My two-year-old babbled giddily about the “lightning, Mommy! One, two, three, LIGHTNING!” Relentless streaks of white light made brilliant scabs in an ominously thick sky. The streaks would not stop cutting, and rain seemed to pour out of the sky’s wounds, first at a slow trickle, then a steady stream, and now, a violent deluge that overwhelmed my windshield wipers and drowned my tires.
I hate driving in storms.
Unable to do anything but drive with the keen awareness of my own mortality, I feel vulnerable. Inadequate to protect my firstborn and unborn children. I get so angry, I want to shout.
How’d I get here? How do I get out of here?
I feel out of control.
And then, there it is, clear as my speedometer: the truth. I’m not. I’m not in control.