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Ten years ago, when our firstborn was a new baby, she projectile spat up on my MacBook, delivering a fatal blow to my only computer. Newly living on one meager income, we couldn’t afford to replace it. My husband agreed to let me use his MacBook, with the promise that I wouldn’t use it around our baby, who would do her best impersonation of a fountain several times a day.
Literally the next day, our daughter fried my husband’s computer in the same manner she destroyed mine. My husband was not thrilled (this is an understatement), and I brought his computer to at best get repaired, or at least have its data salvaged, at a local computer store. A week later, we were told they could do neither, and that I would have to come pick it up.
We were sharing one car, so I walked to the computer repair store with our baby in a stroller. On our way home with the computer stored under the stroller, a torrential downpour began. I ran inside with the baby, forgetting the computer under the stroller outside.
If there was any hope of salvaging the computer