I’m sitting on a cement block right outside of my minivan, in the parking lot of my local garden center. My kids, ages one and three, are dragging sticks through a mud puddle. I know that soon they will be dragging themselves through a mud puddle. But I don’t care.
They are entertaining themselves and giving me a free minute to think. Somehow, on this beautiful early spring day, I have locked my keys in the car.

The keys are dangling from the ignition. Glinting in the sunlight. I think they are my fourth “extra” set. One set is probably in my purse— also in the car. I’ve taken to just slipping a debit card in the front pocket of my overalls; I had once (or more) unintentionally whacked my daughter in the head with my swinging purse as I tried to reposition her brother in my arms, so I go without when I can.
Anyway, I think another set may also be in the car, or back at my home office somewhere on my desk. Still another may be in the little hide-a-key container that had once upon a time been stuck on the right front wheel well, Of course, it is also gone.

So, four keys, a husband out of town and no way to get in my car. My trip to the garden center to pick up azaleas for $3.99 a piece just got a little more expensive. I’ll have to call a locksmith.

I push the garden center’s little red wagon full of azaleas closer to the front of my car so they don’t appear abandoned. I retrieve my kids from their mud puddle and head back into the nursery to use their phone. Of course my cell phone is also safely locked in the car.

Walking with a three-year-old is never a Point A to Point B task. We meander, I admonish, I swing the one-year-old from one hip to another. I heave him up on my shoulders and he weaves my hair through his tiny fingers. Then he tears the hair from my scalp and I yelp. I clasp the hand of my three-year-old, already feeling its smallness fleeting. I take comfort in her hand’s size and warmth; it lowers my blood pressure; it gives me the knowledge that I would die before I’d allow anything to happen to her. But then I realize I left the dog at home in the backyard…since we were just running out for a quick trip…and now he is probably barking and there will be a message of complaint from our next-door neighbor on my answering machine. I pull my daughter’s hand to speed her up.

The nursery provides a phone book and telephone. I search for the closest mobile locksmith open on Sundays and call. My daughter pulls on the phone’s cord, “I want to talk, I want to talk,” and my son slides halfway off my shoulders trying to reach the “bye bye.” I yell for my children to stop and I think I also blasted the eardrum of the locksmith. I hang up.

I hand the phone book back to the woman behind the counter and thank her. She says, “Sure looks like you have your hands full.” I smile and nod. It’s not the first time I’ve heard that.

The locksmith will meet me in half an hour and it will cost $68 plus tax. Cash or check, I am hoping a checkbook sits in my purse in the locked car. I can’t remember if I have any. Though I probably have enough in coin—I never bother to count my change or keep a coin purse. I never have enough free hands. I just sling it into my purse or pocket.

We head back to the car to wait. How will I keep them entertained and out of traffic for 30 minutes? How did I let this happen? How did I reach the point where all my backups failed? Why did I even bother going to get plants today to begin with? Those azaleas are sure to sit in their green plastic pots for moths before being planted. Then, in a spare and inspired ten minutes, and with a need to beautify and nest, I’ll plant them in the ground with no thought or care. They’ll be dead before they even had a chance. I’ll be out the $40 I spent at the nursery, not to mention the $70 for the locksmith.

I sit back down on my cement perch and my kids set to the mud puddle again. I just let them be; I can change them when I get home.

How did I get here? Why didn’t anyone tell me that motherhood would mean giving up a piece of my mind? I used to be in control. I used to be able to move from A to B with few, if any, distractions. I didn’t used to yell this much. I used to wear real clothes and brush my hair before I went out my front door. I used to ….

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYY,” cries my youngest.
“Honey, what are you doing to your brother?” I yell.
“He wants my rock,” she explains as if this made sense.
“Hon, just give him your rock and why don’t you go find another …”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO. It’s mine.”

Did I really used to sit in faraway cafes with no thought to timetables and babysitters? Was that really me who spent an afternoon drinking ouzo at a beach in Crete? Enjoying sunshine, conversation?
Talking with my husband about our dreams of children? It seems more than a lifetime away.

A car wants the parking space next to ours. I pull my children close so they are out of the way. An older lady gets out of her car; She is fresh out of a Smith & Hawken catalog, wearing “gardening clothes” – clean crisp denims, a wide white hat and canvas shoes. Her hair is immaculately styled and her lipstick has been freshly applied.

My daughter says “Hi” to her and the older woman responds the same.

Then my daughter says, “Mommy locked the keys in the car so we have to wait for the man to get them out.”

“Oh dear, are you OK?” she asks.

I tell her we are fine.

“Well, would you like a hand until help gets here?”

Before I have a chance to tell her that’s not necessary, my daughter starts rattling off the high points of the last episode of “Blue’s Clues," and the older woman appears interested.

“How old is she? About three?”

“Yes, she was three at Christmas.”

“And the little one, is he two?"

“No, “ I reply. “ Just 16 months. He’s really tall for his age though.”

“My yes. My grandkids are about their ages. It goes so fast.” She says, somewhat wistfully.

“So I’ve heard. The days are slow, but the years speed by.” I say.

“Well, isn’t that the truth. Are you sure you don’t need anything?"
She asks.

“No thanks. We’re fine. The locksmith ought to be here really soon.”
I look towards the street hoping to see him arriving.

“O.K., well you take care,” she pats my son on the head. “You know, today might be tough, but they are really only little once. I still can’t believe my babies are having their own babies.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” I say, “Thanks.”

“O.K. You have a better day, won’t you?” she asks. A great big purple truck pulls up to my van. “This must be for you,” says the older woman. Then she is off with a wave.

The locksmith pulls out a long, thin piece of metal. He slides it through the rubber seal on the passenger window and the door is open in seconds. As he opens the door I am momentarily embarrassed because my car is so messy … books, snacks, coats, bags, sippy cups, coffee cups, and so on. Amazingly, I have cash. I hand the locksmith a wad of crumpled bills and he is on his way.

I load the kids in and snap them into their car seats. Books and blankies, snacks and sippy cups back in position. I get in and buckle up, start the car and head out of the parking lot and make a left out onto the street. As we pass the nursery, I see my red wagon filled with my bargain azaleas sitting where I left them. To get back I will have to go up two blocks, wait for a U-turn and then head back to the nursery.

“Darn, darn, darn.” I mutter as I stop at the light.

“Mom, what’s wrong?” asks my daughter.

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Moooooooooomy…” she whines.

“Whaaaaaaattttt?” I snap.

“I love you.”

I think back to the warmth of her small hand in mine. I take a sharp breath and close my eyes for a moment.

“Thanks sweetie. I love you too, Hey! Who wants to stop at the park?”

“I do, I do!” the back seat chorus sings.

And I sail down the road. Maybe someone else, someone who has the time for gardening, will find the abandoned azaleas—perhaps that woman in the gardening hat. She will plant the flowering bushes and they will grow beautiful, lush and hearty for years to come. In the meantime, I’ve got my own garden to tend.