(Warning: This post contains snark. And plenty of self-righteous boasting. Sorry.)
I'm part-time nannying for as many families as I can this summer, which means I'm going to as many interviews as I can.
I like interviews usually. They're fun little games that test your ability to read people and react accordingly in a split second. But these nanny interviews are getting old. This week I went to one that left me fuming. So I thought I'd rescript it, and the nanny interview in general, the way I wish it could have gone.
First, I walk into a gorgeous suburban mansion with a view of a private pond draped in weeping willows. Three people live here, and one of them is only six months old. I remember my family's house when I was growing up, how even closets and bathrooms became bedrooms or music practice rooms. I count three pack n' plays here, with a full changing station in each one.
Then the interview begins:
The Mom: Describe your qualifications.
What I Want To Say: How about you describe /your/ qualifications. Because I've been caring for children for 15 years, and you look like you just started six months ago.
Of course I really say something about being a certified teacher and studying early childhood development in college and participating in foster care for 10 years.
Which leads to some confusion in these parts:
TM: Foster care? What's that?
WIWTS: Seriously?
TM (after I /actually/ explain): That's really interesting! It sounds kind of like a foreign exchange program.
WIWTS: It's /exactly/ like a foreign exchange program. That is, if your foreign exchange student was born only a few miles from you and is now an underfed three-month-old who has 15 fractures in her body because her teenage father slammed her legs into a table when she wouldn't stop crying and now she's being returned to her birth family way too soon because the system is overloaded with too many children. Then it'd be just the same.
TM: My child can get fussy sometime.
WIWTS: Trust me, I can handle it. Your child is easy. No broken bones. No fetal alcohol syndrome. No drug withdrawal. Not premature. No attachment disorder. No sensory processing disorder. Easy peasy.
TM: If you took my toddler twins to the park I would want to come with you because sometimes they run in opposite directions
WIWTS: In high school I routinely fed a baby and watched a toddler while I taught myself a math lesson. In college I worked at a daycare where I cared for 10 two-year-olds. After college I watched 25 eight-year-olds all day every day for two years. I'm pretty sure I can handle two children at a playground.
TM: What other services do you offer?
WIWTS: I can tell by looking at your child exactly where he is developmentally. I can burp a baby without hurting his broken ribs. I know when and how to introduce solids, which ones to introduce first and how to make sure no allergies exist. I can teach your child to read in both English and Spanish. I can potty train. I know where in Piaget's four stages your child is and can introduce activities that are higher in Bloom's Taxonomy. I can talk intelligently with your child's therapist. I can change lots of diapers really fast too.
Of course I don't say any of that stuff, because I want as many jobs as I can get and I need the money. But someday when I'm rich and famous and can afford to be insufferably know-it-all, I may just go on a nanny interview and say exactly what I want to say.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Monday, June 25, 2012
Chicago Week 4: Never such devoted sisters
I've got some good friends. In high school it was these two. We were ridiculously studious, but we still found time (usually at 6 a.m.) to watch Jane Austin movies and talk and read books together.
In college there was a whole crew. We ate every meal together and studied for finals together and went on kayaking trips and hiked West Texas mountains. Some of them still know me better than I know myself.
Then a few years later, when I thought good friends couldn't exist after college, I moved to Mexico and met this group of women. Even though we only spent one year together we grew close and I still miss them.
And now here I am in grad school, and every semester I meet more lovely people who help me become a better person and provide plenty of opportunities for parties and mud races and all sorts of great times.
I couldn't be more grateful for all the friends I've accumulated, and I try to hold onto them as best as I can, but the thing I'm realizing more and more is that my three sisters are the people who will be there, no matter what, all the time, forever. They make me who I am. Without any one of them, I would be a different person. They're the best part of my life, the part that makes me absolutely certain that life is worth living.
This week I got to see two of them. #s 2 and 4 were just north of Chicago with the camp they work for, so I visited them as often as I could.
