Hi, Mr. Policeman: Now Mommy Needs a Diaper Change

I was only on the road two minutes from home when I spotted those fear-inducing flashing blue lights from behind. “Oh, God, please have mercy! Please, please, please, pleeeeeease, help!” I yelp much like a guilty Chihuahua squeaking at its master’s feet, seeking forgiveness for messing on the new white couch. But there came that officer marching right up to my car window with frowning eyes that spoke, you’re in deep, sky-high doodoo.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” He asks in a tone—you know, that condescending tone that reminds you of getting pulled into the principal’s office in grade school. That daunting question was surely as loaded and ready to fire as the officer’s gun. Answer wrong, and you’re in trouble; answer right, you’re still in trouble. Big trouble to say the least.

“How fast was I going?” I ask, the lump in my throat pulsating out of my neck.
“You were going 60 in a 45. That’s on top of cutting me off, failing to fully stop at the stop sign, and not signaling!”

You hand over your license with trembling slippery fingers. That’s when you can’t control the palpating heartbeat and potentially onset of cardiac arrest. You debate if you should call 911 and quite frankly, you would if the operator could guarantee NOT to send this officer who just snatched your license away. As he walks away to the patrol car to determine your fate, you stutter, “I’m soooorry. I don’t have any other tickets on my record.” Did he even hear you and does it even matter? He didn’t look impressed—well, at least the back of his head didn’t—that’s all you saw.

And then comes the painful two-minute period of waiting and waiting. And waiting some more. Those eternal two minutes where the officer has your license and you’re almost hyperventilating, almost needing a change of clothes because of almost peeing in your pants and sweating so profusely that your shirt is soaked—well, almost.

What will he say? How many points will this one be! Why is he taking so long! Wait, did I remember hearing that if you speed 15 over they will revoke your license? Or is it 20 over? Oh, the court bill! Lawyer fees! The insurance increase! And please, toddler girl, please just be quiet right now as mommy is having a moment here. Yes, Mommy was going to fast.

And then you also think, why wasn’t anyone back-seat driving for me! I mean really, to think of all those times I have so graciously lended my driving skills to help a friend and spare them the same predicaments. Get behind the wheel; you’re on your own. Well almost.

That’s when I prayed even harder if you can call begging a prayer. It was more like, “mercy, mercy, mercy, mercy, mercy. Please give it. I need some mercy.” But if faith the size of a mustard seed can move a mountain, could my microscopic-is-it-even-there faith to be helped even move a piece of gravel. THIS mistake, the mistake of speeding and cutting off an officer, this is not one you get out of. THIS was a mistake I deserved a ticket for, so much more so the fact that there are children in the car. I mean really. I’m usually the driving-Miss-Daisy kind of chauffer: smooth sailing, careful navigation, slower than necessary speeds—well, at least that’s how I describe it. But, I guess everyone has his/her moments. Why did mine have to happen in front of a police officer!

So then I see the officer in my mirror walking back to the car. By this point, I’m wishing I really was hyperventilating or crying—I mean let there be some kind of physical manifestation to stir up his compassion. Instead I have a big ole zit on my chin to greet him in the window, frizzy hair (as I explained earlier it was either make-up or hair today not both), and a scratchy stuttering voice that tells him of my lack of tickets as he’s walking away. Where are some good tears when you really need them! They will of course only appear after he hands me a big ticket!

Well, that’s when the UNTHINKABLE happens. He walks up to the window, hands me my license and says, have a nice day. WHAT? WHAT! Really! He decided to give me a warning. That’s when Melodramommy realizes she needs a shovel to scrape her jaw off the car floor so she can drive away and be thankful. That’s when Mommy can’t help rolling down the windows and yelling, “Thank you Jeeeeeeesus!” but this time only driving 44 miles an hour. That’s when Mommy herself needs a diaper change!

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Posted by Laura