Today was the day I planned to teach, enjoy our class spring-picture appointment, and spend some time out in the warmer weather. I thought that once home after work, I'd even post a new-to-me song by Jack Johnson.
Instead, as I walked outside with the preschooler in tow this morning, I looked up to see my truck drive away from me. A smaller, dark vehicle led it down my street, and both sped away as I ran the preschooler back inside, yelled for Dear Daughter to call 9-1-1, while I called on my cell phone. I was talking to the dispatcher as my truck pulled out of view. To say it was a surreal experience is an understatement.
First I was scared and shocked. I was frustrated that while Dear Husband would have immediately recognized the year, make and model of the little car, I could identify nothing but the color. It was too dark to see the license plate on the vehicle, and I couldn't even remember what my own plate number was. My brain and emotions failed me.
I was then relieved and grateful: for whatever reason, the thieves took my truck, they didn't break into my home. My children weren't in the truck, and none of us were physically hurt. Though they took my house keys, my husband has the time to change the locks on our house, though we'll have to get his truck re-keyed. We are able to purchase another car seat. I'll miss my iPod Nano, but I get the satisfaction of knowing that IF the thieves are music hounds, they'll be bummed when they have to listen to Apples and Bananas or Shake Your Sillies Out by Raffi over and over again.
Now I'm mad. Beyond mad. And worried. Mad enough to feel that if my truck is recovered in less-than-pristine condition, I hope it's completely destroyed, with a body impaled upon the steering wheel. I know. How very non-Christian of me, how very cruel. This mood will pass, like the others have, if that's any consolation, Dear Reader. Worried, because if I have to imagine a worst-case scenario, I hope my truck is off to some chop shop somewhere in Kansas City, and NOT being used elsewhere to perpetrate more crime. The truck is out of my hands, out of my control, but I still feel responsible for it.
I know it shouldn't make a difference where or when my truck was stolen, but I have a feeling that if I'd woken up and looked out of the window after a long night's rest to see my truck missing, it would have been a much different experience. Walking out the door of your house holding your child's hand to look up and see your vehicle, maybe twenty-five feet away, speed off without you is unnerving, frightening.
I'll post Jack Johnson tomorrow, okie dokie?