Car Line

This blog is brought to you by the week from Fuckedupville.  First, I was an hour late for work on Monday, had court on Tuesday, the kid was sick on Wednesday. I got some extra time at the office Thursday, and was going to go in today.  Honestly.  I was.  

Then I woke up this morning, made myself a pumpkin spice latte, and decided I was in a really good mood and wasn’t going to ruin it by going to work. Plus, Fridays are my day to get the Schmoo to school, which is normally a total disaster.

I should probably tell you that Schmoo is kind of like Rain Man.  She has her routine, and God help anyone who deviates from it.

“I don’t have my toothpicks.  The maple syrup has to come before the pancakes.  If the maple syrup comes after the pancakes, it’ll definitely be too late…I don’t have my toothpicks….I get my boxer shorts at Kmart in Cincinatti.” 

Anyway, THIS is how school mornings go, because this is what the Dad does: wake up to Phineas and Ferb.  Give her five minutes to stretch.  Get her a bowl of Marshmallow Matey’s, or toast with jelly.  Put the day’s clothes in the dryer so she has “hot clothes” to put on.  Ask if she is done with breakfast and ready for “hot clothes.” Let her get dressed.  Do hair.  We are now ready to brush teeth and go to school.

But I always mess this up.  1. I almost always sleep too late on Fridays, and we run late.  2. When running late I like to say, "Fuck this routine bullshit, HURRY!”

I made the mistake last week of trying to do Schmoo’s hair BEFORE she put on “hot clothes.” The only thing missing from the ensuing tirade was that it didn’t involve an airline named Quantus, and she didn’t start hitting herself in the head.

Before I go any further, I would like to stress how imperfect of a mother I am.  I am only responsible for getting my child to school one single day a week, and if she is ever tardy, it’s always on my day (and I thought today was going to be that day).  Plus, I NEVER get the routine just right. 

I don’t do homework.  I don’t have the patience for homework, and we both end up in tears, so this falls to someone else as well.  Other mom’s think this is unacceptable.  Trust me on this.  Homework isn’t my thing…unless it involves making volcanoes, 3-D cell models, the implications of imperial colonialism on traditional cultures (or something else that allows me to wax philosophical), or blowing shit up. Then I rock; otherwise, get your dad.

I buy cheap cupcakes on treat day, and I loathe holiday parties at school.  I go, but I’m never particularly thrilled about going. And, we all know how I feel about picture day.

BUT, there is one thing that makes me feel like a totally superior mother.  As in, all you room moms with your scrapbooks and food storage and healthy snacks can kiss my ass.  I’m totally judging you for it every Friday, too.  This is it.  Ready?

You fucking SUCK at car line!!  As in, EVERY Friday, I want to go crazy like Bill Murray in “Groundhog Day” when he steals Phil and keeps saying, "Don't drive angry."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uBpw1sdFu2w

I actually KNOW how to do car line in the mornings and afternoon. I know how to use my blinker when turning off of Lee Street.  I know how to NOT block all three lanes.  I know to WAIT until the parking attendant tells me to pull forward, without cutting anyone else off and running over 13 small children. I know that drop off is not the place to have a 30-minute conversation with my child.  

There’s an unspoken rule here for those of us in the know, and we know this is like being in the pit in NASCAR.  Get in, get out, you’re being timed.  Anything more than a 5 second stop is unprofessional.  Honestly, if you’ve trained your crew, it’s more of a rolling stop. Jumping off of a spinning merry-go-round is the perfect training equipment.

Quick.  Like a bunny. I've got hours to myself, and you're treading on it.

And, here’s the one that makes the rest of the parents and grandparents in the parking lot want to pull you out of your car and beat you with your cell phone: despite what your busy-body mother taught you about being a good mother, they do not give out prizes for being the first in line at pick up after school. No ma’am. Especially if your kid is HABITUALLY the one exiting the building 20 minutes after the bell rang. That means you green Subaru, gray Tahoe, and little man with the jacked-up white pickup.

You pull over on Lee Street and let the kids that actually have their shit together get in the car.  You don’t get first in all three lines. Or even one for that matter, and shoot the shit with each other while the line is backed up around the block to South Boulevard.

