How to Turn $4.99 into $100 in 30 Minutes or Less

I've been a naughty, naughty mommy. And tonight I have to face the music, the stern and scowly music of The Law.

It's true. I fought the law. And the law didn't even bat an eye.

Ever since moving here 7 years ago, I've heard talk of the town's infamous speed traps. Which, given our town's lack of billboards cleverly planted at the bottom of hills (what hills?), added to the fact that the speed limit throughout town makes no sudden 20 m.p.h. changes (sometimes it makes heartstopping leaps from 35 to 30 -- don't say I didn't warn you), I've always taken to be a sort of suburban legend. Like the stories about roaming packs of bored teenagers armed with eggs and shaving cream, thus explaining the penchant in these parts for garages twice the size of the regular house.

Until just a few months ago, when I, for the first time in 16 years, got a speeding ticket.

16 years! It's crazy! Speeding is not even cool on me anymore, the way it was when I was young and fast and free. Singing out loud to Little Red Corvette, wearing my Raspberry Beret, and pressing that accelerator with the ridiculous confidence of youth. And, did I mention?, driving my parents' brown Chevrolet Chevette (What? It totally works! Little Brown Chevette).

It all started shortly before Frankie's third birthday (surely you didn't think the story behind a $75 ticket was going to be short, did you?). Up until that time, my lovely youngest had been a shining example of all that is good about reproducing. Welcoming sleep as easily as an old cat on a sunny porch; trying new foods with relish; grinning gummily for months until, with no fussiness to warn us, glistening white teeth suddenly appeared. She learned to say "mama" and "dada" at the exact same time, like a little U.N. ambassador-in-training. She potty-trained before her second birthday.

In short, she was the type of child who makes the other moms at playdates secretly despise you, just a little.

     One day a few months ago, I heard my little ray of sunshine shrieking in the basement. I took the stairs two at a time in a dead run, my heart thudding with dread. I could almost see myself bending forward nearly horizontal like Miss Clavel in the Madeleine books, rushing fast and even faster to adorably French-accented sounds of disaster.


But instead of the scene of grievous bodily harm I feared, I found my little cupcake, all safely in one piece, but, O how very strange, holding one of her Barbies by its impossibly skinny waist and beating her poor empty head furiously against the floor.

BARBIE ... DOES ... NOT ... WEAR ... THOSE ... SHOES ... IN ... SUMMER! AAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEE! NOOOOOOOO!

What? Trust me when I tell you that my fashion instruction for the girls pretty much ends at the dictum, "Underwear is meant to go under."

(And, as a side note, let this be a warning to you: if you give in and buy that wonderfully cute Strawberry Shortcake underwear your child begs for, instead of the plain white Fruit of the Looms that are approximately 86% less expensive, you may spend the next 2 weeks convincing your fashion-forward diva that that very same fabulous underwear is not a fashion accessory meant to be displayed proudly on the head, or pulled over her pants like she's trying out for Shakespeare on Ice.)

So, given the sort of judgment-free fashion flexibility I encourage, how had my precious baby suddenly transformed into a miniature Faye Dunaway as Mommy Dearest?

There was more shrieking, as I stood rooted in the doorway, racking my brain, trying to remember what in the world I had given her for breakfast that morning to bring about this sudden shift in personality.

The tears were pouring down her cheeks; she reached to wipe them with her arm. As she pulled her arm away from her face, the shrieks morphed into a sound, the likes of which I had never heard before. It was something like you might hear if you stuffed a cageful of simultaneously PMS'ing howler monkeys into the hot trunk of your car where they gorged themselves with rotten, stinky bananas, only to then be poked in the stomach by tiny demons with pitchforks.

BOOGER ... ON ... MY ... SHIRT! NOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOO! NO! NO! NO! NO! BOOGER!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fast-forward a few months to a shopping trip to Target, where an empty tin box, fetchingly adorned with princesses and a beaded handle, catches the girl's eye. In the interest of continued shopping, I hand it over to her for closer inspection. I took note of the price, $4.99, and told her it was too expensive. Because, did I mention, this was just an empty tin box? Not even big enough to hold lunch? Or probably even 3 pencils?

But, of course, kids never see the emptiness of a container, but all the glorious space to be filled ... filled! with! wonder!

I let her fawn all over the amazing empty tin box for a few more minutes, until a fight broke out with her big sister over whose turn it was to work the Shiny Silver Latch of Wonder. I stuck it back on the shelf, pushed the cart away, and ... cue the sweltering howler monkeys.

These are the moments when you just need to be able to turn the shopping cart toward the exit and sprint for the parking lot. But ... we were out of kitty litter, and any cat owner can tell you that, if you value a habitable living space, you just don't mess up on the litterbox maintenance, because cats really know how to make a point.

I grabbed my stuff and headed for the check-out, bowing my embarrassed apologies to every shopper I passed. As the young cashier handed me my receipt, I could practically see her scratching "Have 3 kids!" off her life's to-do list.

Somehow I got the tormented howler monkey buckled in to her seat, while her sister waited patiently, hands clamped firmly over her ears. I made it out of the parking lot, somehow, while begging her to pleeeeeeeeaaaaase have mercy on us all.

