And that'd be your first mistake.
This face belongs to the child who, no matter how high or how cleverly you hide it, can and will locate the crippled remote lock to your 1997 beater car (the car that you love anyway because it's paid off and it fits your butt like a well-worn catcher's mitt) and engage both lock and alarm, and then simultaneously "lose" the remote and disengage its battery.
So that when you FINALLY get your sad-sack, IDON'TWANNAGOBACKTOSCHOOLMAMAI'LLMISSYOUTOOMUCH kindergarten kid fed, dressed, tooth-brushed, hair-styled, booted, scarved, mittened, jacketed and backpacked and ready to get into the car for the ride to the bus stop in the TWELVE DEGREE WEATHER, you can't get into the car, because it's locked, alarmed and poised to throw a holy hissy fit if anyone (that anyone, of course, being your sad-sack kindergartener who is already tearful and pathetic) innocently and obediently touches a door handle to climb inside.
And of course, you won't be able disarm the car, because on the one hand, you can't find the remote, (WHERE IS THE REMOTE, PEABODY? you shout above the din of the alarm and the shrieking of the terrorized kindergartener. I NO NOOOOOO, MAMA! he sings back, smiling gleefully.) And on the other hand, even if you should find the remote, say, an hour later after you have rushed your sad-sack and now completely terrorized kindergartener down the street to get on the bus as she trembles and weeps pitifully, and returned to flip the entire house upside down and shake it furiously, you won't be able to use it, because its battery will be dead.
And so you will be forced, as the deafening honking and blaring continue out in your garage, to listen to language that you haven't heard spoken since your Dad one time cut off the tip of his finger while using the table saw out in his garage.
And you will be further startled to determine, after several looped repetitions of these enormously creative angry epithets, that they're spewing from your own mouth.
Ah, but finally, in a moment of brilliance, you'll brutally dismantle your last working garage remote with implements you find in your nail-care box, as vile words continue to issue from your mouth, and you'll rip out its battery, place it in the car's remote, removing and replacing it several times over to get it jiggled into the correct position to restore functionality, and you will finally, and firmly, shut off the blasted car alarm.
Then, and only then, you will breathe a long, slow, shuddering sigh of resignation and relief and sit down to blog about the whole experience.
Whereupon that same cherubic face will appear at your side, covered above and below in baby powder, and its teeny, sweet-looking white-caked lips will part, and it will chirp out in a baby-fresh scented cloud, HI MAMA. YOU WIDDEW #$@&^%!