That completely crazy, totally "these kinds of things always happen to me" kind of story...

Yeesh. I need to type this out, huh?

Leave it to me to dangle a story and not get around to wrapping it up for over a week.

Picture it: Our house, late July, 2009.

I'm feeling pretty good about things. BD has been gone for several days and Playette is still in one piece.

I woke up on Monday morning and took her in to daycare. My plan was to have her there for a few hours so that I could finish packing and also make sure that the house was in decent shape for BD's return the next night. Admittedly, we have different standards, so there were a few things to pick up. Just a few.

The dishes were clean and put away. The laundry was dry. Some was folded. None was put away.

What kind of superhero do you take me for?!

Goal: Leave the house at 11, pick up Playette at 11:15, flight departs at 12:24.

I was on time and so proud of myself.

I should have known it was too good to last.

See, when I picked Playette up, she was in summer attire for here - long pants and one of those waffle-longjohn shirts. Apparently, in the few hours since I'd dropped her off, she had warranted a change of clothes. For one, this wouldn't work because, well, it wasn't cute and we were going to see family. Second, Phoenix was twice the temperature of home, so I didn't want the poor baby to pass out.

"Never mind," I thought, "there's plenty of time on our direct flight to get her changed and gussied up."

So, I put her in the car seat. *click click click*

What was that?

Hm, nothing.

I tossed the keys in the front seat.

Closed the door.

Walked around to the driver's side.

Lifted the handle.

And nothing happened.

I lifted the handle again. And again. And again. And again.

Nothing.

I ran around the truck and tried them all, including the trunk and the hood. (Why the hood? Who knows.)

Nothing.

Well, crap.

And then it hit me.

The *click click click* was the sound of me hitting the LOCK DOOR button as I struggled to get a wiggling Playette into her carseat.

*click click click*
*click click click*
*click click click*

I just kept hearing it.

But I kept cool. I mean, it's a daycare center. People must do this all the time, right?

Some of the time, then?

At least one other time?!

They'll get a chuckle out of it, but the problem will be resolved immediately.

Not so much.

They wanted to call 911.

Really?

I mean, I'm from a place where you just don't call 911. That's for blood and stuff. Not for Playette locked in a car when it's 60 degrees out.

But, apparently no one had a better solution so 911 it was.

Now I'm embarrassed.

I was assured that the town's emergency service would respond, not the military's.

WRONG.

The MPs came and immediately wanted to bust out the windows.

Really? Right away?

Well, they didn't have a slim jim, but they did have a window breaker that they were itching to use.

Hm. I would have brought a slim jim. Just saying.

Plus, when I gave them approval to wait on the window busting, they gave me the "threat of calling CPS look" and then sought supervisor approval. Then they asked me if I had a hanger. Or a spare key.

Finally, I ask if they wouldn't mind just busting out one of the smaller triangle-shaped windows. I then got the look again. And the supervisor got another call because this time I was putting my child in harms way due to the potential flyaway glass situation.

I just couldn't win with these guys.

Thankfully, it was at this point that the firetruck came. WHEE!

At least it was the middle of the day and most people weren't dropping their kids off or picking them up because, wow, that thing blocked the entrance and the exit to the parking lot.

Luckily, the blocking wouldn't be for long because *du-du-du-duuuhhhh* they had a slim jim.

A few minutes later, Playette was "saved." Because really? She was fine. She was laughing at all of the commotion.

I'm kicking myself that I didn't take pictures, but, you know, my camera and cell phone were locked in the car.

Anyway, so I thanked my heros and rushed to leave. I still had a flight to catch!

One of the ladies at the center offered to drive us to the airport so that I wouldn't have to waste time parking and hauling everything back to the terminal. BD could come and pick up the truck when he got back. I accepted her kind offer and was ready to go until the original first responders decided that they needed to interview me.

Really?

Name. No, full name. Social. Husband's name, rank, social. Kid's name. Date of birth. Address. Place of birth. Explanation of what happened. Again. Sigh.

I'm irritated, but, at this point, I still think we'll be ok. The airport is pretty close.

We pull up and race inside. We made it. I exhaled. The lady behind the counter leaves. Hm, maybe she needed something from the back. We wait. And then I noticed the sign.

Counter closes at 11:54 am.
Personnel will return after flight departure.

It's 11:55.

We missed the flight.

Are you kidding me?

Now what?

Crying sounded good. So I did that. I also asked if security would ask if anyone at the gate would be willing to come back and help us. (It's a small airport. The gate was right-><-there.)

No luck.

Back to crying.

Eventually, I was able to rebook on another airline, with an additional stop. But at least it would get me there in time for work the next morning. Ugh.

That two hour flight turned into a 7.5 hour ordeal.

We made it there and back safe and sound though, so there's that. I always get those weird Final Destination kinds of feelings whenever we switch flights.

Anyway.

Next up: Conference recap.