Fear and Loathing in the School Car Line

We were on the edge of Wheeler Road and Maple Grove, somewhat near St. Cecilia's Catholic School, when the panic began to take hold. Non-school traffic seeping out of each intersection in every direction possible, as if something were crunching their time as it was ours. Impossible! With under two minutes until the final bell, we dodged the interlopers and swooped into the lot. Immediately I knew this would be a hard-won fight, if victory remained a possible outcome at all; the odds were dismal.

Every spot within reach was taken, the only way to find a repository for my minivan was to travel through the dreaded drop-off line. The closer I got, I soon realized with a cold, gripping dread that the teacher on parking lot duty had already gone in. The scene had become anarchy.

The principal’s car was parked adjacent across all of the front spots normally blocked during drop off. It set the tone for the kind of guerilla drop-off tactics were to follow. Parents everywhere, trying to escape, trying to unbuckle their as of yet still 4’9” and under children from their safety contraptions, people throwing their cars in park in every direction—and me, with my child who cannot be forced to walk herself in under any circumstances, demanding we park so I can accompany her to her class.

One car pulled up into those front spots also parking adjacent, perhaps mistaking the principal’s car for another parent. Another car still remained in the line, but also decided to throw it in park to help her kids out. I struggled, knowing the strict rules in place regarding passing other vehicles in the line, but when the line becomes a mosh pit of cars, what should one do? What CAN one do?

I saw my opening. If the principal’s car was left in the Garden of Prosperous Parking, that meant her reserved spot was open—I knew it was an ethical gray area. If I stole it “just this once,” someone else might eventually do the same. I could be establishing a lawless precedent for future chaotic mornings. Still—knowing it’s only January, knowing we still have several long weekends and holidays coming up that will require every ounce of tardy banking I can muster, I took my shot. I propelled my van into that spot, flew out slamming every button to open every door that I could, grabbed my child and power-walked the likes of which would be the envy of every fitness enthusiast in their Golden Years at the mall that day.

With emotions high and my shins screaming that they hadn’t even had a chance to wake up yet, we hauled our buns through the door, only to be confronted by the very woman whose automotive territory I’d just stolen.

We can’t stop here--this is chat country.

As undaunted as Ammon Bundy begging Internet supporters for snacks at the freshly sieged state visitor’s center, I shouted an apology and breezed right past. I didn’t have time for any Acts of Contrition, I had time to make it to the Pre-K 4 classroom….

And make it we did.

When I returned to my van, Bob Dylan was singing directly to me: “Oh, Mama, can this really be the end? To be stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis blues again…” I quickly arrived home, climbing out of my van feeling pure adrenaline flooding my system. It was both a soothing balm to my un-caffeinated soul, and just the jolt I needed to make it through the front door of my house.

…And one more child’s morning arrival deadline, only this time across town at an entirely different school.