We went to coffee shops and caught up on each other's lives.
We toured my mother's hometown and ate macaroons.
We ate pizza in downtown Chicago.
We talked about August, when we'll all four be together for a whole month. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am. I have three people who grew up with me. They know where I come from and they share so many of my experiences even though we're all four so different. We're spread across the country now, and maybe we will be forever, but when I need someone who instantly understands, I have three numbers I can call. That's pretty incredible.
In college there was a whole crew. We ate every meal together and studied for finals together and went on kayaking trips and hiked West Texas mountains. Some of them still know me better than I know myself.
Then a few years later, when I thought good friends couldn't exist after college, I moved to Mexico and met this group of women. Even though we only spent one year together we grew close and I still miss them.
And now here I am in grad school, and every semester I meet more lovely people who help me become a better person and provide plenty of opportunities for parties and mud races and all sorts of great times.
I couldn't be more grateful for all the friends I've accumulated, and I try to hold onto them as best as I can, but the thing I'm realizing more and more is that my three sisters are the people who will be there, no matter what, all the time, forever. They make me who I am. Without any one of them, I would be a different person. They're the best part of my life, the part that makes me absolutely certain that life is worth living.
This week I got to see two of them. #s 2 and 4 were just north of Chicago with the camp they work for, so I visited them as often as I could.
We went to coffee shops and caught up on each other's lives.
We toured my mother's hometown and ate macaroons.
We ate pizza in downtown Chicago.
We talked about August, when we'll all four be together for a whole month. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am. I have three people who grew up with me. They know where I come from and they share so many of my experiences even though we're all four so different. We're spread across the country now, and maybe we will be forever, but when I need someone who instantly understands, I have three numbers I can call. That's pretty incredible.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Chicago Week 3: Saving the world at Trader Joe's
First of all: I get to shop at Trader Joe's this summer! This is dangerous. I like their gingersnaps and peanut butter cups and maple cookies far too much.
I go to Trader Joe's once a week, and I've been reusing my brown paper bag from my first visit. It makes me feel hip and responsible and conscientious. Sometimes before a trip to the store I get this proud feeling. "I'm saving the world," I think. "Not one more tree is being cut down because of my bagging needs."
But last night as I was falling asleep to these self-congratulatory thoughts, a bit of honest realism slipped in. Really, how much good am I doing? One paper bag? Yeah, world saved.
Don't get me wrong, I love this earth. I've traveled across four continents. I've climbed volcanoes and backpacked over mountains. I've swum in remote coastal towns and rafted down rivers. I want many, many generations to be able to do those things. But I'm afraid that this push towards organic living and environmentalism soothes us into thinking we've done enough.
I saved one paper bag at the store today. That's good and all, but it doesn't help that kid who has lived in so many homes that the word "forever" means "until I'm tired of you." It doesn't help the three-month-old with the broken legs, and it doesn't help her teenage father who can't get clean enough to stop hurting her. It doesn't help the high schooler who commits suicide because of bullying, and it doesn't help the pregnant kid who's getting an abortion because she's afraid of the judgement she'll receive. We like things to be pretty these days. We call children "wards of the state" because "orphan" is too ugly a word. We convince ourselves that if we eat organic food and use colorful cloth bags we've done our part. But I guess what I'm saying is I want my part to be more than that.
I'll keep reusing my old Trader Joe's bag, and I'll buy grass-fed beef and eggs from cage-free chickens while I'm at it. But I hope it doesn't lull me into forgetting all those people who so desperately need someone to do more than drink organic milk.
I go to Trader Joe's once a week, and I've been reusing my brown paper bag from my first visit. It makes me feel hip and responsible and conscientious. Sometimes before a trip to the store I get this proud feeling. "I'm saving the world," I think. "Not one more tree is being cut down because of my bagging needs."
But last night as I was falling asleep to these self-congratulatory thoughts, a bit of honest realism slipped in. Really, how much good am I doing? One paper bag? Yeah, world saved.
