The school drop off lane. This is where parents catch fleeting glimpses into the real lives of the families you see every day. It’s a peek behind the curtain into the economic, social and (if you’re lucky) occasional mental dynamics of the names you know through your children but will probably never become more than acquaintances with. This place can get to me. Most likely I’m imagining this, but the drop off lane can feel like most judgmental place this side of 7th grade.
I’d love to say that I’ve evolved enough as a person that I’ve transcended the effects of personal judgements upon me and that I give it no thought. However I’d be lying to myself. I certainly care. I’m as affected by marketing and media as anyone is and I care what others think to a certain degree. So when I’m rolling up to my kids’ school my brain kicks in and I start wondering what people are thinking about me and my brood. I wonder what conclusions they are coming to based on those moments of utter exposure.
We pull into the school parking lot line amongst everyone else. Together we are a long creeping parade of minivans and SUVs all hoping the bell doesn’t ring before the hasty unload. I start getting a bit stressed. Suddenly I realize how filthy the outside of my car is. When was the last car wash? Had to have been over a month ago. Maybe 3. Well, at least the dirt is uniformly crusted along the entire exterior. Perhaps everyone will think we chose “Muted Dust Storm” as the color rather than the silver it’s supposed to be. Luckily the inside doesn’t reflect the unkempt neglect of the outside.
It’s far worse.
Coming from a theater background, I know a bit about staging. Audiences see different things from different angles, and every morning, I do my best to manipulate the perspective. From the open side door, my car appears pristine—spotless, even. No stray Cheerios, no rogue baby wipes. But should someone lean in and ruin the illusion, they’d discover a wasteland of old fruit crushers, tissues, apple cores, and enough forgotten snacks to stock a small convenience store. Cleaning it the other day felt like an archaeological dig—each layer of debris revealing something older, stranger. Somewhere between unearthing a fossilized granola bar and prying a juice box from a cup holder, I found a crumpled flyer advertising recommended online casinos with fast withdrawals introduced by PokerChoice. No clue how it got there. Maybe past-me had delusions of grandeur, imagining a high-roller lifestyle before reality (and fruit snacks) took over.
And speaking of relics, where did all these Goldfish crackers come from?? I haven’t bought them since 2012. Then, as I stand there contemplating my car’s historical significance—“crunch crunch crunch.” Oh no. “NO! Don’t eat that, it’s too ol….” Too late. When they say “5-second rule,” surely they mean “5-year rule,” right? I hope so, for my son’s sake.
Now, we’re at the front of the drop-off line, and I scramble to help my daughter gather her things. The last thing you want is to be that parent—the one disrupting the smooth operation of morning drop-offs. I glance at the guy two cars ahead, stepping out of a spotless Maserati in a tailored suit, and suddenly, my unbrushed hair and wrinkled hoodie feel extra noticeable. I am exceptional—in how sub-standard I appear. Surely, parents, teachers, and possibly grade schoolers around me are thinking:
“Well, I wasn’t aware that her father was a homeless man.”
“It’s nice that he’s trying to pull his life back together.”
“We should probably start a collection.”
One of the perks of being a writer and doing social media is that I get to mostly work from home and don’t have to wear a suit to the office each day. But, damn. Should have gotten out of my pajamas.
Now that I’m out of the car and walking my daughter to her drop off spot my son has unclipped himself and is messing with the volume to the radio which connected to my iTunes. No problems there though. The last 2 songs were from Tangled and Beauty and the Beast. Surely we’re listening to my daughter’s playlis………. oh no…… is that???……. it is.
Crud.
It’s Ol’ Dirty Bastard.
On FULL volume.
With the doors wide open.
If I hurry back I can turn it off before the song gets to the more colorful descriptions of how his industrious workforce of women should distribute their earnings and….. “Oh, hello Ms. Smith. Yes things are going fine…..” Small talk with the principal. Nuts. People are definitely looking at me now.
But wait!!! My salvation has arrived behind me in the form of a 5th grade girl in full psychological meltdown! Hooray! What’s even better is that her mother is responding in an eruption of fury, the likes of which haven’t been seen since the destruction of Pompeii.
“GET OUT OF THE GODDAMNED CAR AND GET YOUR LAZY BUTT TO YOUR CLASS NOOOOOOOOWWWWWWW!!!!!!!! I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS BULLS$#!&!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
“Wow, that mom has some issues” I think to myself before realizing that I’m now the one that’s judging. Damn. Who cares though, she’s provided just enough distraction for me to slink away swearing to myself that when I get home I’ll clean the car, shave, get dressed and be presentable for tomorrow’s drop off.
You know, just like I did yesterday and every single other day before that.