Ice, ice bay-bee

After several days snowed/iced in the house, Sarah and I ventured out to get the stir-crazy children something for dinner that would cheer them up aka Chic-fil-a. When we got in the car that hadn’t been used for days, I had my first wave of regret. The car was covered in two inches of icy snow. After unsuccessfully searching the car for the ice scraper, regret number two rolled over my frozen toes.

I tried scraping the windshield with a piece of cardboard from a notebook, a coloring book and a stack of Legos. The only result was frozen fingers. I texted Doug.
Me: “We have no ice scraper.”
Doug: “Look in the car.”
Me: “I am IN the car and there is no scraper.”
Doug: “Did you look under the seat?”
Me: “No scraper. There is no scraper.”
Doug: “The wiper fluid has anti-freeze. Just squirt it a few times.”

At this point in the story, I will interrupt the texting copy-paste to acknowledge that I can see you shaking your heads in response to this suggestion. I did not shake my head. I squirted wiper fluid even though the blades were frozen to the windshield. With each squirt, a fresh layer of ice glazed over the windshield. It was a lovely, textured ice, but it was the opposite of helpful.
Doug: “You could put the sidewalk de-icer on the windshield.”

This is the part of the story where we sat and stared at the windshield, waiting for the ice to move.
Sarah: “It’s moving!”
Me: “I’ll try the wipers.”
One click of the previously immobile wipers and the tiny de-icer pellets flew in every direction. Sarah screamed at the wipers.
“Stoooop!”

Cold and frustrated, we sat and waited for the car to defrost the ice. It took so long that the neighbor walked her dog, Amy called me whimpering that she was starving, Sarah changed the radio station twice and I mentally composed my response to Doug for his helpful wiper fluid suggestion.

After what felt like forever, we began our journey. I turned out of our cove and the car started to slide . . . backwards. Sarah offered her experienced advice from one year with a driver’s license. “Drive! Just drive!” The fact that the car was in drive, my foot was on the gas and we were sliding backwards as the car decided on its’ own that it wanted to smash into a utility pole didn’t deter Sarah’s insistence that I only needed to drive.

I backed into the cove and went directly to the driveway. Sarah stomped in the house, convinced that I should have tried harder to get out of the cove. I walked in the house and Evan burst into tears at the absence of Chic-fil-a in my hands. Noah mumbled something about not needing to eat dinner as he drooped out of the room and I made a desperate phone call to Doug.

“Even though they have eaten eleven small meals and seven between meal snacks, the children are starving and may call DCS to report me for child neglect if they don’t get Chic-fil-a tonight.” Doug brought home Chic-fil-a and was the most popular person in the world. His celebrity status lasted until a half an hour after our friend drove Tommy home from the movies. “Doug? I’m stuck in your cove.”

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