For some reason I always feel particularly drained after a Communion service, so we often go out to lunch on the first Sunday of the month. Yesterday, Pure Luck, #2 Son, the Little Princess and I went to lunch at the IHoP. For years I have argued against going there because the line was always hellacious, but now they have moved to bigger and nicer digs, taking over what used to be The Ground Round (another place I wouldn’t go because #1 Son once lost an expensive orthodontic appliance there, meaning that our lunch cost $400, but that’s another story). Now they have plenty of seating, but there is nowhere near enough parking to go with it, particularly because of all the snow piled up around the edges of the lot.
Pure Luck circled the parking lot, then headed back out onto the main road. He crossed traffic and pulled into the parking lot of the old Service Merchandise across the street.
I said, “What are you doing?”
He said, “Parking here and walking across.”
I said, “No way, it’s a four lane road with terrible traffic and no crosswalks.”
So we compromised. He agreed to drop us off over at the IHoP, then park the car and walk back himself. After all, he walked from Maine to Georgia without getting hurt, surely nothing would happen.
In the restaurant, I gave my name and then refereed while the children bickered the time away. How many theological offspring are at their best after 3 hours at church? First there is the hour of hanging around before the service, then the service itself, which they don’t seem to mind so much and Sunday School, which Lucy loves, but before they can go home, there is that worst time of the week: the dreaded Coffee Hour.
Finally about five minutes later, Pure Luck appeared. He looked a little wild-eyed. He said, “There was just an accident out in front.”
“You’re kidding.” We hadn’t heard anything.
“A woman stopped to let me cross. The car behind her stopped, too, but the one after that cut it too close turning into the IHoP parking lot and hit the second car.”
As #1 Son commented when he heard the story, “Nice going.”
But once he told us it was a fender-bender, and that no one was hurt, we did have to laugh, just a little. Because he had to admit that, really, I was right. It was a bad place to cross the street.