAT SHIT. No gloves, just balls-out rummaging through God knows what, dirty, stinky covered in shit-flies trash that has collected over who knows how many days. Quite the spectacle, so the hubby says. I am sure I saw needles in there. Moldy something, maybe crackers. About 4 poopy diapers. At least one human head.
Before the trash-hunting began, every other square inch of the giant park and beach was searched. Baby is getting tired, mama is FUMING and daddy, well, let’s just say mama has told daddy to not let her little guys see her like this UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE.
Just as this gal is going to run into the lake and hope a current catches her (yeah right), a really nice stranger and his partner approach. “You looking for this?” It’s the goddamn key, he picked up from a spot that mama looked at 100 times. “Yup, thanks, ha ha yeah normally I don’t dumpster dive.”
I love kind strangers. I hate being that guy who loses stuff.