“Picture it…Sicily 1922..” Never have there ever been better flashback introducing words than these from my favorite Golden Girl, Sophia Petrillo. If you are old enough, or cultured enough, you probably read those words in Sophia’s voice with the mental image of the other three ladies (Blanche, Dorothy, and Rose) gathering around the kitchen table. Don’t forget the cheesecake!

I’m no Sophia Petrillo, but I can tell you I’ve had my share of flashback worthy stories. Some of them sad. Some of them terrifying. Some of them that will bring a smile to your face. Some of them so ridiculous people think I’m lying when I tell them. I’ll let you be the judge of which category my impending tale falls into. Might even be more than one!

So, picture it…the Midwest…December 2011, 6am. We had recently welcomed the newest member of our family home just in time for Christmas…an English Cream Golden Retriever pup who weighed about 10lbs (all fluff). At that time, our daughter was just shy of turning two (all sass). It was the perfect mix. Or so I thought…

How It Began

Like any good pup owner, I was committed to the puppy potty training process. My goal was to get Kizzy completely trained before I started my daughter’s potty training in just a few short weeks. Who wants to potty train a puppy and a two year old at the same time? Not me! So, I made a schedule and set alarms. Puppy potty boot camp had begun.

My plan was working perfectly. My daughter was an early riser, so getting up at 6am for the first scheduled puppy potty break of the day was no big deal. Every morning was the same. Get out of bed, get my daughter settled with a cartoon, get the pup out of his crate, and head outside. At this point, Kizzy hadn’t quite learned how to descend the deck stairs yet, so every time it was potty time, I’d have to go out with him in order to help him navigate the wooden obstacle. This particular December morning was no different. The morning routine was well underway and Mr. Floofball and I were headed outside.

Now, if you’re unfamiliar with the Midwest in December at 6am, let me set the scene. It’s dark. It’s barely double digit temperatures. There’s probably wind. There might be snow already on the ground. It’s not a fun time to be outside waiting on a puppy to sniff EVERYTHING before finally deciding on a place to pee.

Oh no, oh no, oh no no no no no

So, here we are again. Picture it…my backyard…December 6am. Kizzy is searching for the perfect spot to defecate. I’m just standing there minding my own business, rubbing the sleepy tears out of my eyes, when I hear “click.”

I already knew what it was. At first, I wasn’t too concerned. You see, our sliding door has a lock that is very hard to lock. Most grown adults can’t get it to work, so what are the odds that my 22 month old can figure it out on her first try? I reached down, picked up Kizzy, and calmly proceeded back up the stairs to investigate.

As soon as the handle didn’t budge, my soul left my body. All the thoughts starting racing through my mind. “My husband is at work on a train without access to a phone for several more hours. The nearest family is over an hour away. We’ve only lived in this house for 5 weeks so I don’t know my neighbors and we have no friends. Even if I had someone to call, my cell phone is in the house. The front door and all the windows are double locked to keep us safe (note the irony). Do I break the window? What do I do?”

So, I started to talk to my toddler in the sweetest voice possible. “Lift the latch sweetie. It’s right there (pointing desperately). Just flip it up. Like this (motioning like I’m flipping the latch). Please!” She just stares at me and smiles. At this point, it’s unclear whether she doesn’t understand what I’m saying, or she’s just living up to her reputation as a sour patch kid. Either way, I’m screwed. I was left with only two options. Break the glass or go find help. Taking the aforementioned December description into consideration, I decided to take the walk of shame and go introduce myself to our new neighbors.

Off I Go

I opened the gate and walked to the front of the house. As I stood in my driveway trying to figure out where to go, I noticed the neighbors to the East of us had their living room light on. With fluff ball safely snugged under my arm, I walked over and knocked on their door.

The lady that answered was so kind. I explained everything that had just happened and asked her if I could use her phone to call 911. She said that she had the number of the local cop and would give him a call. I thanked her and told her that I was going to go back to check on my daughter.

The moment I walked up those dreaded deck stairs, I knew. This was no innocent toddler oops. It was the work of The Sour Patch Kid. She was the worst mafia leader in town and she was currently in my kitchen unloading the diaper bag in search of goods.

The Sour Patch Kid

The crime scene was horrific. The clean house I departed at 6am was no where in sight. The trash had been gone through and dispensed all over the living room floor. The remote had been gutted of it’s batteries…one of which was being used as a pacifier. The now shell of a diaper bag was hanging on the railing with a trail of evidence up the stairs. Cracker crumbs were being used as confetti. The Sour Patch Kid, now naked, had struck again.

About that time, I hear the neighbor yell over the fence that the officer was on his way. I once again departed the fence, walked to the front of the house, pup still tucked under my arm, in order to wait for help.

A minute or two later, up pulls the squad car. There I stand. In front of my garage door. Illuminated by the headlights. In all my glory. Flip flops. No makeup. Morning hair. Teeth aren’t brushed. In my pajamas. Pup in hand.

The officer gets out, introduces himself, and starts asking all the questions. “How long has she been alone? Is she ok? Are all the doors and windows locked? Have you checked?” After the officer does an inspection around the perimeter of the house, he informs me that he has an idea but he’ll need to run home really quick to grab it. So he leaves, and I return to the glass door.

How It Ended

By this time, The Sour Patch Kid had finished her tirade. She was sitting in the middle of the kitchen counter indulging in the goods she had swiped. Only a few moments had passed when I heard the squad car return. I ran to the front to see what handy dandy police device he was going to use to break in. I rounded the corner just in time to see him take out his wallet and remove a credit card. Yep. He used a credit card to open my front door. Add “install deadbolt” to the mental list of to-dos.

The door swung wide open and suddenly I was faced with the ultimate parenting dilemma. Do I ring this little girls neck, like Homer Simpson does to Bart? Probably frowned upon with the police officer standing behind me…

OR…do I drop the dog, scoop up this little boss baby, squeeze her tight, and thank God for keeping her safe when I physically could not? Fortunately, for everyone involved, I chose the second option. The police officer gave me a nod as I thanked him and then he left. It was finally over.

I was still sitting on the floor, my daughter wrapped safely in my embrace, when I opened my eyes just in time to witness another crime in progress. There he was. Mr. Floof. Hunched over. Taking a colossal dump right in the middle of the living room rug. I guess he finally found the perfect spot to defecate…on the last ounce of dignity I had left.