When Liz was about two years old, we went to a Christmas party. This party was at a house way up in the mountains, on a dirt road that had been covered in snow for weeks. I had a car with 4WD, so the drive up there was no problem…but then it was time to go home.
As soon as I nosed the car on to the road, I slid. I slammed on the brakes. The anti-lock did what it was supposed to do, but the ice was solid, so the brakes were making a razz noise at me while I was cussing up a pollution. We hit a patch of snow. I was able to sink my tires in and get enough traction to push us forward as opposed to sideways, but that was about all. I started sliding again. I slammed on the brakes again, got razzed again, and tested the limits of my colorful vocabulary again.
I was able to pull out of the second slide and realign my car with the road. By then, I was dropping F-bombs left and right.
From the back seat, two year old Liz piped up, “Don’t say fuck, Mom! Be brave! Be HAPPY!”