Not long ago, my 4 year old and I were coming out of preschool. We were happily talking about his day as he hopped up into his seat and I began to buckle him in. At that moment a strong gust of wind whipped around the car and the door flew open. I barely caught it in time before it slammed into the car next to me. Now, I certainly don’t want this to happen again, but I do need both hands to make sure my son is secured in his car seat. Hmm…what to do?
I had a brilliant idea: I’ll just close this door, go around to the other side and sit in the back seat while I buckle him in. I can close the door until I’m done so that the wind doesn’t grab it. Awesome. I explain to my son what I’m doing, close his door and go around to climb in the other side. I close the door, all the while congratulating myself for such a simple solution. I am so smart. I am a genius!
The buckling goes off without a hitch. My son is laughing because it’s silly to see Mommy in the back seat for a change. And yep, I’m still patting myself on the back.
“Alright,” I say with a smile as I turn to exit the car and move to the driver seat, “That was easy, huh? Let’s go home and see Daddy.”
I grab the handle and pull. Nothing happens. For a minute my brain doesn’t process what’s going on so I pull again. Nothing.
“Momma….get out. I want to go home.”
“I”m trying….the door won’t open.”
“Are we trapped?!”
Then it hits me: I set the child safety locks on both doors. So much for my genius status. Okay, no big deal. I’ll just climb through. I’m limber, I’m fit…ish. I’ve got my running shoes on which automatically make me capeable of taking on the world according to the commercials. Piece of cake. “Okay,” I say, as I position myself between the two front seats, “Momma has to climb through.” At this point he laughs. I don’t blame him. He probably knew what was about to happen, because I clearly didn’t have a clue yet.
This might be a good time to let you know I drive a Prius. A heavenly gas saver that can zip in and out of parking spots like a dream. Unfortunately, it’s not much bigger than a clown car. Which, up until this point, had been an asset instead of an issue. The problem I faced now was that I didn’t have a petite bottom. Or thighs. In fact, nothing I was about to squeeze through a 12″ space could be considered lean. But, I’ve still got that limber thing going for me, right?
At first it went fine. I got my top half through with no issue, but when I got to my bottom half I had a problem. My knee was on the console, hips pinned between the seats, both hands on the dashboard, my butt was up in the air, and my head was pressed into the ceiling. Lovely. I was stuck. My son is poking me in the leg and giggling. I’m praying that the owners of the cars around me stay inside the building a bit longer. I had to move. Fast.
I grabbed the steering wheel and pulled myself through the seats.
My low rise jeans didn’t come with me.
I sat there, frozen in shock, barely covered rear end hovering in the air for what seemed like forever. Then my son laughed… and that made me laugh. With the amount of giggling going on, I’m amazed that I managed to work out a twist-turn-flip-jerk maneuver that even the Flying Wallendas would be proud of, landing my bare derriere in the seat. I pulled my legs through one at a time, finally righting myself behind the wheel so I could jerk all of my clothing back onto the intended areas.
I took a breath and glanced around.
I’m safe. I did it. I actually did it. No one stood there to gawk. I am aweso– Then a woman got out of the car next to me.
I hate low rise jeans.
And tinted windows.