When You Realize You're Being Mean

So yesterday, I was having a day. I snatched the little angel right off the school bus and drove twenty miles to get her to a make-up ballet class, for which she was not dressed or hairdressed. We hit every red light in the Kansas City metro area, and while I was shoving her into her tights, I gave them a huge run. Then her hair wouldn't stay. She'd been crying most of the way to class because she didn't realize she'd have to go and was worried because she didn't know anyone there or the teacher. And we were twelve minutes late. And the teacher turned out to be the director of the entire school. And I'm not sure she was even marked as being there. And while I was going down to the waiting area to silently berate myself for such a parenting fail, the strap of my shoe broke, rendering it impossible to walk.

While we were driving home, I saw one of those BMWs that looks like a Corolla. I've never understood why one would want a BMW that looks like a normal car -- maybe someone can explain that to me, because there may be some epic German engineering even in a tiny four-door -- but it was clear this car owner had bought the BMW because he or she always wanted to say "I drive a BMW." And the reason I know this: the vanity license plate said "BMR."

And my brain thought: BRLY

And I laughed and laughed until the little angel asked me what I was laughing about and I had to admit I was just being mean in my head, and I should really stop. It's not BMR's fault I had a bad day.