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Bob Schwartz |
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Laughing Matters THE PERILOUS NATURE OF PICKUP My wife has returned to work. Now before I get sentenced to a rigorous session of political correctness at Sensitivity Training Camp for Dummies, I realize that the greatest misnomer of the twenty-first century is the label "Stay at Home Mom." They don't exist since those parents spend more time on the road than most long haul truckers. And the term "Working Mother" is indeed redundant. But my wife has returned to that working world where they actually give you paid holidays, there's room for job promotion, assigned tasks are less intimidating than potty training, and less perilous than taking the dare of hopping on your child's Razor scooter. In the reshuffling of our family responsibilities, my most nerve-wracking and stressful challenge won't be whether I can create a palatable entree after many years of my being a DNC - FD (Did Not Cook - - Family Decision) in the box score of our dinner preparation. No, my greatest test isn't relearning the difference between rutabaga and jicama, but whether I can successfully manage school pickup and drop-off without routinely causing a major minivan pile up. It is the terrifying tribulations of the school commuter that now keep me awake at night. One of the horrors I wished to avoid was catching the excoriating glance of a nine-year-old 4-foot 8-inch Safety Patrol student proudly wearing his or her powerful orange belt. Find me a First Lieutenant Safety Patrol person who dreams of being a Captain and well, rest assured, you darn well better stay within those crosswalks fella, and far, far away from teacher parking. Violate those principles and, parent or no parent, you'll find yourself whisked from your car and in detention faster than you can say "Where'd that tow truck come from?" And don't even think of slowing down in front of the "No Parking, Standing, Stopping, Pausing, Contemplating, Pondering or Reflecting and You've Violated Something if You've Read this Far" sign. Legend had it that repeat transgressors were required to stand on a scaffold at three consecutive PTA meetings wearing a scarlet IDO (Illegal Drop Off) on their shirts. During my initial foray into the afternoon grade-school gridlock, I finally spotted my younger son near the corner by his school. Fearful of prompting road rage by taking too long in the loading area, I lunged to open the passenger side sliding door and frantically yelled "Jump in!" Given the number of other vehicles in the area, I was scared that if required to circle the school sans son that I wouldn't make it back around until a week from Tuesday. Having miraculously achieved pickup of my youngest son at elementary school, I quickly retreated home to the comfort of our driveway. My petrified state slowly dissipated and my heart rate returned to near normal. Then my two-year-old daughter, riding lookout from the backseat, inquired as to the whereabouts of her oldest brother. Yikes! My memory lapse had left us one child shy of a complete sibling unit, so I rushed on toward middle school. That night, I created detailed maps of the parking areas at each school as my children and I went over our plan of attack for the next day including detailed car to sidewalk hand signals. If I survive pickup until the end of the school year then the rebel may finally come out of me. On that last day I might do the unthinkable and throw a ten-year-old safety patrol into a complete tizzy. That's right, park in the principal's spot. That would be the suburban carpool parent's idea of living on the edge. Sample Columns Some Are Semi-Sweet and Some Are Semi-Not
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