I'm driving to work today and, after I drop Lillia off, this bastard is riding my ass like I'm going way too slow for being on a highway entrance ramp that is sheathed in ice and I'm all, "Dude, note the car in front of me." I mean, it's not like I can go any faster than it, right? But apparently bastard didn't hear me because he continued to tailgate.

In the past, I would have brake-checked the shit out of this guy because I suffer from Road Rage, a genetic disease which was passed on to me from some relative who was probably alive before the automobile was invented because I don't know anyone in my family who shouts obscenities or can come up with new and exciting ways to insult people with hand signals like I have been known to do when some idiot speeds past me, then cuts back into my lane, then has to slam on his brakes because he was in a huge hurry to get to that RED LIGHT.

Of course, when I'm in a hurry, I find plenty of logical reasons for having just sped past someone only to get to the red light one car ahead of them. I just WANTED TO DRIVE FASTER, OK? You drive like a granny on sedatives and I DON'T CARE if I do have to stop at the red light now and your slow but steady ass just passed me in the other lane. Driving that slow is STUPID.

However, I have taught myself, since becoming a mother, to let go whenever I feel my blood start to rush to my face while driving, or at least completely internalize my wrath. Before there was a child in the back seat, I didn't see brake-checking as a dangerous habit. After Matt's head hit the dash that one time, I started warning him before I slammed on the pedal. "Hold on," I'd say, and he did. Problem solved.

But I recall the distinct moment during my pregnancy, when the friction of the steering wheel rubbing against my belly made it difficult to turn, that I decided I probably better not flip off that scary-looking chick behind me because labor inducement via gunshot wound MIGHT be bad. I realized that I should probably practice mumbling my disdain for other drivers quietly to myself instead of screaming at them while hanging half my body out the window and trying to run cars off the road.

This is just one of the many ways that motherhood has changed me.  And it's a good damn thing because today, while pulling into the parking lot at work, someone almost slid into me. And as he mouthed the words "sorry" and I rolled past him with an understanding smile on my face, I'm pretty sure I recognized that person as the president of the company that employs me.