We've been telling lots of stories lately. Yesterday, we sat on the front porch and the kids and I reminisced about their early days, the days when I didn't work and we spent a lot of time together. The days that feel a lot like now (except I'm still working, just remotely now).
They remember so much, but in a funny way, through the lens of childhood. They started talking about, "Mom, remember when you had to call the fire station?"
We had just moved to the new house. Justin was a brand new baby. It was early spring and I came downstairs to get ready for the day. Greg left the house early and as I walked into the kitchen, I could feel a breeze. I stepped into the back room and saw that the sliding glass door in the back room was open.
I freaked out.
I gathered the kids (2 year old twins and a brand new baby) and headed to my new neighbor's house. I called the non-emergency line: "I think someone's been in our house." The officers were so kind. They met me at my front door. The kids stayed with the neighbors.
The officers went through our home. They checked the basement. The attic. The looked at the door jamb. "M'am, nothing appears to be missing. Your laptop is here. I think you're okay. Are you sure there's no way someone from the inside left the door open?" I shook my head. "Maybe one of the kids?" I assured them that my kids were only two and they didn't even know how to open that door.
They left. It was a mystery. I felt a little better.
Later that day, 2-year-old Jacob toddled into the back room. He walked right over to the sliding door, reached his little hand up, unlocked the door, and walked out to the back porch.
Mystery solved.
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