Over the summer, we were at a barbecue and out of nowhere, my friend’s baby started clapping. It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen, and for months I’ve been trying to teach Jack.
If he stood up, I’d clap! clap! clap!
If he pushed the red button on that toy that plays the obnoxious song, I’d clap! clap! clap!
After each bite of food, I’d clap! clap! clap!
I was clap! clap! clapping! all the live long day, to no avail.
Maybe my son just isn’t a clapper, I thought to myself on more than one occasion.
Fast forward to Monday, when the morning nap that had been happening so well was cut short (read: didn’t happen) by two pesky bottom teeth making their way to the surface. Like the cha-cha dance that is motherhood, I felt like I was taking one step back when I found myself loading up for the tried and true car nap.
I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone by using the drive to run a quick errand. At first, things were going to plan. He fell asleep, so I parked the car with the intention of him sleeping for maybe 20 more minutes before running into the store to make a quick exchange.
That 20 minutes turned into 90. It had started to rain. Heavily.
But at this point, I’d waited an hour and a half to make that damn exchange, so I loaded up the stroller (in the rain, remember?) and made it into the store.
Only to find out that the exchange policy had changed within the past week.
I lugged everything back out to the car (in the rain, remember?) cursing under my breath. The stroller wouldn’t fold up like it normally does and I hacked it into the trunk before I was absolutely soaking wet. I hurried into the driver’s seat, put the keys in the ignition, and then….
The car was dead. I was soaking wet. My husband didn’t answer his phone. I felt defeated.
And from the backseat?
Slowly, deliberately, and with a touch of sarcasm obviously inherited from his mother: Clap. Clap. Clap.