A Dent in the Night

Nothing makes your heart pound quite like the phone call in the middle of the night (hey, midnight is late for most folks) from your 18 year old son who has gone out with friends. Now that my son, Mr. Happy, is a college student, I don't have a curfew for him. In fact, I rarely hear him come in from his almost nightly escapades. No need to remind me that this won't qualify me for mother of the year (I am still waiting to just be nominated because the thought would mean so much to me) but I trust him. Really, I do.

At 12:07 a.m., the phone roused me out of a deep sleep. And on the other end of the phone, I could hear Mr. Happy's voice. But it sounded little. And scared.

Mr. Happy: Mom. There is a little problem. Just a little situation. I'm not sure what to do. I really don't know what I should do. (For the love God, tell me... tell me... tell meeeee......)

Me: Are you ok? What happened? (Thump, thump, thump goes the heartbeat in the ears.)

Mr. Happy: Uh... ummm.... (Oh my friggin God! Just say it already! Are all your limbs attached? Can you breathe through your pie hole?)

Me: What is it? What is it?

Mr. Happy: My car is gone. (Really? Not in a crash... but GONE?!)

Me: What do you mean? (In my defense, my IQ is lower until I've had a shot of caffeine.)

Mr. Happy: Uhh.... I had my friend bring me back to my car and it isn't here anymore. (Wha?! The car is missing?)

Me: Where are you? (For some reason, pictures of him in a rough, gang-riddled neighborhood flashed in my head.)

Mr. Happy: I'm at Target. (Really? At Target? Where they have video cameras filming the parking lot?)

Me: I'm on my way. Go ahead and call 911.

Mr. Happy: You aren't mad? (Sadly, what flashed before my eyes were moments when I had been mad at him.)

Me: No, baby. You can't be responsible for what a car thief did. (The stupid, rotten, low-life thief... How dare you make my child feel bad! And how dare you remind me of my less than glorious moments in motherhood. May you rot in a car graveyard hell!)

This post is in memory of a cute, little red '03 Toyota Matrix with 100,000 miles. May your tires attract nails and may your engine explode.