Last Monday afternoon, I was stuck in horrendous traffic on Laurel Canyon Boulevard on the way to pick up Ozzy from school. It routinely takes 20 minutes, tops, save for a couple of days of heavy traffic.  What made this particular traffic jam more maddening was that Ozzy had a Little League playoff game scheduled for 5 p.m., and given that their team had only nine players available, they risked forfeiting if any of them didn't show up. Plus, he loves baseball. He loves playing baseball. The idea of him missing what could be his last game of the year because of traffic would devastate him. 

I didn’t start to panic until the clock went a little past 3 p.m. and, according to the map, I was only 0.7 miles away, but it would take 24 minutes to get there. 24 minutes would cut it close, since I’d have to get him, then drive another 20 minutes back the other way to pick up my other two children, who go to a different school. Then we’d have to get home, get him dressed, and be out the door. The coach wanted everyone at the field for warmups by 4:15.  

I called Ozzy’s school to see if I could get an official ETA. “Is there an accident?” The school receptionist could tell I was anxious.  She told me there was nothing reported, but I told her this was an urgent situation, and then she responded with not exactly a yawn, but close enough. “You’ll just have to wait in traffic.” 

At 3:17, I was still 0.7 miles away from Lookout Mountain, but the wait time was now… 25 minutes. Ozzy’s Little League team has an app, and I had to let them know ahead of time that traffic was bad and that I couldn’t guarantee he’d be there before 5 p.m. I could sense the uneasiness in the chatroom, mostly by the silence for the first few minutes. “Do you think he’ll be here soon after 5?” 

I honestly didn’t know. “We’ll do our best,” I typed.  My stomach sank, perspiration appeared on my forehead, as I began to reel about all the terrible outcomes I could not control.