Sunday was a mercy mission. My Guy and I drove to Providence, RI to dandle twin grandbabies.
Their mom needed to drive to Boston to pick up two free high chairs (yay!) from a college friend who’d been thoughtful enough to deliver twins herself, a convenient few years earlier so now our DIL and son can score on no-longer-neededs.
Son needed to work on the carriage house in back of their property so they can all move into a larger venue with a proper nursery and better real estate for the soon-to-be ambulatory. Curiously, bachelor pads get much smaller with the advent of twins.
The day went well. The girls only had one or two meltdowns, soon solved by a bottle, waltzing, and then a nap or playtime. Parents returned, refreshed from experiencing the outside world, and we grandparents headed off for the 1 ½ hour drive home.
Just as we turned off the highway, with visions dancing in our heads of perhaps a quiet glass of wine on the couch, we received a call from our son. Had we seen DIL’s phone? They’d looked everywhere. I explored the bowels of my purse. Yep. There was her phone, nestled companionably next to mine.
A working mother of twins needs her phone, so we hustled over to Staples. Yes, they did do overnight UPS shipping, but pickup wasn’t until the next day at 4 pm. It being Sunday, every other possibility was closed.
What to do.
So, at 8:45 am Monday morning I must have looked like an insomniac drug dealer as I sat in my car on Providence’s Washington Street, doing business with people through my car window. Fortuitously, both son and DIL had just been arriving into the city for work. We did the hand off, they set off to their jobs, and I was back on the highway, home by 10 am with room to spare for Mamie’s 11 am vet appointment.
I think I’ve learned my lesson and before leaving anywhere, will now verify that I have one, and one only, phone in my purse.