It has been true since birth, Helen is a lot like me. She's small. She's (ahem) stubborn. She finds happiness. She even likes sanitizer...a lot. Sadly, she also has no sense of direction.
We have lived in our current home for most of Helen's life. Yet still, when she is inside, she has no idea where the front of the house is and where the back of the house is. She is constantly standing at the wrong door when she's waiting to be released, and regularly confirms which door is which before heading there with her shoes.
This past weekend, Helen woke up from her nap and asked Ed where Connor and I were. He told her we were playing out back.
Her response? She walked right to the front door, went outside, and sat down on the front porch. And waited. Ed saw her there and asked what was going on. She looked at him and asked "Am I at the wrong door again?".
Yes, Helen. You are at the wrong door. Again.
I'm sorry, Helen. You come by this trait honestly. There are generations of women on my mom's side of the family who can't figure out directions.
I love that she used the word "again" as in "Am I at the wrong door again ?"
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