Category Archives: Mommydom

I need to get this off my chest (Debbie Downer alert)

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6

It’s hard to watch the news when you have kids. When Ava was first born, I made a habit of avoiding the television altogether because between post-partum depression, sleep deprivation and a love for my child so big that my heart almost burst, even “America’s Funniest Home Videos” had me reaching for tissues (I have a special place in my heart for old people falling).

During my media blackout there were days when Ray would come into the kitchen, and wait for me to look up from the dishes. He wouldn’t say anything; he’d just stand there soberly until he caught my eye. I’ve come to know that look well—it’s a sickening combination of heartbreak and anger over what someone had done to a child. It happens when he can’t bear the burden of knowing something so terrible that it couldn’t have been imagined, let alone actually happen. But it does. And it happens a lot.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked.

I listened as he told me that a man had put his baby in a microwave and turned it on.

“I didn’t need to know that,” I said, choking on tears.

“I didn’t either.”

Such events would horrify anyone, but having a child makes them more poignant, and perhaps even harder to understand. “Why would someone do that?” I find myself saying to the TV time and time again, as it broadcasts stories about children being abused, kidnapped and murdered by their own parents. It’s a stupid, pointless question.

The latest story is about Josh Powell, the man in Tacoma, WA, who blew up his house, with him and his two boys, 5 and 7, inside. A day later, we learn that he hit his children with a hatchet before the house exploded. As the news anchors and experts try to piece together the puzzle to explain why Powell did this, I find myself less and less interested in the answer.

I’m tired of the “reasons.” I’m tired of hearing that some parents are too tired, overworked, emotionally unstable, poor, uneducated, etc. to properly love and care for their children. When I had Ava and first discovered how hard parenting could be, I needed to believe that most parents, like me, were doing the “best they could”—good or bad. But six years later, I know better. I’ve seen parents scream at, bully, humiliate, and hit their children. I’ve seen kids left in parked cars and lost in grocery stores because their parents were “too busy to bother.”

So yeah, I’m angry. I’m angry that people like Powell exist. And I’m angry that thoughts of him invade my home and my heart, and most importantly, that people like him influence the world in which my child will grow up.

Ava is the single most precious thing to me in the world. If she gets a hangnail, I feel as if I lose a year off my life; when she skins her knee, I lose 5. I don’t understand how people can look in their children’s eyes and willingly harm them, but if I think about it too long, I fear I may go mad. The most frustrating things in life are the things we can’t make sense of. They’re also the most frightening.

Mommy’s Healing Touch, Daddy’s Big, Fat Fail

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2

 

I stopped “growing up” years ago. Now I’m in the process of shrinking toward my 40s. However, I still remember growing pains. Not the emotional pain of growing up—the BFFs who barely lasted a week or the boy who didn’t like you back because you were too tall. I’m talking about the real, physical pain of cells reproducing so fast that you outgrew your beloved pink jelly shoes even before the snow melted.

“Momma, my legs hurt,” Ava said to me sometime after midnight, blurry-eyed and disheveled from sleep.

I got her some ibuprofen (a bad habit I started back when she was teething in lieu of sleeping), and then I rubbed her legs. I massaged her little calves, her quads, her knees and even her feet, reveling at how big my baby had grown in almost six years. I felt the muscles that gymnastics, tennis and wrestling with Dad had formed. I felt the tiny calluses on her big toes she acquired from ill-fitting shoes, a testament to her emerging womanliness. She was so quiet for those few minutes, I didn’t know if she liked it or not. Then, she tooted.

“That’s my toot saying how much I like this,” she explained.

Whatever. I’ll take the compliment regardless of who—or what—said it.

When I was growing up, my mom spent hours rubbing my aching legs. I can remember peeling off my sweaty cotton socks after tennis practice, my skin hot and stingy where blisters were beginning to form. My legs throbbed from pounding on pavement (yes, our courts were blacktop and the school was public). And to make matters worse, I was growing “like a weed” as Mom would say. But Mom loved me so much she didn’t care about my “weediness.” She didn’t care that I stunk to high Heaven. She let me lay my ripe, sweaty, pre-teen body on her bed as she lovingly rubbed the aches away.

