Now, I don't normally use the drop-off lane. This is a hold-over from last school year when the Awkward Mobile was a 2005 Toyota Sienna that had been in over 10 accidents, 1 fairly serious one and 9 ones that were basically me forgetting where the walls of the garage were. That gentle beige giant had more dents and scraps than an amateur wrestler and the electrics in her once automatic passenger side sliding door were shot during the winter of 2013. To open said door, you had to pull slightly up and to the left and that is just too much information to shout out the window, that didn't roll down all the way, to a drop-off volunteer at 8:06 in the morning. Therefore, I got in the habit of parking in the first non-handicap parking place, unloading the children, and walking the maybe 10 feet to the 2 sixth-grade girls who guard the crosswalk like it's no man's land somewhere in World War I France. Then, I would rush back to Super Toddler, who had been shouting his displeasure at not joining us, coo at him for a minute, pop in the van, merge into the exiting side of the drop-off lane, and go to Target. It was a good system.
Our 2005 Toyota Sienna has gone to the great junkyard in the sky (RIP), and our new Awkward Mobile is a baby blue 2014 Honda Odyssey that's fancy as hell. If Odysseus had sailed this sucker, his journey would have taken like 4 pages tops.
2 if he let Super 1st-Grader drive.
Basically, it's a lovely mini-van and I still have no idea what half the control panel does. I mean, there are about 98 buttons alone and I swear one looks like it fires missiles out the trunk, so not wanting to accidentally annihilate the gym and half the cafeteria, I've been parking like last year and walking the children over to the crosswalk. Of course, if I leave the lights on or the door open, the van screams at me in decibels heard from space, but some of these kids look sleepy so maybe that's not a bad thing. It's all been roses for the week that school has been in session.
Well, not yesterday, Readers. Yesterday, the construction that is happening on the church roof got to a stage that affects half of the parking lot, including the spot I usually park in and the no man's land of the crosswalk. I can park toward the back of the parking lot but that's like the other side of Europe and anyway Spain was neutral during WWI. (Does this make the construction workers the Huns?) Anywho, I don't mind leaving the little Supers in the van solo if I am going 10 feet, but a whole parking lot? In a van that may or may not shoot missiles? With roving bands of potentially Axis construction workers everywhere? (No, wait, that's World War II, better stop this analogy before it gets out of control.) So, parking is out for the duration of the week, and you know what that means. Whether I like it or not, I am going to have to use the school drop-off lane. Yikes.
So, yesterday, I channel my inner Mr. Mom and head over to the school. Some background. Wait, what? No, not about Mr. Mom. How have you not seen Mr. Mom?! You go do that, I'll wait. (Annoying hold music.) Back? OK, so, here's some background on the van seating arrangements. Since the little Supers are still, well, little, and need help with their car seats, I have them in the middle. Super Baby is directly behind the driver and Super Toddler is behind shotgun. The original plan was to have all the big Supers in the way back, so they could plot against me in peace, but since all three big Supers aren't actually that big and still require boosters, this makes putting on seat-belts a jostling nightmare. Therefore, 2 of them sit back there and 1 of them sits in between Super Toddler and Super Baby, where there is more room because apparently Honda Odysseys are designed by magicians. Unlike normal children, who avoid the middle seat of the middle of the car, the Super fight over it. I have no idea why because that's weird, but they do. Therefore, they are on a rotation and it's Super Kindergartener's turn. This comes up later.
OK, so, the trip from the house to the school is remarkably uneventful. We groove to the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack, Super Oldest sees a hawk as we near the river, Super Baby snores a little, all is well. All is well until we pull into the parking lot, avoid some orange cones set up to mark off the construction area, and join the drop-off lane. Super 1st-Grader, who doesn't like change and who apparently wasn't listening when I explained the new plan over breakfast, promptly loses his mind and starts yelling that he wants to park and, barring that, he wants to go home. All the windows are open and heads are starting to whip our way. I turn the music down and attempt to use my calm Mary Poppins voice, mostly because the windows are open and Nasty-Yelly-Mom is not a moniker that I want this early in school year. By April I won't care, but it's not even September. Naturally, he totally ignores me and continues shouting. By now we are next in line with the second volunteer (there are 2 areas to unload children), and the cheerful and way-out-of-her-depth volunteer is smiling at me through the open passenger window. In my panic to calm Super 1st-Grader, I totally forget how the automatic sliding doors work and open the driver's side one. This wakes up Super Baby, who decides to join her brother's cacophony of shouting. The confused volunteer starts to walk around the van, so I panic again, shut the driver's side door, and open the trunk. I then beep the horn for no reason whatsoever, shout to her that I'm sorry, I don't know all the buttons but verbally drop the -ons somehow and it sounds like I'm talking about butts, shut the trunk, and open the correct sliding door. I try to smile but I'm all tense so I think it looks more like that face a vampire makes before biting you because she recoils a little.
