Pick Me Up

I miss the pick-up ritual at my son’s old school.  Instead of entering the paved carpool loop (which sometimes was a bit Bermuda Triangle-ish in nature), I parked on a side street and then walked across a field to try to find my son in a clump of classmates at his teacher’s side.   I would often bump into friends and just kind of natter and zigzag my way across the expanse of grass.  Usually, Eli’s teacher would see me at some point “mid-social,” wave to get my attention and release my boy to me.  My then five year old would bound my way, top speed like something on Wild Animal Kingdom.  He would crush into me with a monster hug and snaggletooth smile to match.  More than once we both lost our footing in a crash of excitement, resulting in either dust or mud kicking and spitting up around us.  While these after-school reunions were chaotic and messy at best, I knew they were some sort of cosmic gift, our secret handshake as we transitioned from the business of our days.

This year pick up is a much more formal, coordinated, straight line affair.  There is not really a curb-the-car-on-a-side-street-ramble-and-rattle-about option.  Instead to keep things running smoothly, there are a lot of rules.  I try not to talk or text while in line, I stick to the A lane, boldly display my carpool number, move up to the appropriate spots, do not park or leave my vehicle, have the door unlocked and ready for Eli to be ushered in by the helpers, exit quickly upon retrieval of my child, remain alert at all times, etc.  Really, I know most of the rules, and I try to follow them, too.   However, one day I blew it…really blew it, apparently. 

One sunny Tuesday afternoon, I maneuvered into the pick-up lane and came to a point where I had to veer to the right.  I remember seeing a line of cars, but they were edged up to the curb, as if they were parked.  I wondered what event was going on at the school and I made a little mental note to pay more attention to the calendars and notifications sent home each day on Eli’s clipboard.  Anyway, I turned right, buzzed by the “parked” cars, and slid into what I thought was the end of the line of waiting parents.

Probably somewhere between patting myself on the back for arriving a little early and discovering a hole in my shirt’s seam, two impeccably dressed and well-maintained women materialized beside my car.  I turned down the radio and slightly regretted that I had on a skull-emblazoned Pearl Jam t-shirt and a faded, picked exercise skirt that was riding high as I sat behind the wheel.  For a second, I thought maybe they were going to rush me to volunteer at the parent picnic.  They didn't.  Between the rather severe once-overs and gleaming, glossed grins, I couldn’t tell if horror or pity was registering in their eyes.  One of the ladies did the talking and the other kind of half shook her head at me and half nodded in agreement with her friend.

“Well, we want you to know that we are not mad at you.  But you do realize that you just cut about twelve cars in the line?”  Um, I do now.  I apologized; honestly, I thought those cars were parked.  I apologized again (and probably one more time for punctuation and good measure), and I vowed that this would not happen again, never ever.  Pinky swear.  Before turning to whisk back to their vehicles, the talker sweetly reassured me, “We just wanted you to know so maybe you wouldn’t do it again.  It will be okay.”

Trying not to crack up visibly and audibly at the perfectly framed segment of Mean Girls: The Mom Years that just went down on school grounds, I rolled my car forward and collected my child.  Eli piled in, buckled up and said, “Cool shirt, Mom.  Guess what I did today?”  And it dawned on me that the gift of picking up my son is that he picks me up, too, every time.

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Dish out some happy and be kind, good people.  More later.