Roosevelt screamed bloody murder the entire way home tonight (minus the five minutes Keaton was in the van before swim team drop-off, distracting him with a family rendition of “Wheels on the Bus,” off-key and totally out of sync), to the point that I was asking the boys to search the cup holders, floor, seat crevices, anything for snacks to keep him happy (the one time we don’t have any freaking food stuck somewhere, of course) and digging in my purse for noise-canceling headphones.

As we pulled onto our street (after hitting every stoplight possible), Rustyn yelled from the back seat: “Mom! Mom! Mom! I know why he’s mad! (Pause to emphasize how clueless I am) He wants out of his car seat!”

 

Duh.

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