Mr. Officer

Rain and hail were hitting my car in one of those weird, August, West-Michigan storms. Noon time was approaching and I had to be home soon, our lunch time visit with my husband had taken a bit longer than usual. Just like the rest of society, I am on a time crunch and have got to get home!

As I went around the curve approaching the river bridge I slowed to a crawl, once out of the curve I quickly moved the odometer needle to 75 in a 35 mile per hour zone. Topping the hill, much to my dismay was a police officer lying in wait. I turned to my daughters and said, “Oops, Mom’s busted.” 

I didn’t even wait for the officer to pull out; I just pulled over and waited for him to pull up to where I had finally come to a rest. I can hear my nine-year-old in the back seat whimpering in fear. My twelve and sixteen year olds are chastising me on my poor judgment; at least they did until the officer approached my window.

I opened the window just a crack so no rain or hail would come into the car. “Roll your window down, Ma’am.”

“I just did, Sir.”

“Roll it all the way down,” he yelled through the crack.

“I don’t want to ruin the interior of my car,” I said, thinking the officer would understand.

“Ma’am, roll the window all the way down.”

“Fine!” I say like a stubborn kid not getting his own way.

“Ma’am, I clocked you doing 75 in a 35. Can you tell me what the rush is?”

I give a bit of a giggle as an answer came to mind. “Well, see, Mr. Officer, my girls and I had chili for dinner last night and the beans have us all gassed up. The four of us are trapped in this airtight car, just farting like crazy. I was only trying to outrun our skid marks.”

“I fail to find any humor in this, Ma’am!”

“Oh my God, Mom,” my sixteen year old whispers, “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Ma’am, I need your license, insurance, and registration.”

I hand him all the documents as I smile with pride in my very original excuse for speeding.

“I’ll be back in a few moments,” he said, still not smiling back.

The girls and I sat silently for a few seconds before I finally spoke, “I guess I’m not as funny as I used to be.”

“Ya know, Mom, people would give you a lot more respect if you could take serious situations with less sarcasm and a lot more common sense!”

I can’t believe I’m being lectured by my sixteen year old daughter. “You know, you’re probably right, I’m going to go back to his car right now and tell him the truth.”

All three of my daughters murmured agreement so I exited the car.

“Ma’am,” the officer yelled over the rain pounding our vehicles. “Get back in your car.” I kept going. “Ma’am, I said, get back in your car!”

“But, I just want to tell you the truth,” I yelled as I continued my advancement towards him.

“Ma’am,” the officer said as he rested his hand on his gun, “get back in your car, now.

I was about three feet from him when I saw him draw his gun. I immediately raised my hands so he could see they were empty and walked backwards until I reached my car. I got in as fast as I could and all three children were crying.

“It’s okay, he didn’t shoot, and everything is fine. When he comes back with my documents I’ll tell him the truth.”

As I completed my sentence the officer returned. “Here are your documents Ma’am,” he said as he rested his hand on his gun. “Now what was so important that you almost had me shooting you?”

“Sir, I just want to tell you the truth, I wasn’t trying to outrun our skid marks. I just have to be home by noon so I can find out if I won the Writer’s Cramp writing contest on Writing dot com.”

“And you risk your children’s life for that?”

“Yes Sir. The critiquing is amazing, so even if I lose, I still win. This is a huge part of my life and I have to know how I did!”

“Ma’am, you were doing more than twice the legal speed limit for a writing contest? Please step from your vehicle.”

“Yes, Sir.” As I got out of the car I saw him pulling out his handcuffs.

“Ma’am, you have the right to shut up, but you can write down everything and enter it into a competition after you see the judge.”

“But, my kids? What about my children?”

“We’ll take care of them, you care more about your writing than you do them anyway, so it’s only fitting I tear up the ticket I wrote for you and send you to jail.”

I stood in the rain rethinking my entire stand on writing and my children. Balance is key, and slowing down so I don’t kill anyone.