Tomorrow will be the tenth day since we have seen Daddy around here. He had to catch the airplane back to the U.S. right in the middle of our Halloween party. He of course went to support his brother, but then tacked on a few days in Arizona to tend to some business like turning our pool back from green and brown to blue, and buying Christmas gifts.

Unfortunately this trip coincided exactly with the 10 day Vacances de Toussaints. Don't get me wrong, I love a nice break from school now and then, but 10 days alone with four children . . . uh, need I say more?

This post has nothing really to do with France, except that one character in the story is French and we live in France. No insights into French culture or language, unless you know what merde means. Normally I don't use dirty words, but in this case, I believe it is warranted.

The story begins simply enough. Ysabault called to make good on a playdate with Abby that I offered her last week. I needed to go to Auchan (mix between Super Target and Super Wal-Mart) to buy groceries, so we invited Ysabault along. Of course, that would mean I would have to drive the schoolbus, er, the Trafic. I hustled everyone outside to the change the carseat and get going before we all starved to death.

No sooner than I had placed my things in the front seat did I realize I did not have the key. One look in they key dish reminded me of the last time I had seen BOTH keys to the Trafic: In the hands of the mischievous nearly two year old who rules our roost. But that was days ago!

A full hour later, after scouring the house, the cars, the garden and the guest house, I was desperate. Unfortunately, the last place I saw Carter holding the keys was near the trash can, and I had taken the trash out to the big bin a few times already.

And this is where the merde comes in. I pulled the black bags one by one out of the bin and started my search. I cannot bear to tell you how disgusting my trash is, so I will cut right to the chase: NO KEYS. What a foul waste of time! But, what the heck, the recycling bin was standing right there, so why not take a look?

No more fooling around, I tipped the bin right over and was flooded with empty milk cartons, salsa jars, egg crates, and much to my delight, a black car key! A little more sifting and I found the other one, at which point I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

I suppose I got myself into this jam when I didn't immediately take the keys from my toddler. When you get around to your fourth kid or so, more than anything you don't want to listen to screaming. I think that's why the "baby" of the family turns out they way they do. Needless to say, a tired Mom alone with four kids is bound to do something stupid around day 5 or so.

But I've learned my lesson: If you leave things to your two year old, you're going to be in deep merde.