At the time I didn’t understand why Mom seemed to enjoy this so much. It took years to realize that few people would ever provide a massage without payment and even fewer would enjoy doing it. My husband, for example, thinks a neck massage means scraping the back of my spine with his index finger until he falls asleep or I begin bleed, whichever comes first. Worse yet, this sad attempt at massage only happens if my request coincides with an episode of some geeked-out television show. (He actually refers to massage as the “Star Trek rubs.”)

Or he thinks that my request for a massage is actually code for something more. It is not. Ever.

The problem is that Ray hates massage, which is a sure sign of an antisocial disorder. He would rather be doused with gasoline and set on fire than doused with lotion and touched lovingly. He thinks a back scratch feels like “dead bird feet” scraping across his flesh. I do not understand this, nor do I accept it. I’ve repeatedly tried to ambush him, but it always ends the same: he curls up his nose and squirms out of my grasp asking, “Why would you do that?” Because it feels good, you freak.

I want to prevent Ava from going down Ray’s pathological path. In addition to rubbing her, I’m trying to get Ava to massage my back in mom’s absence. There is nothing like her sweet, pudgy hands drifting over my tired spine like she’s delicately painting a fence. It instantly puts me to sleep. However, two minutes later she wakes me with a frantic, double-handed percussion, as if she’s trying to revive a heart attack victim.

“Mommy?!”

“I just fell asleep, Honey.”

She breaks into relieved laughter, but continues the beating because now she thinks it’s funny. My husband encourages her. (They have other gifts, I swear.) As I lay there getting pummeled, I try to image that I’m receiving a massage and not abuse.

Mom’s rubs were as much for herself as they were for me. Like her and so many other moms, I have become a giver of rubs, and less likely to ever get them in return. Which makes me think one thing: I want my mommy.

Totally what my foot looks like. No, really.

 

Bumper Stumpers

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7

Bumper stickers are like tattoos for cars. They seem like a good idea at first, but are never as cool the next day. Decorating your car with slogans and images is a lot like decorating your middle school locker. It’s not a reflection of who you are as much as it is a reflection of who you wish you were. I, for instance, wanted to be a professional volleyball player and River Phoenix’s lover. Each time I opened my locker, River would stare back at me amidst a collage of “Maui and Sons” and “Gnu” stickers (the Hurley of their time). I don’t understand the appeal of those stickers or the brands they represented. I didn’t surf, ski or skate, but nonetheless me and every kid in the early 90s put them on our lockers and binders, and dreamed one day they’d be on the back windows of our VW Bugs.

Luckily, I outgrew my counter-culture, wannabe-punk phase by the time I actually got my first car. It was then that I embraced my true self (or at least the next person I wanted to be): A young scholar. My sticker of choice said “WWU”, indicating where I’d be attending college. It made me feel grown up and unique. I stuck it on my back window, top and center—the same place every other person at the college put it.

Two used Honda hatchbacks later, my husband bought me a brand new, grown-up hatchback: a gray Toyota Matrix. As soon as I drove it off the lot, it occurred to me that everything about my Matrix said “cat lady” or, more accurately, “recent-graduate-student-entering-the-workforce-with-plans-to-start-a-family.” When I expressed my interest in sporting up my car by adding a cycling, running or Obama sticker, my husband responded, “A car without stickers says ‘adult.’ And don’t put an Obama sticker on it unless you want your car keyed.” (I think he meant by him.)

So I’ve left my car sticker-free for seven years, and now that I spend 45 minutes waiting in a line of cars to pick up my daughter from kindergarten, I’m glad I have.

Don’t get me wrong, some make me laugh. But do you really want to be known as the mom with the “Gun Control Means Using Both Hands” sticker? Not if you want to head up this year’s bake sale.

The worst offenders are the ones that rob us of our sexy, such as “Mom’s Taxi.” You might as well slap on a pair of high-waisted Lee jeans and give me a frosted perm.

