A Different "Busted!"

Every Thursday Sheri and I carpool across a narrow, hilly highway to a small town forty minutes away so our daughters can take piano lessons. This past Thursday, Sheri's Thursday to drive, she tended to a sick husband, dropped her daughter off at school, attended a meeting in Joplin, completed her "big" shopping, unloaded her groceries and etc., packed snacks, picked me up, loaded Hannah and her car seat into the Expedition and drove us to pick up the big girls from school. Whew!

Our Thursday trips have become better than therapy. We laugh and gripe and basically cut loose while our girls alternate between giggling and eavesdropping. Occasionally we fade the stereo to the back and crank it when the conversation leans towards rated R. This particular Thursday, though, Sheri was maybe a little spent. Gee, I wonder why. At least twice I grabbed those nifty handles Ford has placed near the passenger seat and applied imaginary brakes, to which Sheri asked, "Oh, sorry. Am I making you nervous?"

"No. No. It's just windy." Our Father, who art in Heaven...

The wind did whip us all over the road, but seriously...

Later, we discussed how Sheri's mother-in-law had found what they suspect was once a pear left in the back-back seat from piano lesson day...three weeks earlier. Those #@*! Solomons! Just as we instructed the girls to pick up every last crumb, I dropped my own cracker...somewhere. I guess we know where the little girls get it.

The drive home was slightly better from a passenger's point of view. However, just outside of Altamont I dropped an entire handful of crackers all over the front seat. I swear, I don't do well under pressure. Sheri decided at that time to try to find her cameraphone, joked around taking a picture, and failed to pay attention to her driving. She looked in her rearview mirror and said something like, "I'm not getting pulled over. I'm getting pulled over!"

As she pulled off the side of the road she asked, "Do you girls have your seatbelts on?"

"We do, but Hannah doesn't."

"Oh crap." Then we begin scream whispering, "Hannah. Hannah! Get under the seatbelt. Get. under. the. seatbelt. now," as if the police officer might have heard us had we spoken with normal voices. Of course, Hannah doesn't do well under pressure either. I don't know if she ever got her seatbelt back on before the officer arrived at the window.

"Do you know why I've stopped you?" Why do they ask that? Do they think we'll say, "Yes, officer. I was going 42 in a 20. I deserve a ticket, don'tcha think?"

I don't remember Sheri's answer, but I do remember she was doing 40 in a 30. Not a big deal. He offered to issue only a warning, but still needed proof of insurance. That's where the real comedy began. I handed over the little yellow envelope and Sheri started pulling out proofs of insurance like clowns out of a silly car.

"Um, that's 2006, ma'am."

"Oh, wait. I have current insurance. Here," Sheri said, her hands shaking like she had a severe case of Parkinson's. She handed him the insurance.

"That's 2007, ma'am. Do you have 2008 in there?"

At this point I was attacked by the giggles, which I suppressed. She finally located the 2008 insurance, he walked back to his car, she rolled up the window and we busted up laughing. "SShhhh!!!" I felt like a silly 16-year-old.

After the police officer sent us on our way, Sheri kept the Expedition between the lines. I haven't let loose that many endorphins in a long time.