Moose And Black Ice

Having lived in the Midwest since I was 5, I am accustomed to brutal winters. I really don’t mind them so much, although, given the option to move to Hawaii, I’d trade my Uggs for a lei faster than you can say “Waikiki Beach.” But, for now, like typical Midwesterners, we make do, don our winter woolies, whine and complain to our neighbors, and get through the coldness like soldiers. Soon enough it’ll be spring again.

But the worst thing about the winter, in my humble opinion, is the hazardous driving conditions the bad weather brings. This morning was one of those times when we opted to stay home all day because of the blizzard the night before. We’d been “living” at church for the past four days for Little Squirt’s long rehearsals. He was in the children’s choir as part of the two-night Christmas show. He was tired from being out late several nights in a row, and we were tired. I canceled a church meeting, and we decided to enjoy a comfortable Sabbath at home in front of the cheery fireplace.

But Rock Star begged to go to church. He wanted to drive himself, but I was a bit leery. There was a few inches of snow on the ground, and the winds were howling. I worry about my teens when they drive in the winter. As an aside, I also worry about my teens when they don’t drive in the winter. I worry about my teens in general, no matter what they are doing or not doing. Somebody’s got to do the worrying in the family, and I do it really well. So it’s become my job. In character, I told Rock Star, “No.” No driving today.

But he continued imploring. He wanted to go to his youth group and see his friends there. Please, couldn’t he take the car? He’d gotten up early and showered, even. Super Hubs backed him up and said the roads seemed to be clear. It was two against one. So I thought and I worried and I thought some more. And I felt guilty about saying no. It wasn’t as if Rock Star wanted to take the car to hit the strip bars. He wasn’t asking to pick up supplies to make crystal meth with his friends. He’s a good kid who simply wanted to go to church on the morning after a blizzard, and he promised he’d drive carefully. And what good parent doesn’t allow their teenager to go to church? So I relented. But then I lectured him on everything I could remember about winter driving. I covered black ice and defrosters, driving into a skid and avoiding moose collisions, just for good measure. I could have passed as an employee of the DMV with my safety tips. My anxiety melted away as Rock Star nodded his head intelligently. Who was I kidding? He probably only heard, “Blah blah blah blah blah blah.”

He drove off with the car, promising to text me upon arrival. Twenty minutes went by. Then another ten. I texted him, “R u there yet?” The clock ticked, my anxiety rose, and then Super Hubs received a text. Rock Star had hit some black ice on a side street close to church. The car fishtailed, and hit a fire hydrant. The bumper was smashed on one side. He was otherwise fine, but shaken.

Super Hubs drove to church to bring him home, and then took the car to the shop. As Rock Star came in the door, I bit my tongue to keep from saying, “I told you it wasn’t a good idea to drive today!” Instead, I hugged my tearful son, feeling so grateful he hadn’t hit a semi or gotten badly hurt. Bumpers can be repaired.

But the whole point of my post is this: In the animal kingdom, the injured member of the pack is viewed as a liability to the other members. The weak one is often left behind or killed by the members. But not in my little pack. In a crisis, my kids come through for each other. Little Squirt, horrified that his big brother was in a car accident, weepily made him a card, covered with hearts: “You are my buthr. I dont wot you to git hurt. P.S. I wish you a mare Crismus.” Butterfly called her bro from college, speaking words of encouragement and advisement, as only big sisters can do.

I’m proud of my little pack. Rock Star felt the love.