Lately, I’ve been most annoyed by those stick figure families. I’m sorry if you think they’re cute. In an attempt to accurately depict your particular family unit, these stickers get it all wrong, like a department store family portrait that puts you in front of a leafy background and commands you to smile like you just got poked in the rear because, dammit, you’re happy even though everyone knows you spent the previous hour trying to keep little Johnny from smearing boogers on the faux-bear rug and little Janey from eating them. It’s too cookie cutter for my taste. The daughter rendered as a princess and the dad as a briefcase-toting salesman is a pigeonhole I don’t want my family to step in.

And what happens when the family unit changes? I recently saw a stick figure family comprised of a mom and two kids. The only evidence of “Dad” was the sticky outline where he’d been picked off. How do you breach the  “Where did stick Daddy go” discussion anyway? Or when a dog passes? Or when little Janey turns in her tiara for a football helmet?

Families are always in flux. People are always changing. So for now, I’m keeping the canvas clean. My gray Matrix can just speak for herself–even if she doesn’t say much.

Ode to My Husband (Please come home!)

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18

My parents left yesterday after a two and half week visit. Mom cooked Thanksgiving dinner (and all the other dinners in between) and set up my Christmas tree. Dad fixed everything around the house that was broken, and what he broke while here (I swear my toilet automatically shuts down when it hears my father’s voice).

As I pulled away from the airport, I felt sad—sad that I wouldn’t see them again until this summer and sad that I was heading home to a half-empty house. I say “half” because while Ava’s here with me, Ray’s in Tokyo for a couple more days. My parents served as a nice buffer while he’s been gone, taking off some of the pressure to play rock-paper-scissors (Ava’s new favorite game) until neurosis or carpel tunnel sets in, whichever comes first. But now that they’re gone, it’s roshambo-a-rama. Plus, I’m spending an inordinate amount of time engaged in strange, non-adult conversations. First there was the argument about Justin Bieber’s name. Ava swears it’s “Beaver.” It’s not. And I’m not willing to let that go. Then there was last night’s prison discussion. Ava wanted to know if I’ve ever been arrested (I haven’t) and then she told me she wants to see the inside of a jail. As far as I know, the county jail isn’t on the fieldtrip calendar, but I’d like to honor her curiosity. So I said, “Okay.”

“Wow. I was not expecting that,” she replied.

Well, that’s one of the perks of having a husband like Ray. He’s like Mister Rogers. He’ll manage to book an all-access tour and easily answer all of her difficult questions appropriately—an area in which I often fail (you may recall my explanation that God makes the water come out of the faucet). Now I just have to stall until he comes home.

“The jail is closed this week.” I’m not proud.

Super Dad

It’s been 15 days since Ray left and not 24 hours since my parents got on their plane. One thing is painfully clear: I never want to be a single parent. It’s too hard.

But it’s not just that. There’s something else. I spent a long time last night trying to put my finger on the “something else.” After reading some “brave” anonymous-mom blast me on my blog for being a bad parent and overall bad person (apparently humor doesn’t always translate), I wanted someone to assure me that this woman was a complete moron and that I’m in fact, the greatest writer, mother, person on the planet. Had my parents not left, they would’ve done just that. They’ve always been in my corner cheering their hearts out—albeit sometimes a little too enthusiastically (my Mom earned the nickname “the bucking bronco” for her seemingly involuntary whoops and gesticulations during my high school volleyball matches). I could’ve called a number of my closest friends, but it was late and this was about ego, not life or death. If Ava had been awake she would’ve hugged me and assured me that I’m the “best mommy ever.” But most often this responsibility falls on my husband for two reasons: general proximity and the fact that he’s so damn good at it. He gives pep talks that could inspire the blind to see. After 15 years, all I have to do is show him my frowny face and mumble, “I need a pep talk.” He delivers every time. Sometimes I even loan him out to friends in need. I needed him tonight—not just for the support, but for the love I’ve grown accustomed to getting. Come to think of it, I’ve needed him ever since we first met.

