The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this article are fictitious. No identification with actual persons, places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

It was a lovely Thursday afternoon.  A Nana, (we’ll call her Lana) gently pulled the Impala with the tiny children (we’ll call them Jax and Gabby) secure and safe in their approved car seats, into the garage.  Lana was driving very slow and trying to judge how much room she had to inch around so as not to disturb the oh-so- adorable little bug car, also in the garage.

Lana sees the blue plastic recycle bin wobble just a bit.  Trying to ignore the issue in the hopes that the mini-passengers would do the same, she gingerly reverses in order to  endeavor a safe and careful position, once again calculating the available distance.

JAX:  ” Lana. You know you hit the recycle container, right?”

Lana takes time to reassure him that,yes, yes, she did notice that she barely touched the recycle bin.  No harm done.  Pulling forward again, she smiles to herself assured that she is missing the aforementioned recycle bin.  Oh … Lana sees a ladder begin to move.  With curse words on her tongue but not leaving her mouth; again a voice from the backseat.

JAX: “Lana.  You know that you hit the ladder this time, right?  Not the little ladder with the soft black seat.  The tall ladder that you stand on to put the color bulbs in outside.  Remember that you let me climb it one time when you were right there?  It was that one.  Did you see that you hit it?”

Apparently, little Jax has forgotten that Lana has been right in the same vehicle that he has, and although he has accused her of short-term memory loss in the past, she certainly does realize what she has done and responds to the six-year-old smarty pants that she certainly does remember the incident just seconds ago and that all is well.

Backing out one more time and inching forward so as not to disturb the parking police who has apparently completed some academy course since the last time I saw him two days ago; (okay, a curse word may have left my lips) as I see the big green canvas bag housing the  Christmas tree and Santa rug and wreaths dance a little jiggly dance, I sense another comment from the six-year-old Captain Obvious.  Instead, I hear the throaty roar of laughter coming from none other than a four-year old, as she loudly exclaims (as if I was not there) …

GABBY:  “did you see that one, Jax??  This time she crashed right into the Christmas tree bag!!”

and louder and longer laughter ensues.

I back the car out onto the driveway; shut off the engine; tell the kids that it is all clear to remove their seat belt harness and sheepishly retreat into the house, leaving the Impala just outside of the garage door with plenty of room not to hit anything.