I think people who speed in school zones are the worst. I drive through a lot of school zones, and when I see someone who’s been pulled over for going too fast when those yellow lights are flashing, I stare at them and shake my head in disgust.

At least I used to. Before I got caught speeding in a school zone. Of course, normally those flashing yellow lights make me slow down quicker than a sign that says, “Garage Sale.” Only this time I didn’t see the yellow lights, since I was driving under the influence of children.

I was out running a few errands. My daughter, Kelly, was in the back seat of the car with her best friend, Kayla. They were emitting a constant stream of chatter: “We want to go to Hollywood Video and rent a movie…we’re starving, can we stop at McDonald’s…turn up the radio, we love this song!”

This is why people who drive for a living refuse to participate in “Take Your Kids To Work Day.” Because the next thing I saw was a motorcycle cop zooming up behind me with his lights flashing. Angry about my rotten luck, I pulled into the nearest parking lot and silently cursed.

“I heard that, mom,” Kelly said.

I slumped in my seat and watched people drive by; they stared at me and shook their heads in disgust.

The police officer walked up to the side of the car. “License and registration,” he demanded.

I gave him my license. Then I pawed through the glove compartment for my registration. I came up with several packets of salt, an old Happy Meal toy, some antibacterial wipes, a couple straws…and finally, my registration. When I handed it to him, I noticed it was splattered with ketchup.

“My paperwork’s dirty,” I apologized, “but my driving record is spotless.”

“It was until now,” he answered. Then he headed back to see if there were any warrants out for my arrest.

Meanwhile I prayed he wouldn’t give me a ticket. Besides my squeaky-clean driving record, hopefully he’d notice the little heart on my drivers’ license. That heart would tell him I'm an organ donor. Would he give me credit for being a generous human being and just give me a warning?

Nope. The tiny heart on my license was slightly bigger than the policeman’s; he walked back to my car clutching a ticket.

I gave it one last shot. “I’m really sorry, you know. I go through school zones a lot, and I always slow down. I just didn’t notice this one time.”

"Then I’ll just give you a ticket this one time," he said, handing me the pink slip of paper.

I read the amount. What? A hundred and seventy-seven bucks?? I didn’t think a ticket could cost that much unless it was from a scalper!

Fortunately, there was an option. On the back of the ticket it said I was entitled to a hearing to explain myself. The court would re-consider the facts, any extenuating circumstances and my driving record. And I could do the whole thing by mail—an unfair advantage, really, since writing is my profession. Once the court heard the story through my persuasive prose, they’d forget the whole thing.

It turns out, they don’t mess around; within a week I received their reply.

It took them even less time to cash my check.