Don't get me wrong, I love this earth. I've traveled across four continents. I've climbed volcanoes and backpacked over mountains. I've swum in remote coastal towns and rafted down rivers. I want many, many generations to be able to do those things. But I'm afraid that this push towards organic living and environmentalism soothes us into thinking we've done enough.
I saved one paper bag at the store today. That's good and all, but it doesn't help that kid who has lived in so many homes that the word "forever" means "until I'm tired of you." It doesn't help the three-month-old with the broken legs, and it doesn't help her teenage father who can't get clean enough to stop hurting her. It doesn't help the high schooler who commits suicide because of bullying, and it doesn't help the pregnant kid who's getting an abortion because she's afraid of the judgement she'll receive. We like things to be pretty these days. We call children "wards of the state" because "orphan" is too ugly a word. We convince ourselves that if we eat organic food and use colorful cloth bags we've done our part. But I guess what I'm saying is I want my part to be more than that.
I'll keep reusing my old Trader Joe's bag, and I'll buy grass-fed beef and eggs from cage-free chickens while I'm at it. But I hope it doesn't lull me into forgetting all those people who so desperately need someone to do more than drink organic milk.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Chicago Week 2b: Sunday afternoon hitchhiking
The morning after my terribly unlucky Saturday I had only one mission: retrieve my car from the tow company. The woman at the company had given me directions the night before, and I still had her number in my phone, so I laced on my running shoes (the feet were too blistered from the day before to wear flip flops again) and hit the door. She'd said it was just a mile or two, and while I was pretty sore from the previous day's 15ish miles, I figured I could handle a little walk.
It was another warm day, and I was walking on a highway without a sidewalk. After a mile or so, I began to doubt my directions, so I called the tow company to verify. "You've got a ways to go on Gary," they said. I asked how far. "Quite a while." I started to run through my options:
a) I could keep walking. Except that I was hot and didn't know how far I still had to go.
b) I could get a friend to drive me. Except that I don't know anyone in this town well enough to ask for a favor.
c) I could call a cab. Except that cabs don't just roam the streets in the suburbs and I don't have internet on my phone.
d) I could stick my thumb out and see what happened.
I went with option d. Time to see how friendly these Illinoisians are, I thought. (Note to any concerned readers: I'm not usually a hitch-hiker, but this was in a quiet suburban town right as church was getting out on Sunday afternoon. Pretty safe.) I waited through a few cycles of lights, and I felt pretty silly standing on the corner with my thumb out. Finally, though, a window rolled down and an sweet-looking elderly couple asked where I was going.
I climbed in the back seat. The old man driving the car told me to move his oxygen tank so that I'd have enough leg room. His wife offered me cotton candy and said she'd gotten it at church. They'd just gotten out of the Presbyterian service and we talked about that for a few minutes. I asked them if they could just take me as far as they were going, but they said they were in no rush and they'd take me as far as I needed to go. I said I thought it was just a few miles down Gary Ave.
We drove a few miles but we couldn't find the street. "We need to call for directions," said the woman, and her husband said just wait a little longer. Eventually he gave in and we called; they said we still had a ways to go. "You couldn't have walked all this way!" said the lady. And we kept driving.
We talked about how awful it is to have your car towed and where they were from and what a hot day it was. After six or seven miles we finally found our turn. I told them to drop me off there and they wouldn't hear of it. "There are dangerous people out," said the woman. A few more miles and we finally made it to the tow lot. The drive was nine miles in all, NOT one or two like the lady on the phone had said the night before. They wouldn't let me pay them for gas, so I just thanked them and said I didn't know how I would have made it walking on my own, and they said they were glad they'd seen me.
I'd called for directions so many times that they knew me at the tow lot. "Are you the Gary lady?" they asked when I walked in. I paid my bill and we joked around a little bit and told each other to have a good day. Because after you've accepted a nine-mile ride from kindhearted strangers it's pretty easy to be nice to even tow-company employees.
