You know how people are always accusing bloggers of only putting their best selves forward?
I am rarely that blogger.
This week, I am superbly not that blogger.
The past few days can be summed up in nouns: Distraction, depression, exhaustion, nerves, endorphins, irritation, frustration, fear, pride, maternal adoration, and snackiness. So yeah, my dance card was slightly full. But as I was prepping for Tuesday night’s show (and why I thought I’d be any good at speaking in front of a crowd while carting that rucksack of words around with me is anyone’s guess) and finishing up a few slightly past-due articles, I looked up at the clock and saw that it was almost exactly the time I needed to leave in order to pick up Nora from school.
I woke Jasper. Calmed Zu. Shoveled everyone and everything into the car and blasted the classical tunes. FOR RELAXATION, OBVIOUSLY. And, you know what? I made it to the pickup line completely on time. My heart calmed, my inner critic shut the heck up for the moment, and I felt like perhaps I wasn’t the worst person who ever attempted to do stuff (ever). There was even a parking spot open! Seriously, was my week turning around?
I nosed into the spot- as I’ve done pretty much every day since owning this beast of a minivan- and cut the wheel.
CRUUUUUUUUNCH.
The wha? The hell? It sounded an awful lot like someone scraped a really big car into a really little car. But that would’ve been borderline impossible, because WHAT?
I did the only logical thing to do, which was to put on my hazards and leave the van right there all parked askew in the middle of the preschool pickup line. Because I figured that if I stopped for a sec, maybe life would too? (Spoiler: It didn’t.) Instead, what happened was I emerged from my car to find a sea of horrrrrified faces which, let’s just go ahead and say was comprised of the entire school, neighborhood, and surrounding counties.
Luckily (unluckily?), the smushed car belonged to a friend of mine. (Sorry, Amy.) She was beyond gracious and made light of the fact that the back of my car did naughty things to the front bumper of hers. No kids were hurt (or even near). The minivan has a smallish scrape. Her bumper is hopefully (and cheaply) fixable. I offered her my insurance, my childcare services, and my lastborn. (Because, let’s be honest, I’ve never seen the appeal of offering a firstborn. That’s the one where parents make all the mistakes, amiright?)
I may have lost my status as a Responsible Person Who Will Totally Not Endanger Anything At Pickup (Or Dropoff).
Mom, you need a drink.
Outside of the car.
Obviously.
And let’s just say that my anxiety went up a few more notches for the next four hours.
But then I went and gave my talk! Yaaaay! (After our high school sitter bailed on us! Yaaaay! And my excellent friend Sara swooped in to tuck my children in! YAAAAY!)
Yesterday, at the morning preschool drop off, I parked a little farther away than I usually do, and gave the obligatory sheepish waves- and fully acknowledged my new nickname:
Crash.
I think we can all agree the silver lining of this story is that I’ve finally achieved the middle school goal of getting a cool nickname. (My car has one, too: Scar. Aren’t we just begging for our own WB half hour dramedy?)
I’ll just be over here eating my feelings for the next little bit.
Outside of the car, obviously.
‘Cause that thing is a temple.
Speak Your Mind