Because of my parents, I was lucky enough to expect that the people I surround myself with should be my biggest fans. They should be the ones willing and able to pick me up when I fall flat on my face. And if they’re not, I don’t need them. This has become especially important as I grow older and realize that whenever I put myself “out there” as a writer, teacher, parent, or basic human being, there’s always someone who thinks it’s their job to tell me how much I suck.

Lucky for me, my husband makes damn good earmuffs.

Teaching Compassion

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3

“Who’d you play with today?”

I regularly quiz Ava about her kindergarten social life in an attempt to tighten the chord between us that gets a little slack after seven hours of school. I know the kids in her class by name. I know which ones I would like her to play with and I’m not afraid to make suggestions. After all, as a woman in my 30s, I’m a better judge of character. And yes, if you must know, I have some control issues that sending my child to school has managed to expose like an open, festering wound.

“I played on the bars with Tristan,” she replies.

It’s been the same answer for the past week. Tristan seems like a nice kid—though a little on the quiet side (which makes Type-A freaks like myself a little nervous). But what about her two BFFs from class?

“They play with another girl,” she responds, matter-of-factly.

“Well, can’t you play too?”

“No. The other girl doesn’t like me.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” There’s actually no way that could possibly be true.

“No, seriously. She told me. She said, ‘Go play with somebody else. I don’t like you.’”

I do not like this “other girl.” But enough about me.

“Does that hurt your feelings?” What I really mean to ask is, “Are you going to grow up wearing all black and drawing temporary barbed wire tattoos around your wrists with a Sharpie?”

Ava just shrugs it off. She’s either trying to act tough or she’s a bigger person than me.

Regardless, I hurt for her. It pains me that kids are so cruel. Ava’s guilty of it too. Not too long ago she spent the better part of a day in “timeout” for not being a judicious playmate. But it stings more when it’s your kid on the losing end of the cat o’ nine tails.

I had lots of friends growing up. At least I think I did. See, I’m under the impression that everyone likes me. I mean, why wouldn’t they? I’m nice. Funny. Easy to talk to. Logic (i.e. my husband) tells me there’s no way everyone likes me. But my delusion has served me well for more than 30 years. What’s the harm? A healthy dose of ego never hurt anyone.

Well, almost anyone. As it turns out, my sister didn’t always enjoy playing with me, especially when we played “school” and I appointed myself as the teacher. But it wasn’t my fault she kept failing my classes; she had a lot of promise, she just never applied herself.

“Ava’s a lot like you,” she explains, “so maybe these kids are just tired of her telling them what to do all the time.”

Ouch. And, “She’s only trying to help them play better.”

“Uh-huh.”

Clearly, my sister doesn’t get it. So I turn to a friend unlucky enough to be trapped next to me while we wait for our children to finish their gymnastics lesson.

She listens patiently as I worry and fret about Ava’s social life and mean-spirited kids who are attempting to squash her sparkly pink soul. She nods. She tells me she understands and then follows up with, “You’ve met my son, right?” Her son is a beautiful, blond, big-hearted boy just a year older than Ava. He also has special needs. My friend tells me that her son doesn’t have any friends at school. He sits by himself on the outer edge of the playground. Every. Single. Day.

She tells me that she can’t think too much about it or she’ll go crazy.

I can’t stop thinking about it.

I can’t pick my daughter’s friends. I can’t make it so every child likes her. But I can teach her to be kind and compassionate to all children. Better yet, I can insist on it.

Ava and one of her BFFs

A Hair Affair

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19

This is about hair. My hair. But allow me to begin with a parable.

I was going through my husband’s closet not too long ago and found his beloved USA pullover hanging there, awaiting the moment when 1995 would become retro-chic. I loved that pullover like I loved Bruce Willis. It was first-generation fleece—the kind Grandma uses to sew you a knock-off Snuggie. It had “USA” embroidered across the chest in big white letters, but the fleece was as flaming red as my husband’s Geo Tracker (yes, you read that right). I was always borrowing it because it smelled like Hugo Boss and Head & Shoulders. But like milk and “Party of Five,” most things have an expiration date. USA’s was past due.

