We spent an hour and a half trying to convince ourselves that the apple pie wasn't noticeably burnt.
"I can't believe you broiled the pie."
"I can't either, but it doesn't look that bad!"
It did. We zipped up the girls' winter coats and hopped in the car. By the time our eyes had adjusted to the dark roads, all 2.5 miles, we had to turn around and get the embarrassment that was left on the kitchen counter. The "pie." We joked maybe Goldilocks was trying on all our flannel shirts and had thrown the pie away out of disgust. We pulled up, no Goldilocks. A quick sprint in, grabbed the dish, and jumped in the car.
Back on the road, heading to Grandma's again.
The kids were complaining about the heater and I suggested they take their snow boots off. After that they sat back and had a surprisingly polite argument with one another that led to a more ferocious argument about who could play the next song.
"Only one, but you two have to agree on which one. If you can't agree, we won't be able to go to sledding tomorrow."
That helped pass the next 20 miles as they made quiet agreements and played a silent game of rock, paper, scissors for tablet screen-time.
Long story short, we arrived to Grandma's on the wrong day. She was having her other family over: ladies' poker night. It was a room full of cardigan sweaters, Starfish pants and clouds of perfume. We apologized and after all the ladies ogled over how cute the kids looked in their winter hats (Grandma had gotten those for them) we made a quiet exit. We got back in the car, looking forward to getting into our pajamas and throwing that pie in the garbage. The kids were asleep for the rest of the trip, presumably overwhelmed by all the rosy cheek pinching and the handfuls of “quiet candy” they hid in their coats. Luckily we'd get to do it all again tomorrow, without broiling the pie.