I took our van for a much needed trip through the car wash yesterday.
The boys are always a little antsy about that ride, with all the loud noises, torrential rushes of water, near misses with giant sponges, gusts of wind to dry the car, and a seemingly happy mommy in the front seat who doesn't seem bothered by any of it.
We always have all the cheerful talk about what's happening to our car. It's getting a bath, here comes the bubbles, there are the giant wash cloths, and finally a big hair dryer for us to drive through... and they spend the four minutes with wide eyes and panicked expresssions.
But then we're done, and Tuck asks to go again.
This time, Tyler really couldn't get past the initial concern. He fussed and whined, and he tried desperately to clamor out of his carseat. Despite my best cheerleading, he could not agree that this journey was safe or okay.
I reached back to hold his hand and coax him to trust me... and my hand got wet. And I saw bubbles on the inside of his window. And his carseat was soaked, as were his clothes on the entire left side of his body.
His window had been open, a quarter of an inch.
Poor kid. No wonder he was frantic. He was getting a bath of his own, of industrial strength. I scrambled to put up his window, which calmed him a bit, but not quite enough.
Instead of finishing the rest of our errands, we traveled straight home. The carseat needed to air out, I needed to do clean up duty on the inside of the van, and someone needed a new outfit.
(And that is why all maintenance duties related to the car and our home belong on my husband's to-do list.)