Driving to the Bus Stop

  There's something inherently shameful about driving to the bus stop.
  I could get into the ridiculous fact that the ratio of adults to kids is basically 1:1, and it seems a weird use of our time as a society to have seven able bodied adults standing around for ten (or thirty five) minutes, depending on the bus arrival, -  
   But I digress.
   What I really wanted to talk about - the bus stop. It's only a few hundred yards up the hill and then a little down the next street. It's a pleasant five minute walk, and just the right amount of exercise to make you pause and pretend to admire the dying daffodils (this weather, right??) while attempting to hide the fact that you are out of shape and blowing like a ranch horse.
   But then there are days when it is thirty-eight degrees and raining and the bus is always late and you decide to drive to the bus stop. There, you sit IN the car, and you can wallow in the guilt that come with the cushy life of sitting in a CAR that is WARM (don't you know that there are people in the world who don't know have data plans? The horror!)

   Earlier this week, it was sunny. It was warm. It was pleasant, and I drove to the bus stop anyway. I parked, and put on my super awesome migraine shades and shuffled slowly to where the gaggle of cool working moms and babysitting grandparents were huddled. (I believe a group of such caretakers is a gaggle, yes? That is the scientific term?)

   I joined the scrum.

   One of the mommies laughed as I approached. "Wouldn't it have just been faster for you to walk?" she asked, referencing my amazing parking. "Why did you drive?"

   Now, readers, this is a cautionary tale. You know that annoying meme that keeps popping up on your Facebook wall that reads: Be Kind. Everyone Is Fighting A Battle You Know Nothing About? You know, the one with the photo of a mountain behind it, or some weird little watercolor flowers? That meme is incredibly annoying, but it isn't wrong. Case in point:
   
   "Wouldn't it have just been faster for you to walk?" she asked.
   "Yup. But it would have been disastrous." I gave her my best grin-and-bear-it smile. "I've been on a new medication for a week which causes colitis, pain, and intense diarrhea. So, yeah, I could have walked here, but I didn't think we were close enough for our relationship to survive my, you know, pooping my pants in front of you."

   There was a moment of horrified silence.
   There wasn't a mic drop. Just her wide eyes and my pathetic grin.

   Then everyone began to laugh. "OOOH, that is the worst!" one of the moms related.
    "Just give me your number," the original speaker said. "I'll text you when the stupid bus shows up. Go home until then."
    "Bless you," and I hurried back to the car.

     Look around, loveys. See the people? They are all fighting something. Maybe the people you see are total dill weeds who drive to the bus stop because they are lazy and don't care about the environment, or maybe they just didn't want to poop themselves in front of you. 
    Our assumptions are made so very easily, while our grace is hoarded for those we think 'deserve' our kindness.
    The fact is, everyone needs your kindness.
     And you need theirs.


     So, you know, BE KIND.
 (But don't share that meme on my wall anymore. It's annoying.)
   

Thoughts While Attending a 5 Year Old's Birthday Party

It was my turn.

I missed the laser tag party. My husband was stuck with that particular purgatory.

I "lost" the invitation to the Strawberry Shortcake Bake With Your Child party.

But we like this neighborhood friend.

We should go.

This is a Princessy (adjective?) sort of party. With pink tutus. A Princess ballerina party. Not so bad, right?

There's going to be a dance instructor.

Maybe I could just chuck a well wrapped present at the neighbor's door and run away?

I spent an hour and a half helping my daughter find the perfect outfit, allowing her to choose brightly striped leggings that clashed with everything, a weird headband, teal owl socks, and black sparkly shoes to go with her Hello Kitty tutu shirt.

As I look around the Maple Room of the Community Center, you can tell which kids were dressed by their parents.

 Mine sure wasn't.

She wanted curls. I spent forty minutes on a salon style creation for my daughter. She looks fabulous, especially for a kid whose specialty is her brother's old soccer jerseys and a pirate sword.

The Disney music has begun. Courage, my heart. Courage.

I should write Disney a letter. I was promised, by their aggressive marketing, that if I birthed a girl child, I would play tea party and princess with her for four years, (ages 2-6). My world would be ruffles and glitter and costume jewelry.

