Car-ma.

I must have some bad-ass Karma.  Last night, I was experiencing a few minor life glitches, and I was feeling frustrated and overwhelmed and rather sorry for my sad self.   It happens sometimes.  And then this morning, the gods decided to smack me around.  I could almost hear them saying: "You wanna feel sorry for yourself?  We'll give ya something to be sorry about..."

So - I'm driving Boy-o, Girlio, and a little school chum of Boy-o's to school, blearily sipping my coffee and trying to tune out the three tots in the backseat when we start experiencing this strange, off-kilter-y, bumpity-bumpity-ness.  Shit.  Shit.  Shit.  I have encountered this strange, off-kilter-y, bumpity-bumpity-ness before.  It's a mother-effing flat tire.  I'm sure of it.  I pull-over, my heart sinking into my stomach.  The fates would not do this to me.  Not with three kids in the back of the car in rush hour traffic.  No they wouldn't.  That's just mean.  And wrong.  All kinds of wrong. 

Turns out they would.   That tire is flat.  Effing flat.  Mother effing flat.  Flat like an egg.  (For context for that last description: "How flat is the tire?"  Boy-o wants to know.  "Flat like a pancake," I say.   "Flat like an egg?" his little friend queries.  "Sure."  I say.  "It's flat like an egg.")

So - in this situation, like any kick-ass-take-no-prisoner-I-can-do-anything-fearless Girl, I immediately  called my wife.   She, as I suspected, knows what to do - call our Kia roadside assistance - the number which seems to be handily displayed on the driver's side window.  Clever, clever wife.  I do this.  The lady at the Kia busts a gut in cackles when I plead to send help fast because I am trapped inside a car with three smalls under the age of 4.  I did not think it was nearly quite as funny as she did.  However, must have taken me seriously, because help came in form of Glen from AMA within 35 minutes.  Which is a pretty darn good rush hour response time.  It was just long enough for several games of "I Spy," for my precious coffee to get spilled, for me to intercept and redirect a couple of scuffles between Boy-o and friend, for us to sing The Wheels on the Bus ad nauseum, followed by "I've Been Working on the Railroad" equally ad nauseum, for us to dance in our seats to some bad radio music, for Girlio to lose her shit and poop in her diaper at the same time, and for me to want to start stabbing myself in the eye with a fork a few times over.  A car is a very small, space when stuck on the road with littles.  Prison-small.  Just sayin'.

But then Glen came.  Glen came and was the knight-in-shining-armour to my lesbo-princess.  I love Glen.  If I weren't happily married gal, I'd have given Glen a big ole sloppy wet one (not that he would have probably wanted it, but anyhoo).   He didn't just know how to change a tire.  He knew where the spare tire was.  (There's a tire under there?  Who knew?)  He knew what the tire-unlocky-bolt-y-thing was AND he knew it would be in my glove-box.   He had tools (and an accent ;).  He jacked up my car and changed my tire.  AND he entertained both boys while doing it.   He showed them his tools.  He had them rivetted with explanations of what he was doing and why, as they marvelled at the amazing-ness of a tire-less car.  And then - he helped me figure out how the hell to put all of the kids back in the car WITH a car tire and a stroller.  Glen - if you're out there somewhere - you are the shit.  The bomb.  A lifesaver.   I know you were just doing your job - but you really saved my ass today... and you went above-and-beyond.
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We made it to pre-K, 40 minutes late, but none the worse for wear.  

Unless you count my nerves.