What the...

I mentioned that in a house hold of three teenage drivers I get little drive time. I also mentioned that my well loved burgundy-red Suburban is no longer my own. It reeks of sweaty sports gear, and boy cologne, where I once kept car activities, diaper wipes and socks so my fellow shoppers didn't think I was one of, "Those Moms" there are now multiple sticks of deodorant, toothbrushes and homework assignments due last May. My CD collection has mysteriously disappeared and the replacement CD's are played at volumes measured in megahertz not decibels. Worst is the gas tank, it hasn't been full for two years now.

I cleaned it all out a few weeks ago, filled the tank, restored the diaper wipe stash and headed out of town with my three little boys for a summer get-away. The red-gold setting sun lit our way, the windows were down letting in the evening air, my tunes were playing, the little ones singing along. I congratulated myself on reclaiming my vehicle so efficiently.

A few miles down the road I reached beneath the seat for my bottle of Figi water and felt something unfamiliar, a handle?

I grasped and pulled it out. Instantly, like a twist in a bad horror movie, I'm driving down one of the countries most conservative, safe stretches of I15, evening breezes in my hair, little ones singing, the setting sun glinting off the blade of the 12 inch hunting knife gripped, psycho killer style, in my suburban, soccer mom fist.

What the... and I just may have used the last word of that phrase.