It was another warm day, and I was walking on a highway without a sidewalk. After a mile or so, I began to doubt my directions, so I called the tow company to verify. "You've got a ways to go on Gary," they said. I asked how far. "Quite a while." I started to run through my options:
a) I could keep walking. Except that I was hot and didn't know how far I still had to go.
b) I could get a friend to drive me. Except that I don't know anyone in this town well enough to ask for a favor.
c) I could call a cab. Except that cabs don't just roam the streets in the suburbs and I don't have internet on my phone.
d) I could stick my thumb out and see what happened.
I went with option d. Time to see how friendly these Illinoisians are, I thought. (Note to any concerned readers: I'm not usually a hitch-hiker, but this was in a quiet suburban town right as church was getting out on Sunday afternoon. Pretty safe.) I waited through a few cycles of lights, and I felt pretty silly standing on the corner with my thumb out. Finally, though, a window rolled down and an sweet-looking elderly couple asked where I was going.
I climbed in the back seat. The old man driving the car told me to move his oxygen tank so that I'd have enough leg room. His wife offered me cotton candy and said she'd gotten it at church. They'd just gotten out of the Presbyterian service and we talked about that for a few minutes. I asked them if they could just take me as far as they were going, but they said they were in no rush and they'd take me as far as I needed to go. I said I thought it was just a few miles down Gary Ave.
We drove a few miles but we couldn't find the street. "We need to call for directions," said the woman, and her husband said just wait a little longer. Eventually he gave in and we called; they said we still had a ways to go. "You couldn't have walked all this way!" said the lady. And we kept driving.
We talked about how awful it is to have your car towed and where they were from and what a hot day it was. After six or seven miles we finally found our turn. I told them to drop me off there and they wouldn't hear of it. "There are dangerous people out," said the woman. A few more miles and we finally made it to the tow lot. The drive was nine miles in all, NOT one or two like the lady on the phone had said the night before. They wouldn't let me pay them for gas, so I just thanked them and said I didn't know how I would have made it walking on my own, and they said they were glad they'd seen me.
I'd called for directions so many times that they knew me at the tow lot. "Are you the Gary lady?" they asked when I walked in. I paid my bill and we joked around a little bit and told each other to have a good day. Because after you've accepted a nine-mile ride from kindhearted strangers it's pretty easy to be nice to even tow-company employees.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Chicago Week 2a: Sore feet, drunk trains, and towed cars
I've got pretty good luck when it comes to traveling. I'm laid back and I don't worry about leaving on time, and I pretty much just try to have fun and things mostly work out. Every now and then I've gotta pay the ferryman, though.
I started my Saturday with an eight-mile run in the mid-morning sun, which left me sore and headachy. But I wasn't going to let that ruin the weekend, because I had good plans downtown: Printers Row Lit Fest and Chicago Blues Fest. It was gonna be a bang-up time.
I live in a suburb, and the trains into the city come and go every two hours. I was running late for the two pm train, so I decided to drive to the station, even though it's just a mile away. Then I was still running late, so I had to find a place to park fast. The website said there was free parking, so I found a place and ran to the station and got there right as the train was pulling up.
My day in the city was fantastic. Lit Fest was an outdoor book fair with stand after stand of used books in a street lined with old bookshops and wine stores.
And Blues Fest was probably the biggest free festival I've ever seen, with several stages and crowds of people dancing and enjoying Chicago blues.
I walked around the city a bunch too. This is my first time in Chicago in the summer, and I kind of love it.
It was a tiring day, though. The temperatures were in the 90s, and I was walking a lot, so I planned on making the 8:40 train and being in bed by 10. It was a long walk, and I got a bit turned around. I ran some of it and got distracted for some of it. I thought I'd make it just in time, like I usually do, but I got to the station just as my train was pulling out. The next train wasn't till 10:40. My feet were sore and blistery and I was ready to be done for the day, so I stayed near the station and read.