“Honey, let it go,” I said, trying to pull USA from his grip.

“It’s Ralph Lauren!”

“It’s ugly.”

He considered this for a moment. Then held USA out in front of him and studied it. Then, suddenly, he saw the truth. He saw the light. He saw a sweatshirt my mother would kill to wear at the annual 4th of July party.

So what does a 90s pullover have to do with my hair? Hopefully nothing. But I’m going to let you be the judge of that.

See, I’ve been growing my hair out for over a year. And through this long, arduous process, I’ve gotten a little attached. I run my fingers through it constantly, I bathe it in Moroccan oil. I get it “trimmed” but never “cut.” But I’m worried that I’m turning into the Heidi Montag of hair and I won’t know when enough is enough. I’m worried that I’m wearing the USA pullover and no one has the decency to run interference.

Or maybe they have.

“Your hair—it’s so long.” I’ve heard it a lot lately. Not “beautiful.” Not “pretty.” It’s a statement of fact rather than quality. When you can’t ignore the elephant in the room, but you can’t say something nice, you simply state what is: “Now that’s a dress,” or “I see you colored your hair.”

So let me ask you this: is my hair too long? And how long is too long for a mom in her mid thirties? But let’s stay away from actual measurements because, one, I can’t measure, and two, I appear to have an extra vertebra or three in my neck. A 5” bob on the averaged-necked woman would look like a crew cut on me, so measurements don’t really translate. But where on the body does Kardashian glamour end and Crystal Gale kitsch begin? I look through magazines filled with long-locked women, their hair extending far past their shoulder blades. Then again, I also see adult onesies cut from zebra print.

And while I appreciate the spirit of “do whatever makes you happy,” that’s not the kind of advice I’m seeking. This isn’t about self-esteem; I feel good about myself with or without this much hair. I’m asking the equivalent of “ballet flats” or “platform heel,” “skinny” or “flared.” I’m asking because I don’t want to be the girl driving a Geo Tracker in 2011.

Is it the equivalent of an adult onesie?

Picture Day

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I don’t take good pictures. I’ve always been told I have a nice smile, but as soon as I sense a camera pointed in my direction, I turn all robotic. My mouth tenses, my eyes bug and I end up looking as if I’m being poked in the butt. I’ve tried all the tricks, like tilting my head, turning my chin down, applying Vaseline to my teeth. Nothing works. I’m like Bigfoot—the only good photo on record is a blurry one taken from a distance when I didn’t expect it.

My child sometimes shares my special gift, but only when it counts. And today is Picture Day at her school.

“Okay, smile!” I command her on our way out the door.

Cue the square-mouth, clenched-teeth, bug-eyed grin. She looks like a badger. A cute badger with a little beauty mark.

“Um, try to relax.”

Her face droops, her mouth and eyes leading the way. To my horror she even pulls her chin to her neck making her look as if she has a severe overbite.

“Okay, not that relaxed.”

She settles somewhere in between, which also isn’t pretty. But at least I’ll know what her mug shot will look like when she gets arrested at 3 AM in Hollywood after a 36-hour bender.

I give up and decide to focus my efforts elsewhere: on her hair. I have hair, but I know very little about hairstyling. I do know that a portrait with our usual go-to ponytail will make Ava look hairless. So I try a side ponytail to the left. Then to the right. Then I scrap it and go for some hair pulled up with a bow.  We drive to school and I stare at her in the rearview mirror wondering what the hell was I thinking.

I know it’s just a picture. I know she’s only five. But I also know that those dumb headshots float around in overstuffed drawers mixed with phonebooks, cap-less pens and foreign coins for years until one day you become famous and your one-time friend from sixth grade pulls out the class photo of you in a tie-dyed cat sweater, pink-foil lipstick and braces—which also happens to be the only proof that you once sported a perm—and sells it to E! for $1.2 million.

Who’s the crazy mom now, huh?

