A few weeks ago, my Florida daughter had to be away for a few days and Harold and I were called in to babysit. We arrived ready for a fun-filled weekend, happy meals and happy times – if only we could get through Friday afternoon carpool.
There were two stops involved, my grandson’s parochial school and my granddaughter’s Mother’s Day Out. I assured my daughter that we’d leave early and be in carpool line in plenty of time, but she shook her head. That wasn’t how things were done.
You had to arrive at your pre-assigned time: kindergarten parents at 2:30, first-grade parents not until 2:35. If you arrived too early, you’d be booted back to the end of the line, and the carpool monitors had proved to be a harsh, unforgiving lot.
Earlier in the year, a first-grade parent had been summarily waved off. “It’s 2:35!” the mother protested, pointing to her dashboard clock. “What does your phone say?” the carpool monitor countered. “2:34.” The mother turned and executed the drive of shame.
This made me a little nervous, so Harold did a Thursday ride-along with my daughter so he’d know how to proceed.
Friday at T minus 10 minutes (we checked our phones) we positioned ourselves in a makeshift staging area in the Publix parking lot across the street. Our time arrived (hack) and we pulled into the school parking lot. Harold explained the upcoming procedure: There were three horizontal tiers of cars positioned one behind the other. When carpool was initiated, the first tier would move left to right, the second would follow right to left, and the third left to right again. As the 2:30 positions were vacated, they would be filled with 2:35 cars. It sounded like a D-Day invasion, but we were in an appropriate third tier slot at our appointed time. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Not so fast. As the cars began to move, Harold’s eyes narrowed. “That woman is a 2:35 person.” Her visor sign gave her away. “Watch her. She’ll nonchalantly move up to a tier one slot and gum up the works.” And that’s exactly what happened. Harold sneered, “Look, she won’t make eye contact with anyone else. She knows what she did.”
The bigger problem was that the car ahead of us, our tier three leader, was missing. The car was completely empty. “We’re behind a dud!” Harold shouted. I tried to calm his nerves, suggesting that perhaps the person had, I don’t know, gone into the church to pray, but Harold was not appeased. “They’re gumming up the works!”
Harold does not like gum in his works.
When our time came, Harold looked around to see if the carpool monitors were watching, then jumped ranks to a tier two spot. (Forgive us. There was no other choice.) At last, we made it to the front of the school, where our grandson was waiting. He looked worried, but Harold had seen that look before. “He doesn’t like it when the carpool lady buckles him in. She does it too tight.” So, as soon as the door opened, my grandson reached for the buckle and shouted “I’ve got it!” We slammed the door and we were off.
The Mother’s Day Out maneuver was easy. We went inside, checked my granddaughter out at the desk and collected her fistful of art projects, many still wet.
When we got back in the car, Harold and I sat in stunned silence. Then, in an act of heroic recovery, he grabbed the steering wheel and shouted, “And now, donuts!”