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!

Don't forget to vote, top right of this post.

Posted by Laura

You Might Be a Back-Seat Driver if . . .

It never dawned on me as to how bad of a back-seat driver I have become until my 2YO started back-seat driving. Yes, a toddler exhorting: “Put on your seat belt, Daddy!” and “Slow down, Daddy!” Or “Red Light, Daddy!” Yes, Congratulations, this is the sign that you efficiently back-seat drive!

Perhaps you’ve found yourself OR someone you know guilty of more than one of the following:

1.) You grab your heart and gasp, “God help us!” at least once during a five minute drive to the store.

2.) Your nails, when not digging into your knees, are grasping the handle bar on the door or the bar on the car roof for extra security.

3.) You yelp “Wait!” or “Watch Out” or “Red Light!” periodically throughout each drive.

4.) The driver (in my case husband) tells you “Calm down,” “You’re overreacting,” or “Chill” multiple times per drive.

5.) In warning the driver of the upcoming red light, you try to yell “stop” but instead gibberish comes out: “ut tat tat tut da!” Hey, the important thing is that you got his attention.

6.) When your hands are not glued to the handle bar, they are pointing and gesturing to each stop sign, yellow light, and old man biking in spandex.

7.) You check the blind spots more than he does to the degree that you block his peripheral vision during right and left hand turns.

8.) Your toddlers know how to back-seat drive before they can ride a bike.

9.) Your husband/significant other puts his/her hand on your knee, but NOT as a romantic gesture, but instead to say, “I pray God delivers you from this anxiety.”

10.) Upon reaching the destination, he thinks: “You are the world’s worst back-seat driver!” She thinks, “You really need to learn how to drive!”

Look, don't feel bad about it. Don't live in denial. My husband tells me I excel at back-seat driving. Let's celebrate doing what we do so well.

Don’t forget to vote for me in the top mommy blogs by clicking to the right of this post! We’re # 2 in the humor category!

Oh, and don't forget to enter the thirty-one-gifts giveaway for your chance to win an awesome monogrammed purse for mother's day.

Posted by Laura