SPOILER ALERT: Sydney's fine but poor Ranger suffered some bumps and bruises.
I blame myself. At the beginning of December, I magnanimously lifted Sydney's radio restrictions during driving. We smiled happily at this overture of trust and pretended that we both were unaware that Sydney
had actually been listening to the radio all along. Just like our family pretends that Sydney's driving continues to improve with practice. Our prayer life has never been so heartfelt and consistent. Each day, as Sydney departs for work, we hunker down in prayerful meditation until we receive news of her miraculously safe arrival. We sit in breathless vigil, staring intermittently between the window and the clock, timing her progress home. But apparently, as time went by, we became lulled into a sense of complacency, not even jumping when the phone rang last night.
My heart skipped a beat as I caught part of my husband's concerned conversation: "ditch...alright...well, just come home, then..." I was able to breathe again when Sydney walked solemnly through the door. Reassured that his daughter was fine, Brad headed out to check out the damage to Ranger. Ranger! My brave, sturdy little truck. My little engine that could. Could it still? Horrified, I stared at Sydney who shook her head sadly, "I'm not going out there," she said.
FLASHBACK: "Sydney, don't balance your snowboard against the wall," her father cautioned, irritated as she walked away from his warning. BOOM! The snowboard, responded to Brad's advice even if Sydney wouldn't, scratching its wallpapered way down to clatter onto the ceramic tiled floor. You couldn't actually hear the clatter over Brad's reaction to Sydney's lack of compliance.
Remembering her father's reaction from just that morning (see FLASHBACK), Sydney decided that standing next to the giant crunch in our truck during Brad's inspection would not be in her best interests. She braced herself as he returned. "I've seen worse," he shrugged, "we'll see what we can do about it in the morning." She was visibly shocked, not understanding the difference between a snowboard and a dented up old truck. Not understanding why it's easier to yell at a child's disrespectful disobedience and not so easy to yell when that child was in peril.
The following morning, I stared in shocked silence at my faithful little truck. "You've seen worse," I hissed at my husband. He sighed before crawling underneath the vehicle. "What are you going to do later," Brad asked Sydney, who shrugged. "Going to do the laundry?" he persisted, "clean your room, crash the truck again?" Determining that the truck was still safely drive-able (in other words, it wasn't going to blow up upon ignition), Sydney was off to work.
Sydney has a rough road ahead of her. This incident will stay with her for some time. Her father will make sure of it. Noting that Savannah was giving her father the cold shoulder, Sydney asked Brad what he did. "Nothing compared to smashing up a truck," he responded, successfully shutting her up. She will have to tread carefully for awhile.
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