It was just a gentle “toot toot,” and nothing more, but it almost got us killed.

In Vancouver, in order to make a left turn you must foist yourself on the mercy of oncoming traffic; you let the light turn yellow, and sheepishly scurry to the other side while cursing the lack of arrows (which must be outrageously expensive, as we have approximately three in a city of a million).

There we were, inching behind a mini-van that was filled to the brim with kids. It was actually rocking from side to side; projectiles were flying. An adult’s arm swung back and forth from the front seat in a futile effort to control the mayhem. This incident was before I had children of my own, a carefree twentysomething. I hadn’t been there. I hadn’t yet “had my last nerve worked” and so I couldn’t relate. I simply stared from behind with perturbed astonishment.

Toot Toot. “C’mon lady, the light is turning,” my husband sighs, exasperated.

Mini-Mom screeches ahead, and we follow, only to have her slam on the brakes as we come through the intersection. She’s stopped us dead; we can’t get around her, and cars are speeding towards our terrified bodies.

“AggggggGGHHhhhhHHHHH!” we scream.

“She’s trying to kill us!” I holler.

My husband takes evasive action and tries to squeak past her, only to have her lurch out again, fist raised in almighty indignation, a middle finger driving home her point. The van is no longer rocking. The children are still, their jaws agog: Mom has lost her shit. We are suddenly the targets of her rage, the idiots who have yet to know the sheer horror of five boys after hockey practice, a play-date gone horribly wrong, or just an average grocery shop at 5:30 p.m. I yelled a few obscenities before I saw her face. I was actually shocked; here was a woman in a terrible rage, her head spinning in Poltergeist fashion, obviously letting fly words no young ears should hear.

“Holy Moly!” we didn’t say, instead offering another, choice explicative. We sped off into our blissful ignorance, a fume-y trail of disbelief behind us.

Now, an apology twenty years too late: I am sorry, lady. We thought we were just getting through an intersection. I know the signs now. I understand. I can see that you were being assaulted with foam “We’re number one” fingers while your children belted out lyrics in unison to an inappropriate song, complete with backseat gyrations. I can see that you gripped the wheel white knuckled, thinking, “I am going to drink three glasses of wine upon entering my house before speaking again.” I can see that half of these children were not yours, but coming over for a sleep over, and your partner was out-of-town, and you had a head cold, and you somehow forgot to pee for six hours straight.

I’m sorry. I get it now.

I can wait for the next light. The rest of you should too.