Little hands CAN DO big things.

My son loves to pretend he is driving and will often scoot (more like dive) behind the driver's side of the van the second he is released from his car seat. He will play with the dials, push every button up there, and talk on his pretend phone while manipulating the steering wheel as only kids can do to show that he is DRIVING. I fully expect him to be proficient at this endeavor by the time he is five, because after all the time he spends in the car with me something is bound to sink into that little mind of his by way of osmosis.

Occasionally, however, he manages to "stick" little things with his little hands into things that have little crevices. Things like pennies will go unnoticed until something starts shorting out, like the cd player in the vehicle. I guess I fancy myself a throw back to the Fonz/Happy Days era because my reaction to preserving anything this critical in the car from malfunctioning is to pound on it like a red-headed step child until it begins working again. So far this methodology has worked for me and the boy remains safe. For now.

This morning as I trekked into the vast coutryside of New Jersey in search of a world famous spa, something else went wrong with the vehicle. I had noticed that morning a certain metallic sound sloshing about underneath what seemed to be the steering wheel itself. But it wasn't until some jackass failed to follow intersection etiquette and I was forced to use "the horn", that I became acutely aware (again) that my son had short circuited something highly critical - my "get the frig outta my way" calling card. The horn.

Anticipating that the individual waiting in front of me at the light had missed her calling as a sloth, I attempted to tap ever so lightly on the horn to "wake her the hell up" - you know, a toot toot type of "Hello, asshole. Welcome to the intersection. LIGHT IS GREEN." Well, the sound started out as a courtesy "toot, toot" until it developed into what I can best describe as a speech impediment where it (the horn) lost it's sound, stuttered a few more "beep beeps" until it crescendo'd into an all out air raid siren.

Not only did the woman hit the accelerator and break through the intersection (finally) at lightening fast speeds, but as I rolled away too, the noise from my horn thundered on and multiple cars began darting off the road ahead of me, I guess, to avoid dealing with this lunatic menace on the road. And while this is indeed a strange benefit to "hornitis," I was mortally, mortally mortified.

And what was I to do when people suspected me to be a crazed suburban mother on the verge? I did what any safe, defensive driving individual would do.....At speeds of 55 mph, I would throw up both hands in plain view, cup my hands over my mouth, and then throw up my hands again when passing other motorist subjected this deafening sound from my VW . And doesn't that just say: "Oh my sugar. I am helpless indeed. Don't hate me as I careen past you 15 miles per over the speed limit while sounding like a B-52. Why darlin', I'm just as clueless as you are as to why this a horn is a beepin'."

After first pressing gently with a pinkie, then the ring finger, then the index finger to entice the horn to quit blowing, I did what any rational, intelligent, quick thinking gal would do....I took my fist and pummeled the thing repeatedly until it died. And when the services were over, and I paid my last respects, I pulled into the spa parking lot (on time mind you) and walked in as if sunshine were pouring out of every ounce of me. Because nothing says demure like beating the crap out of your car.