To the man with a white beard and a lead foot in the old station wagon,

Hi, I’m the crazy woman who kicked your car. I’m sure you found out by now that I didn’t dent it. I aimed my kick at the guard panels on the side. You see, my hands were somewhat busy maneuvering a double stroller containing both of my daughters. The Baby, she’s one, and the Girl? is 4. If my hands were free I would have used them to bang on your windows and yell instead, but I only had a foot to spare.

You were really shocked when you heard the loud thump coming from your passenger side. Your wife looked downright terrified. Because I and my three children coming home from the library look like such thugs. I guess you didn’t see me standing there when you came barreling out of the Chili’s/Olive Garden parking lot. Of course, the stop line is about 5 feet behind where the nose of your car first came to a stop, so I guess you didn’t see that either. You also apparently failed to notice that you almost ran us over. You may still be unaware of that fact. It’s a good thing I have quick reflexes, and I approach the entry of that drive with caution. Because if I had been going any faster, and not paying attention as you were not, I don’t think I would have been able to pull my two little girls out of the way of your car in time.

I’m used to stupid drivers. I’m used to people not paying attention. I have stood before and watched as a preoccupied driver stares to their left, waiting for a break in traffic and a chance to turn, completely oblivious to my presence on the sidewalk. I wait for it. I wait for the moment, just before they turn right when they look to their right and back to their left before moving forward, and then watch the visible shock on their face as they see me, and my children for the first time as we don’t cross because they aren’t looking, and slam on the brakes. They are usually startled, they mouth, so sorry, through the glass their faces show their regret, and as I cross I hope that next time they’ll be more careful.

Once in high school I was hit by a woman in a car as I was crossing the street on a green light. Just like you she was staring to her left into oncoming traffic, and she didn’t know I was there until her bumper hit my leg as she was pulling out. She at least stopped and helped me up off of the ground, crying and apologizing. I have never since then crossed the street in front of a car with a right turn signal on without first making eye contact with the driver.

So after I pulled my kids out of harms way and yelled, I waited for you to turn and see me. I even yelled hey and waved my arms a little. I was willing to forgive you even then because I was sure that you would feel bad once you noticed what you had almost done. And while I was angry, no one was hurt. So I waited. You stared left. I waited a little longer. You stared left. There was no way I was going try to cross the street now without making sure that you had seen me. And so I waited some more. It’s a busy street. At least three minutes went by, maybe five. I was getting angrier. Not only had you already just about run into us. You still didn’t know that we were there. I began to suspect that you were drunk.

Finally, I wheeled my stroller around so that my foot could reach your car and I kicked it. I wanted to kick it a few more times and do some damage I’ll admit, but I settled for one kick that would get your attention. Finally you looked up, puzzled and bewildered. And then I crossed in front of your car as you stared at me now quite angry yourself as you figured out what I had done. I wanted you to roll down your window and ask me why I just did that. I wanted to tell you off for being so reckless and careless with the lives of my kids. But instead we just glared at each other until I got to the other side.

For the first time in ages I wished I had a cell phone so that I could call 911 and give them your plate number and location so they could check your sobriety. Even if you were sober, I think I would have enjoyed the sight of you as the police pulled you over and made you blow into a breathalyzer.

I wish I could have thought of something to do that would have been more constructive, and changed that way you drive. But I couldn’t. I hope you made it home without killing anyone.

From,
The enraged mother who kicked your car.

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Sorry if you were here for more moments. I had to clear the pipes.