Brad and I carpool to work. We've been doing this since last September when he broke his collarbone and was incapable of driving for a few months. By the time he could drive again, we'd fallen into a routine. Besides, our second car was a 1991 Honda Civic without a working heater or air conditioner. And no airbags. After Brad had already dealt with one broken bone, I didn't feel right making him drive an unsafe (and uncomfortable) car. And there was no way I was going to go from the 2007 Honda Civic to the 1991 one, especially in the bitter Minnesota winter. So we donated the car and have gotten by just fine with one car ever since.

And all of that is relevant because the fact that we carpooled to work yesterday was not in any way unusual.

Yet I left work a little late last night, happily listening to a story on public radio as I drove, pulled into my garage and sat there for ten minutes to hear the end of the story I was listening to, and then my phone rang. It was Brad. Wondering where I was.

I had left my husband stranded at work.

Let's just hope that in several months you aren't hearing about me on the news as one of those neglectful mothers who left her baby on top of the car and drove off, or something.