Motherhood has changed that. Apparently, since V isn't yet old enough to drive and worry momma, I've transferred all the crazy onto her dad, and V doesn't even need to be in the car with him! Call it a practice run for when she's sixteen. It used to drive me nuts to get home from a lovely bike ride only to be faced with an answering machine full of messages because my mother heard that a couple were in a motorcycle accident somewhere in the greater city area, so you know, obviously it was us. And yet I now find myself trying, and failing to restrain myself from calling hubby when I hear of an accident within 14kms of the area he might be at.
And yet now I hear of a car accident in the boonies near where hubby works and I suddenly think the fact that he's two hours late and not answering his cell (duh, it's the boonies) means he's dead on the road somewhere. Not just that he's two hours late every night and most nights I don't hear about car accidents and don't worry. Instead I start wondering where his organ donor card is, where the keys to the safety deposit box are, if I know all his banking info, and wondering why we didn't pre-pay our funerals. (I just said wondering, I don't actually go looking for or find them, because then what would I worry about the next time?)
But this morning takes the cake, and this is where you are my therapy. Hubby took V to nursery school this morning. The main road outside of our 'burb is a shithole mess. They've decided to re-pave and re-sidewalk AND re-move, no wait remove, all of the bus lay-bys at the same time, so our major artery has turned into a major parking lot. Getting to the school now includes dueling with the assholes that can clearly see the lane closures ahead (because you just did) but decide to drive on at full speed and force you out of your lane at the last moment, and the lovely left hand turn across traffic into the parking lot. I'll never understand why the on-coming jerks won't let you cross, it's not like you're impeding their being stopped at the gridlock, or *gasp* taking up a car length in their lane, you're simply crossing their damn lane. Glad you got to wait that 10 minutes out 10 feet closer to your goal are you?
Whoa - back on track. I expected it to take a while for the drop off. Then a while turned into a while longer. Then I made the mistake of listening to the news where they announced an accident in the north-bound lane of said artery. The logical side of me went, 'well that's what's taking him so long to get back'. The freaking, screaming maniac went 'OMFG - they've been in an accident! How quickly can I get showered? Should I drive or run? Where is his organ donor card? Do I have his insurance info? AAAAHHHH!' So here I sit typing this instead, waiting for him to get home, because the alternative is me running through the 'hood in my jammies and I think I'll save that gem for when V's old enough to be mortified by the thought.