I was busy working the payroll deadline at work last month when I grabbed the phone, groaning out loud as I saw the name on the caller ID. It was my 13-year-old, and I could already guess what she had to say.
“Mom! I’m locked out of the house… Again!” she huffed, without even a “hello.”
I could practically see the eye-roll through the phone. The fact that she was locked out was somehow the fault of her dad and me rather than her own for always forgetting her keys. This type of phone call was becoming a regular occurrence. We’d even gotten one of those outdoor hide-a-keys, now locked inside somewhere, along with her own.
“Sorry, dear-heart,” I said. “I can’t leave right now, so you’ll just have to sit tight.
“Can you go to Jessica’s?” Nope.
“I’ll just sit in dad’s truck and do homework until you get home. It’s open,” she helpfully offered.
Feeling slightly guilty as it was a chilly 40-degrees out – this was April in Utah, after all – I went back to work. At 5:00pm, I sprinted out the door and rushed through my long drive home. Pulling into the driveway, I expected to see her huddled form in the front seat of the truck.
Come to think of it, I expected to see the truck…
“Where IS the truck?” my tired brain queried. I walked around the side of our travel trailer, thinking maybe Tom had moved it to where I couldn’t see it.
Huhhh. Not there either.
Just as I was walking back around to the front, the S-10 came cruising into the driveway, Savannah at the helm.
Ahhh… mystery of the truck’s whereabouts solved, but my blood was instantly boiling.
“Mom! Have you seen Annie?!!!” she asked in an obviously well-rehearsed “panic” mode, as she leapt from the truck. “I can’t find her anywhere!!”
“Uh-huh… And just HOW do you know the dog is missing if YOU’VE been locked out of the house?” I asked.
Thus ensued a long, totally unbelievable spiel about how she knocked and knocked on the front window without Annie responding. By this point I had already taken away both her phone and iPod (oh, the horror!), and unlocked the front door myself, greeted, of course, by the dogs.
Channeling my mother’s steely voice, along with the debilitating death stare that’s a specialty of the women in our family, I sent her to her room.
After I had calmed down a bit, I called my mom for a little sympathy. After all, this was supposed to be my easy child and, so far, her teenage years have been anything but. Mom is always the first to tell me what a good kid I had been, and swears that she never pronounced the mother’s curse on me. Finishing my story, I got laughter instead of the commiseration I had expected.
“Tracy, remember the Buick?!”
Well played, mom. Well played… 😉
I’m back over at “Yeah Write” this week. Feel free to click the link above if you’d like to drop by and check out the other entries.