Disney lied to me.

Not that I mind much. She'll make a great Evil Queen Overlord.

How much is the down payment on a Dark Tower, I wonder?

There's no pinata here. No Pin the Tail on the Donkey. When I was a kid, going to birthday parties meant playing Musical Chairs and then being sent to the backyard while adults smoked on the patio.

Oh, sweet Jesus. The Frozen music has started.

I brought a book. The irony is that it is a book about emotions and learning to - *ahem* - let it go.

My overlarge house dress and sweater have already been complimented. Twice. This means I either a.) Look fabulous or b.) Look like one of those deranged homeless people that you don't want to upset.

Hey, I brushed my teeth and I'm wearing clean, matching socks. I'm winning, today.

Do kids listen to lyrics? Do they understand that Princess Anna needs serious therapy?

All these people know each other. I should make friends.

But what I really want is a nap.

Why do I even allow my kids to have friends? Hermits never get invited to parties.

The dance teacher has called the kids to the center of the floor. She is handing out bright pink tutus. "You can never have too many tutus!"

I'd like to see her cite sources in defense.

My daughter is suddenly shy. She's never shy.

"Go, have fun!"
"No."
"Okay. Stay here and watch me read this book on emotional health."
"No."
"Yeah. It's not all that great."
"No."

I get a water bottle from the table. I didn't sneak a flask into this party. Why didn't I sneak a flask? My purse is enormous. I could have slipped a fifth of vodka in here and no one the wiser.

Huh. Water bottles. Disguising vodka. That's a million dollar idea.

Nope. Gotta drive home.

Also, my kid has stolen my water bottle.

"Go. Have fun."
"No."
"Why are you crying?"
"They have fairy wings!"
"Do you want fairy wings?"
"Yes!"
"Then go get some!"
"YOU HAVE TO COME WITH ME!"

I take my kid to the pile of fairy wings. "Excuse me, we're nervous, but we'd like fairy wings, please."
The dance instructor smiles beautifully. "Of course!"
I select a set that match her green tutu.
"No, Mommy. RED."
"Nothing you are wearing remotely goes - you know what? Red, it is." I help her to put on the wings. Instantly, she brightens.

Then she gives the look.
The look that says, 'Why are you standing here? Go away! You're embarrassing me!'

I go back to my seat.

Favorite overheard conversation topic so far: Mail Order Printer Toner Cartridges.

How long, Oh Lord? How long?

Why does everyone think 'I See the Light' is the best number from 'Tangled'? It's obviously 'Mother Knows Best'.

I used to be smart. I wonder what important piece of information I lost when I was implanting memories of 'Tangled'.

Kid is smiling. Fairy wings cure everything. Relief.

"When You Wish Upon A Star" - now that's really good music. That's the stuff.

The teacher just ordered all the kids, "Run back to your green dots! Find your green dots on the floor!" and they all complied. They're all standing on the green dots.

I need to get me some of those green dots.

Pachelbel's Canon in D? REALLY?

I will not bash my head into the cement block wall. I will not.

"Yeah..." one parent chuckles to another, "he's all about Duke..."

To be clear, sir, your son is four. He seems all about jumping on one foot.

My emotional health book is not helping me achieve enlightenment. Grief, Pain, all that I can handle. It has no guiding principles on how to transcend birthday parties. I dare Buddha to achieve mindfulness during balloon time.

Balloon time! Utter, delightful chaos. I think it could be more interesting with the introduction of spikes or something, but sharp objects don't mix well with preschoolers.

Ah, the Sleeping Beauty waltz. Poor Tchaikovsky. I hope he isn't able to hear the midi files of his music from the beyond.

CAKE TIME. Oh, sweet Jesus, cake time. I'll bet the party ends after this. No one opens presents at parties anymore. It's gauche, apparently.

Maybe some parent just decided it would be socially unacceptable in the interest of time and sanity. I can get behind that idea.

One kid has ditched cake and is trying to amass a balloon fortune. You go, girl. Buy low, sell high.

An hour and forty minutes.

