My son J. is fifteen. He and the rest of his shaggy-haired, Generation Text posse are adorable right now. The MySpacers listen to Screamo. They skate, snowboard, and videotape each other’s backflips.

They value the hotness of high school girls but truly value each other more.

With ninth grade just about under their belts, they have been sufficiently humbled (read: pummeled, wedgied, and degraded by upperclassmen) and have yet to score drivers’ licenses. Hence, they’re still decent to their parents.

Dude! Everything J. and his friends do and say makes outstanding copy I can’t ignore.

A few days ago, they had a shortened school day, and I was asked to pick up a few freshman friends and deliver them to old stomping grounds—middle school. A faculty member had requested they speak to naïve graduating eighth graders about what to expect in high school. They were stoked to be chosen to scare straight incoming freshman, and it was gratifying to see them enthusiastic to share their newfound wisdom.

A craptastic snag occurs upon this chauffeur’s arrival to high school.

Eight exuberantly hopeful backpack toting adolescents greeted my SUV--which seats just five. At this point, all responsible law abiding parents with half a brain would have hatched a plan B for transport. Those same wise parents would see an ideal “teaching moment” about safety to benefit the teens for a lifetime.

Most days I’m on my game. But at this particular juncture I was a pile of dumb. Paralyzed by a temporary lapse of smartitude. Trapped within the revolving doors of the bad mommy idiot zone.

Trapped? Sixteen friggin PUPPY EYES held me captive! Eight sincere, sweet, skinny matchstick jeaned boys just five minutes from manhood! The strength of the bond between Generation Me brothers proved too much! (Less caffeine is undoubtedly in my future.)

In my head, I rationalized the car abuse: IT’S A SHORT TRIP! In…out…NOBODY GETS HURT! OH THE GENIUS OF BOLDNESS! (Fairly sure Goethe was not referencing criminal carpools.)

I channeled my inner cool mom (who looks great in a skintight DIP ME IN CHOCOLATE AND THROW ME TO THE SWIM TEAM t-shirt, btw.) and let them board. Indeed my coolness was reflected in their irises.

That’s when my son said it.

J.: Dude, it’s like the Underground Railroad!
POSSE: Totally!

Eight bright young men and one renegade mommy wondered how we would ever fit in the vehicle. At first, four boys shared space in the trunk area with a large laundry basket filled with crap; but, alas, the hatch would not shut. The smallest manchild of the trunk then squeezed in ever so close to my steering wheel, while the basket-o-crap moved to a lap in the backseat. The hatch latched.

I instructed the boys to both hide and cease breathing, lest attention be drawn to the Promised Land car-tastrophe. Just before departing, I glanced over my right shoulder, spying the darkest-skinned bud literally crushed between two friends, weighted down thoroughly with the laundry basket.

CRUSHED: (hushed and barely breathing) I feel just like Harriet Tubman.

OMG, I love these Underground Railroad kids who nearly suffocated in my car.

Freedom! No one was busted in spite of my impaired judgment. Harriet and the boys escaped, sailing into middle school unscathed. It was an ignorant move this dumb-as-toast mom will not repeat, but SWEET William Still ON A WAFFLE CONE, she drove them north safely.

As safely and cautiously as ‘a cool mom clandestinely transporting skaters to free states or Canada or middle school to make the world a more awesomacious place’ could possibly drive.

Michele is rarely mistaken for a cool mom or Harriet Tubman. She has a husband, two children, a master's in counseling and a blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.