It was date night.
The sitter had arrived. I’d flown in from work, changed into my “hot” jeans, spritzed on some body spray, poofed my hair and prepared for lift off.
Without saying goodbye to Colt, Todd and I snuck out of the house. Tiptoeing. Like the cold, heartless parents we are.
Is it selfish to want to avoid the cry fest that ensues when Mommy and Daddy leave? The quivering chin. The look of sheer panic. The tiny little arms reaching out in desperation?
I can’t take it. So I sneak out.
I am certain this is more traumatizing to Colt than explaining that Mommy and Daddy are leaving, but we’ll be back soon, yada yada…And yet, we continue. To sneak.
Todd and I pulled out of the apartment complex and drove toward the restaurant to meet our friends.
A few feet down the road, the gas tank fell empty.
Todd pulled into a Shell Station. As we approached the pump, I noticed some greasy guys hocking their wares.
Was it the windshield wiper fluid or the headlight cleaner?
Regardless, I grabbed Todd’s arm and pled with him to to keep driving. “Don’t stop here! The gypsies’ll attack us. We don’t have time for this, we’re on the clock!!!” I said.
“I’ll handle it,” Todd said.
Oh right. For someone who has fought in a World War…
Thirty seconds into pumping and sure enough…. here come the gypsies.
Two guys in chincy suits and bad ties.
“How’s it goin’ man?” the first guy asked Todd. His protege watched on.
“I’m good man. I don’t need anything. Thanks though,” Todd replied.
“You don’t need any what?” The guy asked. “You don’t even know what I’m selling.”
(Ok right here, I could’ve strung this guy up by his wiry little goatee.)
Todd just laughed and said, “I don’t need any of whatever you’re selling.”
“Seriously?” The guy scoffed. “Dude. You don’t even know why I’m here.”
I’d had enough. I may have been wearing pearls, but I was ready to kick this guy’s ass.
I leapt out of the passenger side and walked toward the gas station. Enraged, I planned to tell the manager how NOBODY LIKES TO BE HARASSED WHILE THEY’RE PUMPING GAS…when…
I felt a cool breeze…down. below.
I turned around to look at my….what the….
I ran back to the car. Was I leaking?
I looked down at my seat, and there lay an empty Capri Sun.
I wasn’t sure whether to blame my 2-year-old son, or my 28-year-old husband (equally as excitable about Capri Suns, goldfish and fruit snacks).
Maybe I should be more concerned about the fact that I sat on an object that large and didn’t feel it?
Todd capped the tank off at $20 and got inside the car.
Through clenched teeth, I asked him to drive me home, so I could change my pants.
Oh no, he said… we’re on the clock, and the babysitter is $10 an hour. We’re not going home. “It’ll dry,” he said.
Pouting, I hoisted my rear up toward the air vent.
Are we so desperate for a night out that we’re willing to traumatize our child, confront gas-station-gypsis, and ride with our asses hanging out the window?
Let’s not forget that the entire time we’re at dinner, mommy is checking her cell phone to see if the babysitter has called. Has she texted? Could it be that she hasn’t texted because a serial killer has broken into the house and kidnapped her and our baby?
I’ll just go ahead and call. Just to make sure…