I manage my escape carrying a craft and a balloon and a gift bag and a pinwheel while my Pirate Princess clomps beside me in her "tippy-tap" shoes gripping a second balloon with a fabulous grin.

Fine. It was worth it.

It was worth it for the reconnaissance. After all, I'm going to be expected to host one of these things for her birthday next month. A party for a 6 year old. My baby is turning six?


I will definitely be sneaking a flask to that party.

Impressive

The Pirate Princess was in story mode. Grandma Peggy is always a patient listener (for which we are all grateful). Our chatterbox was going on and on about her choir experiences at "Grandpa Gary's and Grandma Terry's church."
"Do you know people there?" Grandma Peggy asked.
"I have some friends. My friend, Mrs. Angie, is there."
"That's good."
"And sometimes," the Pirate Princess leaned forward eagerly, "someone plays the guitar!"
"Oh?"
She lifted her hand to whisper, "it's Papa-Gary!"
"Really?"
The Pirate Princess nodded. "He is impressive."
Grandma Peggy nodded. "Okay."
The pirate grew more conspiratorial. "Gramma?"
"What?"
"What does... 'impressive' mean?"

Mic Drop (Into the Dishwater)

   I was in that awful place, the place of fire and smoke, where the gnashing of teeth goes on and on, where there is weeping in the outer darkness.

   So, there I was, in the kitchen, washing my new set of mixing bowls. I had finally managed to chip, crack, and stain my old ceramic set into a state fit only for potted plants, so I had ordered new ones. The new bowls are shiny stainless steel, the kind that will not shatter no matter how many times I accidentally fling them onto the floor. They are colorful. They have lids. And pulling them out of the Amazon box was the highlight of my week.

    "What does this say about us?" my Buddy asked as we oohed and aahed. "I'm unreasonably excited about my new pots and pans. Is this what being an adult is?"

    "They're shiny!" I cooed.

    "Is this who we are now? Is this middle age?"

    
   I digress.
   We solved the existential crisis - shiny! new! cookware! - and I was standing at the kitchen sink, lovingly washing my new bowls, when my 8 year old son stormed into the room with a furious scowl.
   "I," he declared, "DO EVERYTHING IN THIS HOUSE."
   Silence.
   With immense self control, I continued to wash the bowl. I believe in allowing kids to experience Irony. My dear buddy had to turn around so that he would not see her laughing.
    "You do everything in this house?" I asked.
     "Yes," he sighed. "Why do I have to do all the work?"
     "Well, we do appreciate the fact that you clean everything," I said, rinsing the bowl and stacking it, lovingly, with the other. "We would never have any clean dishes if you didn't wash all of them."
     His brow furrowed. He looked at the dishes. He looked at me. "Well - "
    "And where," I went on, "would we be if you didn't shop for all the groceries and make sure we had healthy food when we needed it?"
     "I didn't mean - "
     "I'll bet you vacuum all the rooms," my buddy added, helpfully.
     "Don't forget the laundry! I really am grateful that you do all the laundry in the house. I like having clean pajama pants to wear when I go to the grocery store."
      "MOM!" he cried, exasperated. "I mean that I do so much! I tided the living room and the music room! I swept the floor!"
     "I can see that. I appreciate that. And I'm glad that you are helping Daddy take all the trash to the recycling center right now."
     "I'm trying to tell you," my medium-sized man concluded, "that I FEEL like I do everything."
     "Ah. Well." I dried my hands. "I'm sorry that you are frustrated by your chores. I understand that they can feel overwhelming. We can discuss your responsibilities later, but I need you to hear what you just said. You just informed me that you feel that you do everything, yes?"
   "Yes!"
   "And do you perform all the tasks in the house?"
    He pondered. "No... but I feel - !"
   "Kid, I get how you feel. I hear you. But I need you to understand something; how you feel is not an objective reality. Reality isn't changed by your feeling. Your feelings are valid, but they aren't the same thing as true."
     Then I dropped the mic into the soapy dishwater.
     (If only. That would have been fabulous.)

     Instead, I went back to my bowls. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"
     He sighed. "Yes."
    "We can talk about your level of chores later, okay?"
    "Okay."
     "Great. Now, run along and play. I need to call the White House Press Secretary."