Yes, D., I SEE THE FIRE TRUCK.

Yesterday was one of those fairly lazy Sundays where we had a lot of ideas and things to do that didn't quite get done.

First on the agenda was a trip to Home Depot to buy some new locks for the doors -- we need to replace the garage and side doors with locks that use keys from the inside and outside, so that we can lock them and put the keys away in an effort to slow down D's ever-increasing escapes.

This is mostly because lately, when Mr. WG and I get up in the morning and make our bleary-eyed way to the kitchen, we glimpse our trash cans lying down at the end of the driveway. D. is quick to clap his hands with glee and say, "Did you put the black? The black is sleeping. Hooray!"

Of course, there was also the morning we found him driving the motorized Barbie Jeep AROUND OUR CUL-DE-SAC at 8 a.m. Yeah, we're not winning any parenting awards anytime soon.

Fine. So, Mr. WG goes to Home Depot and then gets home and decides to clean out the garage. So he leaves the car parked in the driveway, and perhaps left the keys in the car, I'm not sure. And it's not worth asking him or fighting about right now. And D. and Baby J. were climbing all over the car, and then D. got out, and then all of a sudden, Baby J. was crying.

In the car. The locked car. With a key in the ignition, but the car not turned on. In the sun. In July.

"You have two minutes," I said to Mr. WG, "before I call 911." Because one key was in the ignition, the other remote opener wouldn't unlock the doors. The key we had outside the car was the valet key, which doesn't unlock the doors. And Baby J, bless his heart, could not understand our ever-more-desperate pleas to "Push the button!"

I called 911. Three or four minutes later, a police car showed up. The fire truck and two more police cars followed in the next 90 seconds. They told us that there was another truck, with a tool that could open the ar without damaging it, on the way, but he was having trouble finding the street.

It had been about 10 minutes at this point, and I could see Baby J. slowing down. "He'll be here in a few minutes," one officer said. "Or we can smash the window." The EMTs watched Baby J. closely, and I guess one of them saw the same lethargy that I did, because he took a crowbar to the window farthest from where Baby J. was.

When we got him out, he was dripping with sweat, crying in terror, and beautifully alive. Thank God. I gave him juice and held him and sat down on the driveway because my legs wouldn't hold me up anymore.

Right now, the glass guy is in my driveway replacing the window, and I don't really care how much it costs.

This could have been a very different story, and I am so grateful that it is not.

But seriously, what is it about my boys and having to call 911?