Super Kindergartener is in the middle and she's super tiny, so she gets past Super Toddler with minimal fuss, grabs her backpack out of the front seat window, flashes a blinding smile to the volunteer, and dashes off. This sets up a misleading precedent. Super Oldest climbs over the seats into the middle, but only half of him makes it; his right foot gets caught near the headrest and gets stuck. He flops around like a fish, knocking into and annoying the baby further, and then proceeds to kick off his shoe, which flies into Super Toddler's face, before ricocheting off the volunteer's coffee cup, and landing on the curb. She picks it up and, dazed, hands it to him as he emerges from the van, reaches into the front seat, grabs my purse, and attempts to leave for his friends. I holler at him to come back here, he ignores me, or probably just can't hear me over the sibling noise, and I lean further toward the passenger window, bracing myself on the steering wheel and accidentally pressing the radio volume down all the way. Cherry Bomb comes blasting out of the van just in time for the entirety of Lourdes Catholic School to hear Down the streets I'm the girl next door. I'm the fox you've been waiting for. Hello, Daddy. The sheer inappropriateness of it appears to push the volunteer away from the van and she collides with the volunteer from the spot ahead of us, who has decided that I'm taking way too long and is going to help the people behind me. They untangle just in time for our volunteer to run into Super Oldest, as he returns to the van with my purse. He recovers faster than she does, hurling the purse at Super Toddler for some reason, grabbing his backpack, and rushing off, before she has time to take a bracing sip of her coffee and return to the side of the van to get Super 1st-Grader. I hope to God she has some whiskey in there.
Super 1st-Grader has not moved from the backseat and he shows no intention of doing so.I shoot him my best I-am-going-to-kill-you glare, and he just shuts his eyes. I coo that I'll see him later because I have lunch duty, but he covers his ears. I tell him that I will take him to Hobby Lobby after school to buy Halloween decorations, so he leaps over the middle seat like some Olympian high jumper. He stands up and tries to push past his brother's legs, but ends up sitting on him instead. This makes them both start screaming, Super Toddler shoves him, and he basically falls onto the volunteer. This makes him lose his nerve and he clings to the sliding door of the van, which I have already started to close, and I have horrific visions of crushing my son into the passenger side of the van and driving off with him hanging there, like some grisly windsock. Naturally, I panic again and start mashing buttons down. This stops the sliding door, opens the other one, the trunk, the sun roof, starts the back windshield wipers, and probably shoots missiles into the construction site. I don't know because I'm too freaked out to check. The volunteer repeats It's OK, Sweetie three times in a row like she's in a trance trying to summon Beetlejuice, and hauls him onto the sidewalk. I throw his backpack out the window at both of them, shift into gear, and nearly crash into the truck that was behind me but has decided not to grow old waiting for my circus and is now driving around me. I wait for him to finish and try not to make eye contact with our volunteer, the other volunteer, the people behind me, or any other eyes. This is not easy in the slightest because by this point my van of horrors has everyone staring like the Stay Puff Marshmallow man is tearing up Manhattan. Because that's what happens when allies go bad; the whole world watches while you go down in flames. Sticky, hard to wash out flames.
And then you have no choice. You have no choice at all. You simply have hold your head high and exit the parking lot like you weren't just betrayed by the school drop-off lane. And you do. You hold that head high. At least until you are out of sight and you can go have a good cry and purchase the entirety of Target. Because Target will never betray you.
There is no Super Kindergartener.
Only Zuul.
