License and Registration please

My oldest son will be 23 next month. (You're right! I don't look old enough to have a 23 year old. Thanks for noticing!) One of my favorite stories regarding him has to do with when he got his first traffic ticket. The kicker to the story is that he was only 20 MONTHS old. Months, not years.

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My boy was, what we called then, a handful. We now call it ADHD. He was hyperactive in the womb and still is. From the moment he could motorvate around, he climbed. And climbed. Monkey George (what Silas calls Curious George) had nothing on him. There were many times that I rescued him from atop the fridge, the dining room table, even the top of the kitchen cabinets. This is at not even two years old, mind you. This kid could run at 11 months old.

Needless to say he was a master escape artist. I learned quickly to lock every door. He learned just as quickly to unlock them. He climbed over the baby gates, went around blockades, and climbed out of his crib. One morning I was slumbering merrily away and all was safe and sound, so I thought. I suddenly woke with this undeniable feeling that "something is WRONG!!" I sprang up out of bed (I was only 20, I could still spring) and ran to the Dude's nursery. Empty crib, pounding heart. I quickly run down the hall, checking each room as I go. All deserted. Down the stairs, front door is standing open.*

*a quick aside to let you know what had to happen in order for the front door to be standing open. This kid had to climb out of his crib, open his nursery door, climb down the stairs, get a chair and push it to the door, climb up on it, reach up and turn the deadbolt, get down, move the chair, open the door. Did I mention he has a genius IQ level? Back to the story.

I run to the door looking around wildly for this child. No where in sight. I had a very large front yard with the driveway about 100' feet away from the front door. He's not in sight so I run around to the back yard where the playground is. Deserted. Heart in throat, I gingerly approach the pool. The gate is still locked but he's a climber. I go through and the alarm sounds (sweet relief) but I check anyway. I collapse in an internal heap as the pool is clear.

At this point I should mention that it is close to 6 am (that's in the MORNING), I am in my nightshirt, and since this is 1987 we're talking about here, my hair is approximately two feet high by four feet wide. My mascara has run down to my knees and I'm barefoot. I am also constantly screaming my son's name. I return to the front yard and I spy my car. My new (NEW) Iroc Z. Blue, in case you were wondering. I am drawn toward the car. Did I mention it's new? Yes? As in, got the day before new? Ok, moving on. I gravitate hesitantly toward the car. I spy movement. In the car and OF the car. OH MY DOG, the car is moving!!!!

Poppets, I put it in high gear then. I have never, nor will I ever run that fast again. I take off at a sprint toward the car, which has just started drifting backwards. I lived at the top of a hill, and gravity, it works. The car is gaining speed, but still, barely at a roll. I reach it when it just starts to pick up to a fast clip. I lunge for the door handle. I see the Dude, grinning up at me from the steering wheel. It seems he has an attraction to mommy's new car too. He's apparently come out to do some driving. He liked to stand on the bottom of the steering wheel and hold onto the top. This way he could turn his whole body like a carnival ride. He was also shifting gears. Like out of park and into neutral, hence the rolling. But it's not rolling too fast yet! There's time still! I grab the door handle. LOCKED! Who in the hell taught the kid to lock the doors? How'd he even get the door open? How'd he shut it once he got in? Those doors are heavy. Are you gonna stand here asking questions or are you gonna stop this car? I grab onto the mirror simply because there's nothing else to do. And I have to do something. He turns the wheel by throwing his body to the left (he's having a ball), so the car actually backs around so it's heading down the driveway frontwards now. The very steep driveway, with a straight drop off to one side that I will NOT LET MY SON PLUNGE OVER IF IT MEANS I HAVE TO PICK THIS CAR UP! I throw myself in front of the car and push on the front because I will stop this car.

I didn't stop that car. It ran over me. Well, over my right leg to be exact. and proceeded on it's merry way right down the driveway. The steep driveway. But not the drop off. I managed to push on the tire and turn the wheel while laying on the driveway. I jumped back up and took off after the car. But wait, I'm not getting anywhere. Shit on a cracker, my stupid leg isn't working right. Somehow (I'm not sure how) I get the bottom of the drive, where the car has jumped the curb, crossed two lanes of traffic and is sitting nose down over a bank, resting up against a tree.
I am swiftly approaching the border to hysteria at this point. My baby is in that car and I can't get him. I cannot articulate the helplessness. I get to the car and see him in the passenger side floorboard. The doors are still locked, of course they are. I go around to the drivers side window and I use my elbow to smash it and smash it and smash it and dammit why won 't it break I can't get to my baby. Finally! I reach in and unlock the doors, go back around to the passenger side dragging my stupid useless leg and get my baby. He's fine. He's not even crying. I crumple with relief, the adrenalin finally ebbing or at least not dumping into my system anymore. He's fine, he's not hurt, he's not crying. He's smiling and babbling, see? he's fine, it's ok. He's saying vroom vroom car go. Yes baby, car goes vroom vroom.

The police have arrived now. They have called for an ambulance. But he's fine I say. Not even a bump. Yes he is says the nice policeman. He gets the registration from the car and calls my father. There is a muffled conversation that I don't hear. I don't care. He's fine. It's ok. The ambulance arrives and the EMT tries to take my baby. Oh, no. No, I don't think so. He's fine. We're fine. I have failed to notice that I am sitting in the middle of a road, bleeding copiously from gashes on my elbow and knee. That I am hysterical, but calming down slowly. (Really, who knows when they're hysterical? Isn't that the very definition of hysterical?) They talk me through letting them put him in the ambulance as long as I can go with him. Well, alright then. As long as I can go too. They nod smugly. They strap me down to the gurney and off we go. They decide I don't need a sedative since I'm so admirably accompanying my baby to the hospital.

By the time the hysteria leaves me completely, the pain sets in. I have shattered my elbow and broken my leg. I have lost a considerable amount of skin from all over and injured my back. My car (did I tell you it was new?) sustained major front end damage which the insurance declined to cover. But my baby? He was fine.

The police officer came to the hospital. He gave me a ticket for the Dude charging him with driving without a license and attempted vehicular momslaughter. I still have it framed. and the Dude? He's still fine.