I am the laid back parent.
The one who lets things slide.
The fun parent.
The one who lets the kids pick out their own hideous outfits and lets them wear them in public. The one who raps Flo-rida in the grocery store to embarrass her kids. And sings Andrea Bocelli at the top of her lungs while dropping the oldest off at school.
She loves when I do that…
Fifth graders don’t appreciate opera.
My husband is the disciplinarian.
He makes the kids tow the line. Makes them dress appropriately.
The one who is always saying to me, “Why did you let them do that?”
So it ’twas with much delight that my husband made a bone headed move. A move that required sirens. And hot firemen. And lots of hysterical laughing from me.
While at the beach, my “I was on the National Problem Solving Team” husband decided we should take the girls out for a ride. We dressed appropriately and packed all necessary items (cause he’s anal like that) and took off.
First stop, the condo elevator.
Once inside, he got the bright idea to start jumping. In the elevator. With me and the kids.
Duh.
And then it stopped….in between floors.
Big Duh.
And the doors wouldn’t open and he had to push this little red button.
Super Duh.
And the firemen of the Gulf Shores Fire Department had to come rescue us…
in…
a…
FIRETRUCK.
Super Duper Duh.
And as the nice fireman were getting us out, my eleven year old says to Rico…
“You’re not supposed to jump in elevators. They’ll get stuck.”
Gas to Gulf Shores: $200
Blackberry with camera to capture the evidence: $400
Having your husband finally make a stupid parent move: PRICELESS!