This is NOT tea at the PTA.  This is serious business. Get it together already.

Picture Day

I got up late this morning...as in 6:15, which is exactly an hour and 15 minutes late.  Considering the drive and the possibility of a train, this meant I had 15 minutes to get ready for work.  AND, I had a fairly important meeting this afternoon, so  jeans and a sweatshirt were a little below the little bit showing on my give-a-shit-o-meter.  Plus, it totally meant a hat and the Chacos were a definite "NO."

Of course, this didn't stop me from walking into the kitchen and taking the normal 15 minutes to become coherent enough to brew a pot of coffee.  Then I decided the 'stache is a little out of control (think Gallagher) and that I should probably shave the normally shaved parts of my body that have been left to Mother Nature like the mightiest of old growth forests in the Pacific Northwest. The shaving of the legs is no small task when you are the owner of a 36" inseam, not to mention the normal contortion associated with getting those not so easy places.

Probably TMI, but I basically had one leg wrapped behind my head when there was a knock on the door reminding me that it was picture day at school and "I know you're late and probably forgot, but you have to do Schmoo's hair."

Of course, this gave me a legitimate excuse for tardiness, but let's be honest here.  Half the week, I work in the middle of nowhere...which is hippie granola girl speak for "I don't really give a shit," and I don't even do my OWN hair.  People that run into me in town, when I actually have to get dressed in the morning, usually ask if I had an interview.

Anyway, Ive ALWAYS hated picture day.

1) It meant my mother was going to torture me with a luffa, as if Okra isn't bad enough, we have to throw in the bones of the Chinese version.

2) It meant my mother was going to send me to bed, late, with wet hair she spent hours wrapping in barbed wire. 

3) It meant I was going to have wear THAT dress, purchased by my Italian Grandmother for $900,000 that had 75,000,000 layers of lace that made that Randy kid from "A Christmas Story" look like a total loser for even questioning the ability to be able to put your arms down.  To top it off, that motherfucker had bells sewn into the seams, so I jingled when I walked...until I was 13.

4) It reminds me of second grade when I threw a fit about afore mentioned frew-frew girlie shit, and fell down the stairs....the WHOLE way--scratching my nose and leaving my ankle the size of a Hagerman Watermelon.  To which my mother answered in her typical manner, "Serves ya right.  Walk your ass to school, and smile REAL pretty!"

Ms. Solemn had pity on me and actually called my mother to take me for x-rays...after she patched my scratched nose with some foundation from her purse and hobbled me to the picture stool in the library to get my picture taken....looking like every other second grade girl--a pasty white version of Dr. J, because the barbed wire you were sure Jesus had in all those Sunday School pictures was what you had slept on all night just wasn't enough.  You had to look like someone did something time consuming to your hair...as in with an egg beater.

Well, like so many things I have failed at as a mother, I totally forgot the curlers last night.  Be easy on me, this whole shutdown bullshit is taking a toll.  So, I did what all good mothers do in this day and age (I assume).  I went to Pinterest.

It took me a good hour and three re-tries to master a crown of a "waterfall" braid, followed by another good 45 minutes of curling tiny strands of hair into ringlets after totally destroying the ozone layer hairspraying that shit to stay.

I had enough time to throw on the church clothes in the closet and do my best rendition of that Jenna Marbles Youtube video where she shows you how to put on makeup after daydrinking--all damn day (look it up, I'm tired of doing ALL the work around here ;-)).

I still made it to work only 30-minutes late and the kid was on time, but lets be honest.  My kid looks like that, lets say...oh....NEVER.

Probably needless to say to all the moms out there, but by the time I got to pick up the Schmoo at 5:30, there wasn't a curl on her head, and she looked more like a drowned rat than Dr. J.

She swears her hair was still curled when they had pictures, but to be honest, after this morning and my mom guilt and anxiety, I'm just glad she made it to pictures, and I didn't have to make a trip to the emergency room.

If she looks like a drowned rat in those pictures, its not that Mom doesn't care.  Mom is tired.  Mom thinks she's beautiful covered in mud and spaghetti sauce. 

Mom hates picture day.