The station was empty when I got there, but by the time the train left, it was full of drunk people. I was exhausted and just wanted to sleep. My head was hurting, my feet were sore. But country music was blaring from someone's rinky-dink little stereo, a crowd of college-age boys was parading through the cars cheering, and someone in the car over was playing a kazoo. The ride was long; we kept stopping so that security could kick people off. A guard would run through the train chasing someone, and the man behind me would slur out to the whole car, "That's why they don't let alcohol on the train!" or "Enjoy your handcuffs!" and then at the next stop we'd do the whole thing again.
I finally got to my stop sometime after midnight. I was so tired I couldn't think, and the fun of the day was pretty much forgotten in my desire to sleep. But when I walked to my car it wasn't there, and my trip to the city suddenly became very expensive. I called the tow company and they said that the lot I'd thought was train station parking was a restaurant's private lot and I'd have to come get my car where it was being held two miles away.
Two miles isn't that far, I guess, but I was tired and limping and I'd already run/walked about 14 miles since that morning run, and I just wanted to sleep. So I told them I'd get it in the morning, and I limped the mile back to my house.
Except my night still wasn't over, because once I got there the house was all locked up, and I don't have a spare key. This happened to me once before and I just slept in my car, but this time I didn't have a car. I banged on the door for a while until someone finally answered, and then I apologized for waking her up and went to sleep, quite relieved that the day was over.
I started my Saturday with an eight-mile run in the mid-morning sun, which left me sore and headachy. But I wasn't going to let that ruin the weekend, because I had good plans downtown: Printers Row Lit Fest and Chicago Blues Fest. It was gonna be a bang-up time.
I live in a suburb, and the trains into the city come and go every two hours. I was running late for the two pm train, so I decided to drive to the station, even though it's just a mile away. Then I was still running late, so I had to find a place to park fast. The website said there was free parking, so I found a place and ran to the station and got there right as the train was pulling up.
My day in the city was fantastic. Lit Fest was an outdoor book fair with stand after stand of used books in a street lined with old bookshops and wine stores.
And Blues Fest was probably the biggest free festival I've ever seen, with several stages and crowds of people dancing and enjoying Chicago blues.
I walked around the city a bunch too. This is my first time in Chicago in the summer, and I kind of love it.
It was a tiring day, though. The temperatures were in the 90s, and I was walking a lot, so I planned on making the 8:40 train and being in bed by 10. It was a long walk, and I got a bit turned around. I ran some of it and got distracted for some of it. I thought I'd make it just in time, like I usually do, but I got to the station just as my train was pulling out. The next train wasn't till 10:40. My feet were sore and blistery and I was ready to be done for the day, so I stayed near the station and read.
The station was empty when I got there, but by the time the train left, it was full of drunk people. I was exhausted and just wanted to sleep. My head was hurting, my feet were sore. But country music was blaring from someone's rinky-dink little stereo, a crowd of college-age boys was parading through the cars cheering, and someone in the car over was playing a kazoo. The ride was long; we kept stopping so that security could kick people off. A guard would run through the train chasing someone, and the man behind me would slur out to the whole car, "That's why they don't let alcohol on the train!" or "Enjoy your handcuffs!" and then at the next stop we'd do the whole thing again.
I finally got to my stop sometime after midnight. I was so tired I couldn't think, and the fun of the day was pretty much forgotten in my desire to sleep. But when I walked to my car it wasn't there, and my trip to the city suddenly became very expensive. I called the tow company and they said that the lot I'd thought was train station parking was a restaurant's private lot and I'd have to come get my car where it was being held two miles away.
Two miles isn't that far, I guess, but I was tired and limping and I'd already run/walked about 14 miles since that morning run, and I just wanted to sleep. So I told them I'd get it in the morning, and I limped the mile back to my house.