Well, OK, the story's not so long, after all. Scream-y kid, stressed mama, home soooooo far away - move it, move it, people! - flashing lights, ugh.

I pulled over into a car dealership, and youngest daughter found this so interesting -- Ooooooo, shiny cars! -- that she stopped her caterwauling.

This next part I'm not proud of, but, well, I was thinking to myself that she really needed to be doing her scary-awful screamy thing in order for me to wrangle a compassionate catch-and-release.

I glanced at Frankie in the rearview mirror. She was now grinning and happily craning her head in blessed silence to check out the miracle of 200 shiny cars surrounding her. Great. You'd think the child had never been in a parking lot.

So I called to her, "Hey, Frankie! Remember that awesome empty box? I bet you could put Magic Beans in that thing! I bet it would blow rainbow bubbles every time you opened that Shiny Silver Latch of Wonder! I bet tiny fairies and unicorns could live in there! I bet they would sing 'Happy Birthday' to you everyday!"

"and..." she began in a tiny voice. I could sense the howl building. Yes!
"and ... DINOSAURS IN THE BOX! BOOOOOOXXXXXXX!!! WANT BOX!!!!!!!!!!"

She sounded even worse than before! Amazing!
I watched the door of the police car open behind me.
Goodness, she was really going now!
The sounds from the back seat were nearly inhuman. I wondered if he could hear her shrieks already. I wondered, idly, if I might even get a police escort home out of this thing. I could already see him tucking away his ticket pad and offering, "Follow me, ma'am. Let's get you home quickly, before someone's head explodes."
That would be so awesome.

As I saw his massive police belt at my window, I rolled down the window.
He leaned down to peer into the car.
His eyes flicked back to the writhing mass of torment in the backseat, then back to me.

No flinching. No grimacing. No backing away from the car in abject horror. No reaction WHAT.SO.EVER.

I knew then that my fate was sealed, for I had been stopped by a police officer who was also, clearly, a been-there-done-that-Dad. He had already developed the selective deafness which has prevented millions of parents before me from taping a "Free to Good Very Distant Home!" sign to the back of our kids' shirts.

Later, at home, I told my husband my latest million-dollar idea, a sound-proof window that would rise between the front and back seats, triggered automatically by any back seat noise exceeding 115 decibels. True, I was just stalling for time before I had to explain check #854.

Of course, I chose the more expensive $100 payment option that included 4 hours of traffic school, rather than have the ticket reported to our insurance company, which would probably raise our rates until Frankie was old enough to try to drive with howler monkeys of her own in the back seat. (The Insurance Company doesn't read this blog, right?)

All in all, a pretty awful day. Until! I realized that traffic school was going to be FOUR WHOLE HOURS out of the house without any kids!
Score!

So that's where I'll be tonight. Traffic school, without a child in sight, sitting next to all the other mothers with dreamy looks on our faces, passing sly congratulatory glances at one another.

Comments

[Mary D.]

Best hundred bucks you ever spent too! lol That's genius.

[Kyla]

At our Traffic school, we got to watch some Johnny Carson. That coupled with the kid-free-ness and the sodas and the lunch break? It was all in all a pretty good day.

[JD]

Sorry about your ticket. But, I thoroughly enjoyed your story behind it.

[ppb]

:-)

[Kari]

Brilliant. That is sure a way to make lemonade out of lemons.

[melody]

Damn, traffic school rocks! Puttin' the petal to the metal tomorrow on the way to the grocery store.

[Jenny A.]

And I thought from the title that you were going to turn a $4.99 item to $100 on ebay or something! I've been that Mom in Target, too.

Have a fun traffic school night!

[Keri]

Can you give me directions to your town and that cop's car #, so I can stalk him and get a ticket of my own and then have my own 4 hours of peace and quiet - errrr, I mean traffic school.

Also, you get an A+ on the quick thinking of how to get Frankie crying again. It was only half as cruel as things I have done!

I agree with you on the $4.99 for a metal box that will get piled full of happy meal toys or pony tail holders or Barbie shoes or (my latest #1 hated toy) Polly Pocket parts and accessories. I have a great big round can that has a beautiful plastic bag liner that holds lots of these things when I can sneak them out of her room.

I'll give Disney my big bucks for vacations but NOT for little trinket cluttery things from Target.

[Mary]

Coming out of school's car line on Friday, I was nearly sideswiped by an aggressive mom who wanted to go home faster than everyone else, apparently. My son pointed out that it was a substitute teacher, who also often teaches traffic school! God help us all.

so really the story was: "I was desperate for some me-time and I couldn't think of anything else, so I got a speeding ticket on purpose so that I could go to traffic school." I had the same attitude toward jury duty...my boss at the time said "So you want me to get you out of it?" and I was like, "Don't you dare!"

[The Brave]

Oh the joys of shopping with small children. I could so relate to that and was quietly relieved that I am not alone in the world of grocery insanity, but by the looks on the faces of fellow shoppers you'd thik yours were the only ones to ever have done the howler monkey routine at the chasiers desk - "howler monkey" - love it.

[Liz]

Ahahahaha. I'm /very/ sorry you got a ticket, and that Barbie was wearing the wrong shoes, but thanks for relating the story in such a thoroughly amusing manner.