I adjust her collar, slick her eyebrows with spit and remind her to “be relaxed, just not too relaxed,” and send her own her way. She bops happily along oblivious to the fact that I want to chase her down and try hog-tying her into some pigtails. But it’s too late. My “Mommy Dearest” opportunity has passed. Now it’s up to the guy behind the counter, whom I’ll later learn had my child pose like a pinup and give a “sparkle smile!”

After school, she shows me her “sparkle smile.” It doesn’t sparkle. It doesn’t even flicker. A perfect combination of relaxed, but not too relaxed. It’s a straight-mouthed, deadpan look well suited for any terminator.

Oh well, . . . I’ll be back.

In case you didn't believe me...

The New PTA

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12

My parents belonged to my elementary school’s PTA. Them and about five others. I don’t what they actually did at the PTA meetings because they were held behind the closed doors of the faculty lounge that reeked of stale coffee, cigarettes and boredom. Kids weren’t allowed; we were sent to roam the dark halls of our tiny school, vandalizing the bathrooms by tossing the gritty pink soap around like fairy dust. Eventually we’d find our way to the gym where we’d swing plastic beaded jump ropes around like a helicopter blades until it inevitably wrapped around someone’s neck.

Those were the good old days. Those were the days when PTA involvement meant something—namely that your child had a get-out-of-jail-free card.

I vandalized my fifth-grade classroom during a PTA meeting. I switched the contents of my fellow classmates’ desks. I powered the room with chalk dust. I may have even “borrowed” my teacher’s oversized Disneyland pencil—the kind so long, that the eraser end beat against your forehead as you wrote. I was called into the Principal’s office the next morning and I admitted everything. It was perhaps the greatest crime ever committed during my tenure at Sunnyland Elementary and I got off with a warning.

My dad built the playground. He hand carved the school’s sign. My mom owned and operated the cotton candy machine that was the highlight of the school’s annual Halloween party. Owning that machine was equivalent to having a Ferris wheel in your backyard.

My point is, I realized at a young age what the PTA really stood for: Protecting The Assets. So this year I promptly handed over $5 to Ava’s elementary school to secure my membership in a club that I thought would guarantee my pig-tailed asset special treatment.

Yeah, me and 1,400 other people.

“Were we supposed to dress up?” Ray lamented as we pulled into the school parking lot bustling with families looking as if they came directly from a SEARS portrait sitting.

Dress up? In 1982, all you had to do was show up.

Yes, times have changed. Today numerous letters and emails are sent home, inviting parents to the meeting. In the good ol’ days you invited only the people you liked and you did so by untraceable means: word-of-mouth. And now there’s an itinerary, a guest speaker, a Powerpoint presentation with clip art from Windows 95 and, worst of all, the use of parliamentary procedure. Nothing seems more out of place than parliamentary procedure conducted in an overcrowded gymnasium that looks and sounds like the mall softplay on a Furlough day. See, parents are “encouraged” to bring their children to the meeting, but their children are not encouraged to roam freely, set fires in garbage cans or stuff paper towels into the sink drains. Instead, children are encouraged to sit quietly in a roomful of their peers and endure sixty minutes of parentspeak.  Needless to say, only those placated by smart-phone technology succeed.

I took notes. I smiled and nodded attentively at the guest speaker hoping he would see me from the nosebleed section and later ask my name, write it down and pass it up the chain. The woman in front of me played on her phone. Some yelled at their children to give their phones back so they could play Angry Birds. Most talked amongst themselves. I wanted to revoke their membership rights then and there. I wanted to take back the PTA night—directly back to 1982.

Mostly I wanted to run to the closet and pull out a beaded jump rope and hang myself with it, but I’m sure like everything else those ropes have been replaced by better and safer cloth versions that feel warm and fuzzy around your neck. I don’t want warm and fuzzy. I want cutthroat.

PTA today is like Facebook. Anybody can join. This parental over-saturation only means one thing: my child is one of many. A pleb. A cog in the machine. A part of a—gasp!—democracy.

Where’s the favoritism? The bias? Is nepotism really dead?

