Turning to the Dark Side

My car key slid into the car lock after a few bumbling attempts but once securely in place no amount of twisting or turning would open the door. It was frozen shut. And so was the next. And the next.

The bus would be leaving in only two minutes and we couldn’t get in the car! Thinking quickly, I checked the back hatch door of the van and “voila!” it opened! Without hesitation, I scrambled inside, barking orders to my protesting son to follow behind me.

The engine sputtered to a start and anxious to back out of the driveway, I told my first born to simply stay in the back trunk and close the door behind him.

When we got to the bus stop, there to my great relief stood the bus, lights blinking red in the dark predawn morning and still taking passengers. We drove behind them, parked, and I told John to get out.

But he couldn’t.

There was no inside latch to open the back door. Incredulous, and with a shrill scream of panic, I began trying each of the car doors in turn but they were still frozen shut. I kicked them. I hit them with my hands but nothing would open. Looking helplessly on at the bus just feet before us I began wailing, "No! No!" as the bus began to pull away. Only a few precious feet were all that stood between my self-control and my son’s potential tardy slip.

Being the strong model of Christian motherhood I frantically pummeled the side door one last time, when a loud and regrettable explicative issued from the recesses of a clearly not-so-regenerated-soul.

Stunned, I turned to my son and apologized. And then remembered my cell phone. My husband, possessing great powers of deduction from the content of my words and tone of my voice realized this was no time to try reason. He told me not follow the bus to the high school but to wait until he could come and rescue us.

As if my brain had suddenly reconnected I realized the miracle of his words! I could still drive! Telling my son to strap in quickly, I raced the engine, ready to pull out of the parking lot and to salvage this no-good-terrible and very bad day.

Suddenly, as we began to move forward, interior car lights lit up the cabin and warning bells began to chime. “Door ajar” flashed red on the dash, signaling that while the doors may be frozen, most were now dangerously dislodged. No matter! Ensuring that my son was securely buckled in, we kept driving. Slowly.

After a few minutes of navigating turns and dodging traffic, lights still flashing and bells still chiming, we both began to laugh, the stress of the morning finally falling away along with the fear of the dreaded badge of disciplinary shame--a tardy slip. Relaxing, I began to feel the throbbing in my hands from the earlier poundings and the sting of my now-frozen bare toes still wriggling within the large and leathery confines of my husband’s shoes.

Then it hit me. I had my husband’s shoes. Moments later on my cell phone my very apologetic and timid voice was asking my spouse of 17 years if he had, by any chance, been looking for his shoes?Apparently, yes. For 15 minutes. I wanted to cry.

Finally reaching the high school, the thawed car doors of our van slid open to safely and punctually deposit my son. 15 minutes later, I returned the size 11 wides to their rightful owner who, somehow, through it all, was patient and kind beyond belief. All was well that ended well.

But the damage had been done. I couldn’t have been more flaxen-fair than if I had dipped my head in peroxide. Apparently there is no escaping my inner blonde.