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I could really use some extra brain cells to help me remember where I keep leaving all my things: my keys, the kids' gloves, stamps and the checkbook. You name it—I've probably lost it at least once. However, on this particular day, I lost my debit card. If someone else used it, the money would immediately come out of my checking account! With a time bomb of financial ruin ticking in my head, I bundled up my two small children and dragged them to the bank one snowy afternoon.

After my 3-year-old daughter had ceremoniously placed her bottom in every chair in the waiting area (twice), the nice lady with a desk by the vault finally called us. She was enamored with my two children, whose angelic faces belie their strong-willed nature. When I explained what happened, she asked me for my account number to access the system.

"I don't know it by heart," I admitted, wishing those extra brain cells would kick in.

"OK, then, what's your social security number?"

Although the number I kept repeating was close to my social security number, it wasn't quite right. By this point, the banker's smile was fading. Fortunately, my 9-month-old son has big blue eyes and long dark lashes—and he knows how to use them. He smiled at her. And she brought up my account.

"Next you need to select a design for your new debit card." She handed me a laminated paper containing a number of options. In situations where the outcome really doesn't matter, I let my daughter make the choice to help her learn to make decisions. We looked at the options together. She decided the new debit card would have a country scene—complete with a barn and a horse.

As we waited for the banker to complete the paperwork, my daughter cried out, "Mom, we got a bomb, right?"

The banker's eyes grew as large as saucers—I don't think "bomb" is a word that's welcomed in a bank, a few feet away from its vault.

"No honey, we're getting a bank card," I answered emphatically.

"And a bomb!" she cried gleefully.

At this point, the other tellers eyed us suspiciously as I secretly wished I had changed my shirt and combed my hair before I left home (as if that would have made a difference). And I thought how embarrassed I'd be if they wanted to search my purse and found snot-filled tissues and half-eaten chicken nuggets.

I looked at the teller, who was obviously feeling uncomfortable, and I apologized. "I have no idea what she's talking about." She smiled … but did she believe me?

When an important-looking man in a dark suit came by to check if everything was OK, my overactive imagination began conjuring up scenes of security guards escorting us to a back room. Just as I was trying to figure out how I would push the stroller wearing handcuffs, the teller mercifully finished our transaction. I gave her a thankful but embarrassed smile, grabbed my daughter's hand and led my brood out of the bank.

Once we were all buckled in the car, I turned to my daughter. "Now, sweetie," I said, "We don't have a bomb … we're not getting a bomb. And I don't even know why you would know what a bomb is."

"Baaaaaahhm—it's where the cows and piggies live."

It hit me like a ton of bricks. She was excited about the debit card with the barn scene we'd picked out. I immediately took out my cell phone and called my husband to say, "Perhaps we should reconsider those speech lessons."

Elaina Romano credits her two precocious children with keeping her on her toes. She works as a freelance copywriter and serves as the Co-Hospitality Coordinator for her MOPS group at the Dix Hills Evangelical Free Church in Huntington Station, New York.

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