I Accidentally Locked My Child in the Car the Day After the Election

Some lessons are unfortunately learned the hard way. (And, yes, my daughter is totally fine.)

Photo by Marco Aurélio Conde on Unsplash

In 2016, my husband LaQuenza and I hosted an election watch party in our new house. It was the first presidential election I had voted in as a Mississippi resident, and the mood was optimistic among our liberal friends. We drank beer and ate snacks, crowding around the TV on our thrifted, mismatched furniture while the election results poured in and states turned blue or red. My dad happened to be visiting (my dad who I know voted for Trump despite his reluctance to admit it) and I thought about how awkward it would be for him when his candidate came out of the race bruised and battered.

Well, it was awkward, but clearly not in the ways I had imagined. It was the worst party I’ve ever thrown, and I blame America.

Eight years later, I watched the little meter on the New York Times website that measured the likelihood of a presidential win tick from a light pink 53% to a crimson 85%. I tried to remember how my understanding of living in red state Mississippi—and in particular, of living in a blue dot inside that red state—had changed when Donald Trump became president the first time around. 

Because it did change. Once the shock receded in 2016, I began to understand what many who did not share my privileged and sheltered perception of the world had already grasped: there was no safety net. The election result was simply the removal of the illusion of one. There was no big brother coming to “save” Mississippi from itself because Mississippi’s disconnected-from-reality red state politics had reached the White House.

This year, a few days before the election, I asked LaQuenza if he thought Kamala Harris would win. “No,” he replied.

“Really? Are you serious?” I felt my indignation rise, as if his blunt pronouncement were a personal affront. But then I also had to confront the dread at the root of my question. I had to admit that my hope was a sweet indulgence, something too good to be true, but a comfort nonetheless. I wasn’t under any illusion that the first woman president would solve all America’s problems or even most of them, but the choice was a no-brainer for me. With Mississippi’s election results all but decided, I put my hope in the hands of the enlightened voters in seven swing states. (Side note: how depressing it is to know that your vote doesn’t really count in a national election?)

Of course, we know what happened next.

The day after the election my husband had to leave town for work, and, like half the country, I was not at my best. That evening at after school pick-up, I accidentally locked my three-year-old child, my car keys, and my phone inside my car. Luckily, the car was running and the air conditioning was on. Luckily we were in a place where friends and strangers could immediately rush to our aid. Still, I was distraught.

Ava, who had already been mid-tantrum before I locked the doors, was now screaming “help me, help me!” Tears were streaming down her face; she was too upset to listen to my instructions on how to unlock the car door so that I could get to her. On top of that, she was wearing just a t-shirt and underwear for *toddler reasons* that I won’t get into here. I was crying, she was crying. A kind dad whose daughter is in Ava’s class called an emergency locksmith. A friend ran inside to get a metal hanger and a screwdriver so we could pry the window open if worst came to worst. 

I had resigned myself to waiting for the locksmith or bashing in my car window, when the nearby security guard had a brilliant idea: she put a Bluey episode on her phone and pressed it to the car window, just above the door handle. Immediately, Ava stopped crying. Her attention shifted. 

“Come toward Bluey,” I said. Curious, she got up out of her seat and shifted toward the window. “Do you see the silver handle?” I asked. She nodded. “And the little black switch right next to the handle?” She nodded again. “Move the switch towards you.” And just like that, the car door was open and my child was in my arms.

The group of friends and strangers who had come to our aid cheered. The locksmith call was canceled, the hanger and screwdriver returned. Another parent offered her own locking-her-child-in-the-car horror story to soothe my guilt/mortification. Ava sniffled one last time and then smiled. “Bingo was being so silly,” she said, still captured by the surprise arrival of some unexpected screen time through the car window.

I wish I could say that our tears all turned to smiles for the rest of the evening, but that would be a lie. The day sucked for a multitude of reasons, but it wasn’t a total wash, because in the midst of chaos and distress, my community had responded with lightning quickness, good humor, and ingenuity. 

For weeks, I had placed my hope in the hands of the voters of Pennsylvania and Wisconsin when really I should have put my faith in my neighbors, the ones standing in line with me at the polling station, the ones rushing in to lend a helping hand. 

Blue voters living in red states know that there is no such a thing as a perfect political safe haven in America. Of course, there are states and cities with policies that are more accepting of women, children, LGTBQ+ people, and immigrants, but at the end of the day, the best and worst of us are all swimming in the same water in the same big pool. And if we’re all in the same big pool, it stands to reason that there are good people and good reasons to live in red states, good reasons to stay and fight the good fight.

I haven’t been much in the mood for pep talks or think pieces or re-hashing and finger-pointing. So, I’m not here to offer any of that to you today. In Mississippi, we’re used to heartbreak and worst case scenarios, so we’re going to keep doing what we’ve been doing. We’re going to stand up and show up for our neighbors, we’re going to take care of one another. Mississippi is home, and home is where our presence matters most. 

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Lauren Rhoades is a Mississippi transplant, pro-choice mom, and Eudora Welty fangirl. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of Rooted Magazine.