A cold morning. No pressing engagements. A mound of laundry and dishes to be done at leisure. Peace and quiet in the house. What a lovely prospect.
For about three minutes.
That’s the amount of time I had to revel in my Monday morning. Then my phone rang. My ringtone—the theme song from The Amazing Race—alerted me that it was one of my children calling. Before I answered I determined I would NOT bring up to school whatever it was that whoever forgot.
“Mom, we got hit,” my son said. They’d gone to pick up some neighbors for school today and while turning into the driveway from a busy street got hit from behind. Bumped, actually, when the car behind them got hit by the car behind them. I threw on a sweatshirt, jeans, and my house shoes and left. He’d said they were all okay, but this being my daughter’s first real accident, I wanted to make sure she covered all the bases—and I didn’t want anyone taking advantage of her or trying to pin the blame on her because she is a teenager.
By the time I got to the site the woman who bumped my daughter, a mom who was concerned that my kids get to school on time, had taken her phone number and sent her on since there was no damage to either car. But then the police arrived because the third car was smashed up pretty good. I waited around, again to protect my daughter’s interests. In the cold. With bedhead and unbrushed teeth. On the main road in our town. For over ½ an hour. Finally, I drove home, changed into real shoes and brushed my teeth then met the officer and my daughter at her school so he could take her statement and assess that she had no damage.
It all turned out fine. She has no blame in the situation and no damage to her car. But there went my peaceful Monday morning. Dare I hope for Tuesday?