Except my night still wasn't over, because once I got there the house was all locked up, and I don't have a spare key. This happened to me once before and I just slept in my car, but this time I didn't have a car. I banged on the door for a while until someone finally answered, and then I apologized for waking her up and went to sleep, quite relieved that the day was over.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Chicago Week 1: Sister #3
I had one weekend with #3. Our time together is always so short, but we fit a lot in. We drank wine and listened to music and ate out several times and had long conversations about dreams and faith and life and cheese. She wrote a couple of blog posts about our weekend:
Friday
Sunday
I'm pretty fond of my sisters. Even though we see each other less and less as we grow older I'm glad we get these occasional weekends together.
Friday
Sunday
I'm pretty fond of my sisters. Even though we see each other less and less as we grow older I'm glad we get these occasional weekends together.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
We all scream
Sister #4 and I have built our relationship almost exclusively around ice cream. Braum's ice cream, to be specific. It started my first year out of undergrad when I was miserable and she was 16. We went to Braum's every Friday afternoon, and whoever was having a better week bought a cone for the other, and we mostly sat and recovered, but sometimes we talked. And somehow that year she changed from my baby sister to my friend.
Since that year we've used Braum's dates to kick off any sort of change in our lives. The night before I moved to Mexico we went to Braum's and both cried. She was really the only thing I cared much about leaving. The night before she moved away to college she went to Braum's alone but bought me a sundae and texted me to come eat it in the car with her where we could talk.
So last night when she wanted Braum's, even though I'd already had ice cream that day, I didn't have to think of my answer. In a few weeks she'll be packing up to work at a camp all summer, and today I am moving to Chicago for a couple months. Sure, these aren't huge transitions, but life will be different until August, and any change, whether big or small, needs ice cream. So we bought sundaes, and we took them home and sat on the floor and watched American Idol and talked. We talked about the summer and what we hoped would happen, but we also talked about ice cream, about all the memories we have of eating it together. Sure, maybe we'll be diabetic one day, but I'd say it's worth it.
Since that year we've used Braum's dates to kick off any sort of change in our lives. The night before I moved to Mexico we went to Braum's and both cried. She was really the only thing I cared much about leaving. The night before she moved away to college she went to Braum's alone but bought me a sundae and texted me to come eat it in the car with her where we could talk.
So last night when she wanted Braum's, even though I'd already had ice cream that day, I didn't have to think of my answer. In a few weeks she'll be packing up to work at a camp all summer, and today I am moving to Chicago for a couple months. Sure, these aren't huge transitions, but life will be different until August, and any change, whether big or small, needs ice cream. So we bought sundaes, and we took them home and sat on the floor and watched American Idol and talked. We talked about the summer and what we hoped would happen, but we also talked about ice cream, about all the memories we have of eating it together. Sure, maybe we'll be diabetic one day, but I'd say it's worth it.
Monday, February 6, 2012
The chip "game"
I always hated the quiet game as a kid. Such thinly veiled manipulation was an insult to my intelligence. But now I'm all grown up, and here I am insulting kids' intelligence with my own version of the quiet game.
Except my game is vastly superior to the quiet game. It started when I was student teaching back in college and my mentor teacher would put a few cheerios on her students' desks and allow them to eat one when they were quiet. Surprisingly, it worked. Turns out kids will do a lot to be allowed to eat food that's sitting right in front of them.
Last summer sisters #2 and 4 and I took the four Littles to the beach for a week. The young crew is new to road tripping, so we had a few unpleasant moments in the car. That's when I brought back the food game, except this time I didn't have cheerios, so I gave each one of them one chip, and every minute or so I'd tell a kid he or she could eat a bite. They'd take small bites to make their chips last longer, and we had a good hour of silence in that minivan. Brilliant. It shouldn't work, but it does.
So last weekend during a six-hour drive in a packed minivan, when the kids were getting way too fussy for my own good, I asked them if they wanted to play the chip game.
