For the past 3 years, my younger son has begrudgingly accompanied me to pick up his older brother from school. Whether it was half-day pick-up from preschool or afternoon carpool in elementary, my younger son’s “sour hour” seemed to shift in direct proportion to whenever the older son’s school ended. There have been good days and sweet days, laughter and smiles and children’s books read aloud from the front seat. But there's also been a whole lotta butt-hurt about everything--the leaving, the riding, the sitting, the waiting, the sharing mommy’s attention once older brother finally gets in the car. Fortunately, the often excruciating exercise of driving the younger son to go pick up the older one has a shelf life--and it’s set to finally expire with the younger son starting kindergarten. In July, that circuitous journey through the carpool line becomes a solo event for me at last, with both my sons waiting for me on the other end as I coast through the pick-up loop. When my younger son considered the idea of me driving through carpool all alone, he wondered out loud how Mommy could possibly entertain herself in such a boring situation. Little does he know, I have quite a bit I’m looking forward to...
Not begging anyone to get their damn shoes on so I can leave the house on time. No starting the conversation 20 minutes prior to departure. No vehement resistance. No outraged bewilderment over where the second shoe is. When it’s time to go, my shoes will either be on or I’ll put them on and just leave, with little to no drama in between.
Skipping the daily dissertation on why we can’t just leave the older kid at school. Apparently, my younger son would prefer to let my older son hitch-hike to the house like a cartoon hobo with his homework binder in a handkerchief tied to the end of a stick. Sorry, bro. Not on my watch.
No dramatic protests regarding how hot the car is. The Greenhouse Effect is a big ol’ bitch and the internal temperature of Mommy’s Civic is just south of “crematorium” at 3:30 in the afternoon. Talking about it isn’t going to un-bake our insides. So just try not to brand yourself with the scalding hot seat belt buckle and suck it the fuck up until the air kicks in. Believe me. The crack of my ass if every bit as sweaty as yours. I’m hot too.
No meltdowns over forgetting the snack Mommy thoughtfully prepared. The repeated refrain of “Don’t forget your pretzels!” echoes through the house every afternoon like I’m trying to start a round at the Boy Scout campfire sing-a-long. You’d be surprised how often that snack STILL gets left on the counter and the misery that ensues. It’s pretty sad to be snackless in the carpool line, but if you think I’m gonna row-row-row this boat back to the fucking house, you are sadly mistaken.
No complaints about how BORING the news is when I listen to NPR. This from the kid who subjected me to Sheryl Crow’s “Real Gone” on repeat for a full calendar year because he was obsessed with the Cars movie. After the length and depth of my sacrifice, one segment of "The World" with Marco Werman shouldn’t be too much of a hardship. But apparently, it’s child abuse.
No one acting like I’m melting their goddamn ears when I sing along with the radio. So maybe Mommy’s duet with Jennifer Hudson on her cover of "Golden Slumbers" isn’t gonna win a fucking Grammy. Deal with it. You can plug your ears and yell “Stop!!!” all you want; this is my damn car.
No one to discourage the occasional splurge of a coffee drink en route to the school. Do I need the extra caffeine or sugar? Judging from the heartbeat I can feel pulsating in my left eyelid--probably not. But Mommy could put a reeeeal hurt on an iced caramel latte right now. Unfortunately, that would just leave me on the hook for a pair of over-priced chocolate milks. One for the kid who saw me buy coffee and one for the kid who’ll be pissed he missed out on something. There’s always hell to pay for self-indulgence. Gotta do that shit in secret and hide the evidence.
No one asking “Are you done?....Are you done….? Are you done….?” when my attention is diverted for 2 whole minutes. I never realized how many bites are in an apple until I tried to eat one while my 5-year-old sat there timing me like a fucking track-and-field coach with an invisible stopwatch. Come on, Mom. Chop chop. This Little Critter book isn’t gonna read itself. And everybody knows it requires both hands and your full fucking focus.
No one there to see me cry when I realize I’m all alone in the car. It might take a week or so, but sooner or later, it’s gonna hit me that this bittersweet phase of motherhood is over, the part where I spend extended stints of one-on-one time with the last baby I plan to raise. Even if it means never having a single quiet thought to myself, sometimes it's nice to have a buddy. I’m sure I’ll miss that. Eventually.
In so much of parenting and life in general, it’s hard to appreciate what you’ve got til it’s gone. And I know I’ll get there. When I do, I’ll be a hot mess of tears and introspection, wondering where the time went. But at least when that finally happens, I can serenade myself with a sad song and sip some soothing Starbucks in solitude. Because even a mom who misses you needs a minute.
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