Driver's Miseducation

So we have this motorhome.

This motorhome has so much purple and dingy carpet in it that we have taken to affectionately calling it "Grandma's Place".

Something had to be done.  We called a flooring guy to see if he could put in some laminate flooring, and in the process we decided to purge as much of the purple as possible.  So what was supposed to be a quick job turned into a massive moho overhaul.

He started this week.

On Monday, the junky stuff came out.  Tuesday the wood flooring went in.  Wednesday the purple wall panels were replaced.   Slowly but surely, mauve was out and modern was in.

The flooring guy discovered a long abandoned bra under one of the beds and I emphatically assured him that it wasn't mine.  He seemed convinced, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the big picture was coming into focus.

I took my nephew (and Cael, who was trotting along behind us in his socks) into the motorhome to show him how the renovations were coming along.

And then we started moving.

While I was pointing out the flooring and the panels and yes, further distancing myself from that bra, Cael shifted the motorhome into neutral and we began rolling down the driveway.

And I came unhinged.

I tried to put it into park, but when I shifted, nothing happened.  I tried to reach the brake, but Cael was in the way and I was too paralyzed with fear and horror to function.  So instead, I rattled off an ill-advised torrent of words my son is too young to hear as I waited for us to bottom out at the end of the driveway.

But we didn't.

We slammed into the road and the weight of the motorhome propelled us backward across the street and up the neighbor's driveway and into their yard.  As we got closer and closer to impacting their garage, I secretly wished that ugly bra had been mine.  Maybe, if my dirty underclothes had been somehow unearthed, I would have been too embarrassed to take my nephew, Ethan, out to check out the flooring and this nightmare would never have taken place.

We gaped out the back window until, in a miraculous feat that can only be of religious proportions, we slowed to a stop about eight feet from their garage, the front of the trailer just clearing the street.  Had we traveled in any other direction, we would have hit our mailbox, a car, their home or, God forbid, a child playing outside, not suspecting that Grandma's metal palace would beginning careening in their direction.

Once we'd established that everyone and everything (save for the scratched up street) was safe, we gingerly climbed out of the motorhome and I chased Cael into the house and to his time-out spot where I just barely resisted the urge to string him up by his toenails.  I frantically called Joel. 

"Honey, something happened..."

My good husband dropped everything and drove him to resolve the problem because I was certain that, if I was left to guide the Airstream back into our yard, I would certainly damage the undercarriage and quite possibly rally the beast right up our own driveway and straight into our own house.

He parked it in its proper location, chocked the tires so that we wouldn't repeat "Cael Foreman's Wild Voyage", and as soon as the neighbors were home, told them what happened despite the fact that there was no damage.

So today, as my blood pressure is still slowly declining, I'm adding yesterday's mishap to our list of "holy-cow-that-was-close" moments-- right under our Christmas gas leak.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that the list is completed.

And I'm throwing out that bra.