When your preschooler is smarter than you are

This story takes place on Tuesday, August the 26th. It's 5 p.m. and I am getting off work.
I need to pick up a prescription at Rite-Aid before I get Drew from school, but even though it's pouring rain, I don't use the drive-through, because I have a couple of other things I want to buy in the store.
Fortunately, I'm able to find a parking space pretty close to the door. Unfortunately, it's not close enough to keep me from getting soaked. So, I pull the truck into the parking space, put the gearshift in park, grab my purse and my umbrella and open the door. There follows a couple of minutes of struggling to open the umbrella fast enough to avoid the pelting rain while simultaneously making sure I have my purse slung over my shoulder.
Umbrella in place, I hop out of the truck, landing smack in the middle of a massive puddle. Annoyed, I use my elbow to push the truck door shut...remembering just as I hear the 'thunk' of the door slamming that I have neglected to retrieve my keys.
Which are firmly stuck in the ignition.
Of the still-running truck.
The securely locked, still-running truck.
Shit.

So, I hurry into the Rite-Aid and dig around in my purse until I find it...my peace in times of trouble...my saving grace...my AAA membership card.
I call the 1-800 number and report my dilemma. The nice AAA customer service rep gives my call priority status since, even though I'm perfectly safe, my truck is still running, and using gas. $3.37 per gallon gas.

After retrieving my prescription (my anti-depressant medication...ironic, huh?) and the other stuff that I just HAD to have badly enough to get myself into this predicament (no, I won't tell you what it was. You people don't need any more ammunition to use against me), I eventually end up waiting about 45 minutes before the locksmith arrives. At which point he spends approximately 3.76 seconds working on my truck to get the door unlocked.
So. 45 minutes and 3.76 seconds later, I am in my truck and all is well. Right?

Yes, until after I pick up Drew at preschool. He is remarkably unperturbed at being picked up 45 minutes (and 3.76 seconds) late, and chatters happily at me as we get buckled into our respective seats in the truck.

I insert my key into the ignition and turn it. Or, at least I try to turn it. Nothing. It's completely stuck, won't turn at all. I remove the key, re-insert it and try turning it again. Still stuck. I repeat the same steps. I tell my clients that one of the definitions of insanity is continuing to do the same thing and expecting different results. Clearly, I am insane.
At this point, I've had it with this damn truck. All I want to do is get home out of this nasty, wet, windy weather and curl up with a bowl of soup and watch Noggin with my son. That's all I want. And yet various forces are conspiring to keep me trapped in downtown Greenville while a tornado bears down upon us.
With that thought, and the continued refusal of my truck's ignition to move even the barest centimeter, I start to cry.
From the backseat, Drew pipes up, "Mommy, why are you sad?"
"Because," I sniffle. "The truck won't start. And it's making me upset."
Drew ponders this for a minute.
"Why won't the truck start?" he asks, reasonably.
"If I knew that, I could make it start," I respond.
He thinks for a couple more minutes, while I'm wondering if I should swallow my pride and call AAA again or just try to find someone in the preschool who may be able to assist.
And then Drew says, perfectly calmly, "Mommy. Maybe you just need to turn the steering wheel."
And, as if a ray of light from heaven has shone from the darkening sky, I realize with a blinding flash that I know exactly what the problem is.
The steering wheel. Is locked in place. Which is why the ignition won't move.
I grab the wheel, give it a yank to the right and turn the key.
And as the engine roars to life, I turn around and gaze in wonder at my 3 1/2 year old boy-child.
"Drew," I say, in awe. "You did it. You fixed the truck."
Drew shrugs modestly, like he's saying "Aw, shucks lady, t'weren't nothin."
"You're wonderful," I tell him.
He nods, obviously satisfied that I have finally recognized him for the genius he is.
I think, and nobody will ever convince me otherwise, that our guardian angel was sitting beside Drew in the backseat, and that when he couldn't get through to me (due to my aforementioned insanity), he whispered to Drew, "Tell your stupid mother to turn the frickin' steering wheel already. Sheesh."