Sometimes we all do something that is embarrassingly foolish. Yesterday it happened to me and I've debated admitting to it online for the past 24 hours. It's not something I'm proud of, but in hindsight, it paints a rather funny picture.
In a hurry to deliver cupcakes, of all things, I carefully loaded them into the van taking great care to place them in the floorboard. I feared had I not, they would slide off the seat while driving and end up a confectionery mess. At the same time, I was shooing Cullen into the car, telling him we needed to hurry because I also had to be at a school in another town to pick up his sister by a certain time. He was jumping into the van as I was rushing around to get in. Hopping into the driver’s seat, I started the car while simultaneously buckling up. Throwing the van into reverse, I hit the gas---without looking. That's when I heard a loud *CRASH* and the van jerked to a stop.
What the heck? I hit the brakes.
That's when I remembered. My older son had parked our truck behind the van. I flung the car into park and glanced into my side view mirror fearing the worse. It was bad enough I'd hit the truck. Please don't roll. Please, please don't roll.
It began moving.
We live on a hill. I watched in horror as the truck began rolling down the driveway. I jumped from the van and began chasing it down the drive. I began to pray as I scanned the street both ways for people and vehicles. Thank Heaven it was clear. I look back now and wonder why I would chase it, because even if I could catch it, what would I do if I did?
It rolled as jauntily as any non-steered, out-of-control pickup truck would roll. I imagined a cartoon face on the front of it smiling maniacally at me while yelling, "I'M FREE AT LAST!" It narrowly missed taking out one of the dogwoods flanking the driveway and even more blessed, it avoided falling off the side of our drive and into our deep ditch. By miracle of angels, it avoided hitting both our mailbox and the neighbor’s across the street. It came to a roiling and bouncing halt across the street, in the neighbor’s front yard. The front end of the truck rested at an awkward angle in their ditch with the tail pointing toward their house.
Arriving at the scene, I was desperate to get the truck out of the neighbors yard and parked somewhere other than behind the van. Silently praying that no one had witnessed this debacle, I was opening the driver’s side door of the truck when a wide-eyed and shocked Cullen, who stood beside the van, a hundred or so feet away, yelled to me, "Permission to say 'SHIT'?"
Disbelieving my ears I yelled, "What did you say?"
Cupping his hands he yelled even louder, "I said permission to say 'SHIT'?"
I stood there, dumbfounded and at a loss, trying to process it all, wondering how on earth this could have happened. Lowering my shaking head I pondered, what the heck, just…just let it go.
"SURE, why not!" I yelled back.
He did…very loudly and quite clearly.