They were ecstatic.
I mean, when else can you take tightly regulated bites of a food item you would ordinarily be given freely?
So I handed them each a Pringle, and they were happy. And the car was quiet.
Then they realized their chips were running out, so they decided to break them up into small bites so they wouldn't accidentally eat too much.
With two minutes of silence per bite, that's an awful lot of silence right there. Brilliant.
Of course, the game does have a downside: namely, that the Chip Game Officiator has to say, "You can take a bite" every minute or two. So no sleeping, or reading, or deep conversations, or any other meaningful activity. But sometimes silence is worth the sacrifice.
Except my game is vastly superior to the quiet game. It started when I was student teaching back in college and my mentor teacher would put a few cheerios on her students' desks and allow them to eat one when they were quiet. Surprisingly, it worked. Turns out kids will do a lot to be allowed to eat food that's sitting right in front of them.
Last summer sisters #2 and 4 and I took the four Littles to the beach for a week. The young crew is new to road tripping, so we had a few unpleasant moments in the car. That's when I brought back the food game, except this time I didn't have cheerios, so I gave each one of them one chip, and every minute or so I'd tell a kid he or she could eat a bite. They'd take small bites to make their chips last longer, and we had a good hour of silence in that minivan. Brilliant. It shouldn't work, but it does.
So last weekend during a six-hour drive in a packed minivan, when the kids were getting way too fussy for my own good, I asked them if they wanted to play the chip game.
They were ecstatic.
I mean, when else can you take tightly regulated bites of a food item you would ordinarily be given freely?
So I handed them each a Pringle, and they were happy. And the car was quiet.
Then they realized their chips were running out, so they decided to break them up into small bites so they wouldn't accidentally eat too much.
With two minutes of silence per bite, that's an awful lot of silence right there. Brilliant.
Of course, the game does have a downside: namely, that the Chip Game Officiator has to say, "You can take a bite" every minute or two. So no sleeping, or reading, or deep conversations, or any other meaningful activity. But sometimes silence is worth the sacrifice.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Holidays' end
New Year's Eve was perfect, everything a New Year's Eve should be. There were sisters and friends and champagne and sparklers and midnight kisses all around. Then my sisters and I headed back to my apartment in Denton to sleep for a few hours before getting up to take #3 to the airport at 8 a.m.
We managed to wake up. It wasn't nearly enough sleep, and we all smelled like campfire, and some were still a bit dizzy, but we got up and loaded the car and even had about three minutes to spare. Then I asked #3 to bring up my keys so I could lock my 2nd-story apartment, and she asked if she could just toss them up, and I said OK, and so she did.
And they landed on the roof.
Neither one of us reacted. We didn't laugh or scream or cry or moan or anything. We just stared at each other. Then a choice word came out of my little sister's mouth and we went into oh-no mode. Keys stuck on the roof, spare car key at our parents' house in Dallas, no one to drive us anywhere, flight in under 2 hours.
Our options were tremendously limited. I brought out a broomstick, but it didn't come close to hooking over the edge of the roof. Number 4 stood down by the car and told us the keys were near the edge and that if we could just get onto the roof we could get them easily, but we had no ladder, and this roof wasn't exactly designed for easy accessibility.
I called the apartment office, but it was closed at 8 a.m. on New Year's. Go figure. Then I called a tow truck, which didn't make much sense, but that's who you usually call when you can't drive your car, right? "Our keys are stuck on the roof and we need a ladder to get them down. Do you offer that service?" I asked. "No ma'am, we don't," said a very cross tow-truck man.
After that I called a couple grad school friends, hoping that all of them had their phones off and wouldn't be disturbed, but also wanting to prove to my sister that I would go to any lengths to get her to her flight in time. No one picked up. A certain sister who shall remain numberless suggested we stand on each other's shoulders to try to hoist one sister onto the roof. That idea got vetoed pretty quickly. Not really a Sydney Bristow among us. Plus, changing a flight seemed much preferable to calling an ambulance. And all the while a neighbor from across the parking lot sat on his balcony watching and shaking his head.
