There are few things in this world that infuriate me more than people who speed down residential roads and kill small children.
In Layton, I have been known to actually follow people who race down our hill. They pay no attention to the "Slow" signs as they sprint from point A to point B, leaving a trail of exhaust and dead dogs in their wake.
According to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, in 2005 more than 33,571 children were treated in emergency rooms for pedestrian related injuries. While we hope that kids are smart enough to play it safe and steer clear of the road, the message to drivers is clear: when cruising through residential neighborhoods, you'd better open your eyes and watch where you're going.
Don't get me wrong, my kids are not allowed to play in the road, so death by mini-van is highly unlikely. Unfortunately, however, I have a 22-month-old daughter who just this week learned the fine art of unlocking the front door.
I was making dinner a few nights ago when a neighbor driving home found her wandering around in the middle of the street, not two minutes after I'd made eye contact with the little Houdini. It happened fast. We were lucky she didn't end up a grease spot.
Growing up on a country road, we dealt with speedy road demons all the time. People tend to think that just because a road is one lane, linear and relatively quiet, speed limits don't apply. My parents hammered a sign to the telephone pole by their house that read, "SLOW CHILDREN AT PLAY." (Frankly, we always wondered why our parents thought we were slow.)
Recently, while visiting my folks, an idiot on a motorcycle ignored the 25 MPH speed limit and flew by their house at a deathly speed. With three busy children to protect and care for, you can imagine my reaction. Mr. Motorcycle was promptly introduced to Mother Bear.
Because anyone who messes with the safety of my kids finds out that I'm actually a grizzly disguised as a stay-at-home mom.
I was in the front room when he raced up the road at light speed. Since it dead ends on a gravel driveway a quarter mile up, I knew he'd be coming right back down. I dropped my toddler and charged out the front door.
My legs were actually shaking in an attempt to stay calm and refrain from tackling him as he came by. I was out for blood; I swear I could actually taste it on my tongue (you can tell I read too many vampire books).
Looking up the hill I saw him start his descent and I stepped out -- right into the middle of the lane. With one hand on my hip and the other straight in front of me, I gave him the old "STOP-BEFORE-I-KILL-YOU" stare and rooted myself to the ground. I could see the fear in his eyes from 50 yards back.
As the motorcycle slowed down, I charged up to it, finger right in the driver's face, and a look that would terrify any terrorist.
Without raising my voice I said, "I have three babies in that house. Don't you ever speed past this place again, do you understand me young man?" Now granted, the guy was easily in his mid-20's and I'm barely over 30, but by the look on his face, I might as well have been Muhammad Ali's granny. He was so scared I thought he might have a real accident.
He nodded quickly, white as a sheet, and I slowly stepped back. The kid didn't move.
"Go!" I finally said, pointing down the road. He puttered off at a gentle 15 MPH, teetering a little from what could only be total and complete fear.
I'll tell you right now, you can mess with me all you want, but don't endanger my babies. The only thing scarier than a father who carries a gun is an overprotective mother.
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