This morning, I drove Peter to the bus stop because he was so sore after slipping and falling on our wet floor yesterday. He somehow managed to go out and roughhouse with neighbor kids afterwards, which justified my firm decision NOT to let him stay home from school.

“If I drop anything today, I won’t be able to pick it up,” he protested. “It’ll just STAY THERE.” Of course, he can always ask a classmate to help him, but I kept my mouth shut and steered him toward the door.

An hour later, when it was time to drive Moon and our neighbor, Brooke, to the high school, the garage door stuck halfway up. I lowered it and tried again. Same thing. I spotted the red release cord hanging from the door, and gave it a tug, which sent the door crashing to the cement with a life-threatening speed.

Thank God my foot wasn’t in the way, or Brooke’s head, or whatever. (Did you know a car backed over my right foot when I was 16? I have a feeling the garage door would have been worse.)

So, about Brooke. Nice girl, loves horses and country music. She and Moon were born two days apart. (Brooke is older.) Oddly enough, her parents were in our Lamaze class. We didn’t really know each other, but we recognized them when we moved into the neighborhood. Probably because her dad looks like young Kris Kringle in the classic “Santa Claus is Coming to Town,” the one narrated by Fred Astaire. Bearded redheads tend to stand out in a crowd.

Anyway, we couldn’t get out. The door wouldn’t budge. I called Pete and begged him to borrow a car (he jogs to work) and rescue us. Together we were able to get the door up — the girls and I held it while Pete backed our car out of the garage. First period was finished by the time I dropped the girls off at school, and of course, they were crushed to have missed it. Ha! Ha! They’re probably plotting ways to sabotage other household items, and I should probably keep an eye on Peter and make sure he doesn’t get into the power tools.