The night I got my driver’s license and the police pulled me over (on that windy and dark and wet road) and when the officer came to my window, I asked politely, “Was I going to fast officer?” and he said, “No, miss, you were going too slow.”
My Dad driving me around, turning on “Oldies 98,” (which by the way, now plays songs from when I was a child) and how he would dance with the intention of sending me into a full state of embarrassment, but always with my smiles and, “Oh, Dads!” from the backseat.
Traveling from eastern Pennsylvania to Ohio, in my busted-hood, green Chevy Cavalier, on my way to surprise my (still to this day) best gal pal for her 21st birthday, just knowing and waiting for the moment she would see me in her dorm room.
My then three year old son barfing all over himself and the inner parts of the car seat buckle and base, my oldest screaming and then laughing, as my husband dry heaved in the parking lot while I cleaned everyone and everything up. Alone.
Just the two of us in the car, when he told me how lucky we both were, to have each other, the kids, and our life.