No, in spite of what I’ve seen, I still believe it is alive and well. And it comes in the form of a cotton candy machine.

 

The Answer to the PTA Problem

 

“Car-Riders” Cluster

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While our elementary-school children are still in the throes of gluing macaroni to paper and counting dried beans, cars line up two-by-two in “Car-Riders” to wait for the last bell of the day, which won’t happen for another 55 minutes. In that time, the children will master that day’s “sight words” and fill up on their share of paste while I stare mindlessly into the ass of the car in front of me with a bumper sticker that reads, “If you’re not the lead dog, the view doesn’t change.”

When Ava started kindergarten I had no idea that I’d be spending approximately 9,000 minutes waiting in my car. I hate waiting, and I’ve never been good at it. I clench my molars, breathe rapidly and scrunch my shoulders up to my ears. I know psychosis has set in when I start to do math equations (I’m an English major). The other mid-pack parents (parents in cars 30 through 60) look as anxious as I do, their hands gripping the wheel and their eyes darting wildly to anticipate the moves of the worst kind of parent: the illegal jumper/merger.

I don’t see waiting as an opportunity to slow down and enjoy feeling “present” in my day. I don’t want to be present while trapped in a car calculating the gallons of gas I’m burning up. I want to be present while lying by the pool with a dewy glass of sangria in my hand.

I cleaned my glove compartment on the first day. I organized my CDs on the second and my parking change on the third. By day four, I was so desperate for something to do, I strung together a necklace from the Cheerios stuck to the back of my seat. All I can really do is obsess about how stupid it is that I’m sitting in line—again.

The first day of school I got in line too late and was one of the last parents to pick up her kindergartner. I know because my daughter said so in between her sobs. So I vowed that I would do better, which means getting to Car-Riders before Ava’s friend, Gabrielle, is picked up. I’ve tried at least six different routes. I’ve tried the left line. I’ve tried the right. Her mom lives down the street, so I can see when she leaves. Inevitably, I’m always behind Gabrielle’s mom even when I leave five minutes before her.

I am a mutant. One of the X-Men. My power is the ability to pick the slowest line on the planet.

I will choose the shortest checkout line in Target and without fail the person in front of me will need to get a price, exchange a faulty item, or worst of all, write a check. You know the kind—the woman who waits until all her merchandise is rung up and then she acts surprised when she hears the total as if she wasn’t sure if she’d have to pay this time. She then digs for a pen in the pharmacy she calls a purse. But of course she doesn’t have ID, because in the past—where she is from—you didn’t need it. So unless you arrived at Target in a Delorean, step aside.

But she doesn’t. She appears before me in every line I ever stand in. Like she is stalking me from 1985.

Today was different, however. By some act of God (a lady with cash and exact change!), I found myself in the coveted position of car #15. I took a minute to survey the landscape from my new vantage point. The finish line was already within sight. There was no threat of jumpers or mergers. We were like thoroughbreds lined up in the stall just waiting for the gates to fly open. The other parents had content, Zen-like expressions on their faces.

Sure getting there early cost me an extra ten minutes, but not once did I calculate how that extra time would figure into the year’s total. Instead, I rolled down the window, turned off the car and began to write.

It felt like only seconds before I saw Ava walk out to the curb and wave to me. I guess that’s all I really wanted—to get my baby back in my arms. To know that she wasn’t put in the wrong car and shipped down to Florida. It’s not a bad system, but I also think a retina-scan is a reasonable means for identification. I need a photo ID to buy Sudafed, but all I need to pick my kid up from school is a piece of card stock with her name written with a Sharpie.

But being up front felt good. Like flying first-class and getting stuck on the tarmac. You don’t care because there’s an open bar. I imagined I was surrounded by parents who have it all figured out. They’re the ones who remember to cut the crust off the bread and put their kids in tennis shoes rather than ballet flats on gym day. Their children have spots reserved for them at Harvard or Yale. It feels good to be in the presence of greatness—so good that waiting suddenly doesn’t feel so bad.