|
Please
note these simple safety rules of life: don’t put marbles up your nose,
don’t gesture with a fork while you’re talking, and wear a life jacket
when you jump or are pushed into the car pool.
Our family is fortunate to live
close enough to school so the kids can walk or ride their bikes . . .
unless water is involved: rain, sleet, snow—or the imminent threat
thereof. Precipitation heralds the beginning of telephone negotiations
worthy of any diplomat. My youngest, Laurel, calls her best friend, Rae
Chelle, and they try to remember whose turn it is to drive. Since
mothers are consulted only as a last resort, the conversation usually
goes something like this:
“Mom? Can you drive us to
school?”
“Didn’t I drive last Tuesday
when it rained?”
“You drove to, but Rae Chelle’s
mom picked up after. Can you do it again ’cause Rae
Chelle’s mom has a doctor’s appointment and her little brother’s sick
and they ran out of Rice Krispies so they’re running late and she can’t
after.”
“So am I taking or picking up?”
A pause. “Let me check.”
I realize it would be easier to
speak directly to Rae Chelle’s mom, but I don’t because there’s a rule
that says weekday mornings aren’t supposed to be easy. So I do my part.
Because I work at home, I don’t
bother dressing up to do my car-pool duty. In fact, I feel downright
chic if I put on shoes. To shoe or not to shoe is determined in the
final moments as I grab my keys. If I feel brave, I scurry to the car
shoeless and pray that I don’t run out of gas, get rear-ended, or meet
up with my own mother—who supposedly taught me common sense.
Remember
that scene from Mr. Mom where Michael Keaton gets
scolded for going the wrong way through the car-pool lane at school?
It’s true, all true. The way the elementary school has it’s car-pool
routine laid out is as complicated as a gold-medal figure skating
program—the long program. By the time I escape back into street traffic
I figure I’ve done a double axel, a flying camel, and a sit spin. If
it’s a good day, the judges give me a 5.9 for my technical ability and
a perfect 6.0 for my dazzling car-pool artistry.
Our carpool usually includes
food and drink. Part of it’s my fault. I’m rarely seen without my
trusty can of Diet Coke—inevitably bringing chants of “Don’t drink and
drive, Mrs. Moser” from the carpoolees. Smart-alecky kids. The rest of
the problem I blame on those handy cup holders cars have. Talk about an
invitation.
|
After
a trip through carpool-land, those cup holders are
full of jelly beans, used gum, crumpled Dorito bags, and assorted
ponytail bands—all of which are permanently adhered to the holder with
the greatest glue ever invented: dried apple juice.
f
you have a keen interest in
colds and allergies, you’ll feel right at home in a car pool. It seems
the only tissues ever found in a child’s possession are those shredded
and fossilized in their pockets after making the washer and dryer
rounds. If a child does have a fresh tissue, it is
of no use because it is buried beneath layers of jackets, backpacks,
and science projects.
A nose is running. A sneeze is
bursting. A cough is hacking. What’s a poor child to do? I have a box
of tissues in the car just for the occasion. But what happens to the
tissue when it’s served its purpose? Since their pockets are already
full of the day’s earlier treasures (just waiting to be fossilized),
the kids stuff the used tissues in between the seats or in a cup
holder—if they can find one miraculously empty. Or they give it to the
baby to chew on.
Carpooling demands iron nerves,
deaf ears, and eyes in the back of your head. If you somehow avoid
drowning in the deep end of the car pool, you’ll deliver all the kids
to the correct locations and make it back home yourself (if, after all
this, you still remember where you live).
When you get there, shut the
garage door on the world, toss your keys onto the counter, and try a
different pool—one that steams and makes your skin prune. Calgon, take
me away.
|
