I’m quite swamped at the moment, so I’m re-running an old favorite post I stumbled upon while searching for something in my blog archives. For those who don’t know, because it’s been off the road for several years, I have a 1967 Mustang. Just a little inline-6 coupe, not the “Eleanor”, but I love her. On with the rerun…
From May 23, 2007:
In other news, here’s a little convo I had with the tall kid yesterday:
The setup: We’re in the Mustang, on our way to pick up the short kid from school. I was aggravated because our genius town personnel and police department decided to repaint crosswalks and traffic lines—-necessitating the rerouting and general screwing up of traffic—during our town’s rush hours (2:30-5). As we’re finally making our way across the main street, I hear a clunk, and there’s now a metal…something, sitting on the center console.
Tall kid: What’s that?
Me: Who knows? The car’s forty years old. Stuff’s gonna fall off now and then.
Tall kid: Isn’t that the button you have to push to put it in gear?
Me: Oh…crap. Yes
Tall kid: What does that mean?
Me: It means I can’t put the car in park.
Tall kid: How are we going to get [the short kid]?
Me: (realizing the tall kid doesn’t know enough about old cars to know it’s not that big a deal) You can hang out the window, grab him and drag him in as I go by.
A couple of minutes pass, during which I assume the tall kid has mentally returned to his home planet, where the sound of Mom’s voice is akin to a mosquito’s buzz.
Tall kid: What if his backpack hangs up and I drop him and the back tire runs him over?
OMG, I was dying. The child thought I was literally putting his little brother’s life in his hands. I’m such a bad mom.