"Daddeeeeeeee, where's my chicken pot pie? I want my chicken pot pieeeeeeeeeeee."
Diego was throwing a tantrum. It was one of those tantrums that his teacher would be shocked to see; I'm told that my first grade students who behave wonderfully in class still behave this way at home on occasion.
"I don't know, I'm looking for it. It isn't in this freezer, and I checked the garage freezer. Be patient. Let me check this one again. Maybe its underneath something in here."
As I rummaged behind the frozen peas and underneath the ice packs, Diego stopped in mid-cry. "Oh! I just remembered. It's in the car."
"The car? Why is it in the car?" I wondered out loud.
"It put it in the middle thing last week when we went to the grocery store. And I left it there."
"Oh, boy. Let's go look." We went back to the garage, opened the back door of the car, and I pulled down the armrest. As I opened it, a deadly gas hit me in the face. Chicken pot pie gas. Chicken pot pie gas that was formed during the hottest week of the year, during which the inner temperature of my car surpassed 130 degrees. Every day.
"Oh! Gaaaaaaaa! Yuck! Awww!" I gagged.
Diego looked, sniffed, and said, "Oooooofffff."
And then he continued his tantrum.
"I still want my chicken pot pieeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!"