Saturday, August 21, 2010

104. Chauffeur In Momland

You know how really rich people have a driver? Well, that’s me. (The driver, I mean, not really rich.) I signed up my sons for various summer camps because I knew that I could not keep them entertained for three months solid. So, we have all kinds of planned activities that are meant to be fun and enriching: swimming and art and music and movement in the park and organized field trips to museums and ice-skating rinks and outdoor theater and ………. Wait, how exactly are they supposed to GET all those places? Oh, yeah: ME. I am "The Driver" (not necessarily a title I relish, nor the unpaid title I thought I'd eventually have when I was getting straight A's in college). There is a lot of orchestrating behind the scenes to get everyone where they need to be when they are supposed to be there. We criss-cross. We zig. We zag. It is more complicated than pulling off a military coup. Some activities overlap, and some conflict. Sometimes I have to drop off one child, zoom to pick up the other, and then right back to get the first one. I am getting worn out just thinking about it. And, oh yeah, don't forget what was in the back of my mind as I was signing up Tall and Short for all those camps originally: that now I'd have so much "free time". (I make excellent use of my newfound "free time" by doing such leisurely activities as unfastening my seat-belt and putting gas in the car.) I remember back when I was a child overhearing my mom commiserating with her friends about how tiring it was to be The Chauffeur all the time. I would laugh in my head, because, come on—how hard can it be really? to drive people places? Now I understand. And we are not even talking about traffic. Traffic is the least of my worries--traffic is not THAT bad in Crazy Town, if you must know. The main traffic is in and out of my own driveway. I got in and out of my car EIGHT times today! And that was before noon. The Local Mom Police should declare this illegal (and my "fine" should be that I have to go to a movie and enjoy myself-- and the movie should NOT be Toy Story 3). I live by the clock. Surprisingly, I look at my watch more now than I EVER did back when I was a flight attendant. Ack! It’s almost 9 AM! We have to go pick up Pal for carpool! We’re going to be late! Egads! Swim lessons start in 10 minutes and you can’t even find your swimsuit! Oh, no—I haven’t packed you a snack yet for music camp and your brother just drank the last juice box! Even when I make a (futile) attempt to prep everything in advance so we can be calm and happy and relaxed and nonchalant, it never quite turns out that way. There is always a shoe mysteriously "missing" or someone has to go to the bathroom at the last minute or we forgot the sunblock in The Husband’s truck or my keys have vanished. A little obstacle presents itself, as if to say: you should not have laughed in your head at your mom all those years ago. My Wish List of helpers always included a maid and a cook and gardener and (why not) a part-time nanny. I think I will have to add full-time driver to the list. That way my time will be freed up so I can lie by the pool and read my book. (You know, if we had a pool. Or if I ever had time to go to the bookstore and actually BUY a book.) MOV (“Mom’s Other Vehicle”—a limo?)

No comments:

Post a Comment

When you write a comment, it makes me feel like I won the lottery or at the very least like I ate an ice-cream sundae. (This has nothing to do with the fact that I did just eat an ice-cream sundae.)