After about 45 minutes we finally reached the acceptance stage of our morning. Those keys were just not coming down until the world woke up. Number 2 went inside to go back to sleep, and #4 and I sat in the apartment and wondered again what just happened. Number 3 went walking around the complex in what I assumed was frustration.
Then I heard scraping on my roof. Turns out she'd found one of those 20-foot pool nets by the empty apartment pool and had lugged it back to my place. It didn't quite reach the keys, but it came close. Then the neighbor who'd been annoying us by his careful observance all morning came over bearing some sort of child's toy, which he duct taped to the end of the pool net. Since he was stronger he maneuvered the contraption while we stood in the parking lot and guided him. "Yes, you're almost there! Just an inch away!" "You touched them for a second; go back!" Hopefully we didn't wake any neighbors with our cheerleading. After a few minutes the keys fell to the ground.
We drove fast, and when we pulled into the airport terminal #3 hopped out and ran to check in without any farewell hugs. She made her flight, though. And thus ended our holiday reunion.
We managed to wake up. It wasn't nearly enough sleep, and we all smelled like campfire, and some were still a bit dizzy, but we got up and loaded the car and even had about three minutes to spare. Then I asked #3 to bring up my keys so I could lock my 2nd-story apartment, and she asked if she could just toss them up, and I said OK, and so she did.
And they landed on the roof.
Neither one of us reacted. We didn't laugh or scream or cry or moan or anything. We just stared at each other. Then a choice word came out of my little sister's mouth and we went into oh-no mode. Keys stuck on the roof, spare car key at our parents' house in Dallas, no one to drive us anywhere, flight in under 2 hours.
Our options were tremendously limited. I brought out a broomstick, but it didn't come close to hooking over the edge of the roof. Number 4 stood down by the car and told us the keys were near the edge and that if we could just get onto the roof we could get them easily, but we had no ladder, and this roof wasn't exactly designed for easy accessibility.
I called the apartment office, but it was closed at 8 a.m. on New Year's. Go figure. Then I called a tow truck, which didn't make much sense, but that's who you usually call when you can't drive your car, right? "Our keys are stuck on the roof and we need a ladder to get them down. Do you offer that service?" I asked. "No ma'am, we don't," said a very cross tow-truck man.
After that I called a couple grad school friends, hoping that all of them had their phones off and wouldn't be disturbed, but also wanting to prove to my sister that I would go to any lengths to get her to her flight in time. No one picked up. A certain sister who shall remain numberless suggested we stand on each other's shoulders to try to hoist one sister onto the roof. That idea got vetoed pretty quickly. Not really a Sydney Bristow among us. Plus, changing a flight seemed much preferable to calling an ambulance. And all the while a neighbor from across the parking lot sat on his balcony watching and shaking his head.
After about 45 minutes we finally reached the acceptance stage of our morning. Those keys were just not coming down until the world woke up. Number 2 went inside to go back to sleep, and #4 and I sat in the apartment and wondered again what just happened. Number 3 went walking around the complex in what I assumed was frustration.
Then I heard scraping on my roof. Turns out she'd found one of those 20-foot pool nets by the empty apartment pool and had lugged it back to my place. It didn't quite reach the keys, but it came close. Then the neighbor who'd been annoying us by his careful observance all morning came over bearing some sort of child's toy, which he duct taped to the end of the pool net. Since he was stronger he maneuvered the contraption while we stood in the parking lot and guided him. "Yes, you're almost there! Just an inch away!" "You touched them for a second; go back!" Hopefully we didn't wake any neighbors with our cheerleading. After a few minutes the keys fell to the ground.
We drove fast, and when we pulled into the airport terminal #3 hopped out and ran to check in without any farewell hugs. She made her flight, though. And thus ended our holiday reunion.
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