On Wednesday while I was sequestered in my bedroom working on the last chapter of my ebook, he colored Bethany from front to back and top to bottom with a permanent marker. The really stinky kind of permanent marker. I’m not sure how we missed the odor, but somebody also marked up the siding on the front of the house and several patches of the deck, which we just stained this summer.
Questions were raised about who should have been watching and what they were doing instead, but we’ll just pretend it never happened – except when we’re out on the deck.
Or maybe when I start thinking about it, I’ll distract myself with the memory of what he did 2 days later – opened the van door into the shiny silver Toyota next to us.
I assessed the damage: no dent, no scratch. Just our white paint on the door of the silver car. It was a nice car, but I did spot several small scratches and chips farther down the side, worse than what we had just done. I wetted my finger and rubbed. The white paint didn’t go away, but I was hopeful that it would buff off.
Nonetheless, that note was much less fun to write than the one I sent to my bank the day before.
My 3yo opened the door of my van onto your driver door, leaving a bit of white paint just below the handle.
If you are concerned, please call me at 830-***-****. Or you can look for me inside the Goodwill. I’m the guilty looking woman with a little girl and a little boy.
A few minutes later, a woman rushed down the aisle next to me, sounding angry and distraught: “Kim! Kim!“ My stomach sank. Then an employee who seemed to know her spoke in a soothing voice: “What is it, Kathy?”
“I’m lost again!” Kathy replied. I breathed a sigh of relief and resumed looking guilty, but nobody came looking for this Kim, and the car was gone when we left the Goodwill.
No calls yet. So far, so good. How long would you wait before you breath a real sigh of relief?