Get OUT Of The Car

So far the one true benefit I have observed from private school is the drop-off/pick-up function. The idea is brilliant. School employees manned with walkie-talkies stand by the front doors of the school. There is a sign that attaches to the dashboard displaying your child's name so when you pull up an announcement is transmitted to the employees inside, "Johnny Walker is now entering the building. Johnny Walker is entering the building." When you arrive in the afternoon, it is the same concept. You simply pull up to the drive-through window, err, I mean front door, and place your order. "One blonde kindergartener with a red backpack! Hold the pickles!"

The first week of school, I walked Ethan into the classroom during the morning and then waited for him outside the class in the afternoon because I knew he would not go for this drive-through idea. But at Back-to-School night the teacher encouraged the parents to do the drop-off/pick-up line to "facilitate independence." Alright - teacher-mandated parental laziness! I love it. Now I don't have to fuss with make-up or clothing choices or talking to anyone before 9 a.m. I simply pull on some yoga pants and slap on the giant black "I am so mysterious and glamorous with half of my face covered" sunglasses and out the door we head. If I wanted to, I could even drop him off while not wearing any pants at all! Not that I would – that would be weird – but it is nice to have that option in a pinch.

Ethan has been all bright and eager to do it himsel (!) and has taken pride in exiting the car alone and then reemerging, alone, at the end of each day to find me waiting. He scans the horizon each afternoon while he tries to pick out which granite-colored SUV is mine (truly, they all look identical) and when he sees me, his face relaxes into a combination of relief ("Whew! She came AGAIN today."), delight ("Yay! Mommy will have snacks and a juice box!") and a touch of smug superiority ("It is so nice to have my own private car service on demand.")

Ethan has gotten accustomed to an earlier bedtime and has been dare-I-say – cheerful? - during recent mornings. After he has been safely deposited at school in the morning, I return home and shower and dress without my captive audience barging into the bathroom with important questions about "my balloons" (use your imagination on this one) or my favorite, "What happened to my penis to make it look so funny?" (My mom said to tell him, "A boating accident.")

So I thought we were getting the new routine down. Until this morning, that is, when Ethan woke up on the wrong side of bed. By wrong side of the bed, I mean the possessed-by-the-devil, whining, everything-you-do-MOM-is-wrong side of the bed. Without boring you with too many details, by the time we got out to the parking lot, he had removed his pants twice ("NO PANTS! You promised … SHORTS!"), flung a bag of Cheerios under a couch cushion ("I wanted LIFE cereal…") and thrown himself onto the bathroom tile because his hairbrush was "too scratchy!" Super fun morning for all involved. Do not ask me why his head was spinning around and he was about to projectile vomit green pea soup this particular morning because all week he has been Little Mary Sunshine with beams of light coming out of his ass. There is no rhyme or reason. I only have a B.S. in psychology so I will not even attempt to speculate.

Eventually Ethan has been secured in the vehicle and we are hurtling toward his 8:25 a.m.-3:25 p.m. destination, as I am counting down the minutes until I can mainline a Venti Pumpkin Spice Latte. YES, whipped! We pull up in front of the school and he will not get out of the car. Here's how it works: You pull up in queue. A teacher opens the car door, unloads the child from the back, helps them adjust their backpack, and leads them on their merry way into the school. But Ethan would not get out. He was holding onto the interior of the car for dear life, SCREAMING. When we had a cat and needed to load him into the carrier to go the vet, the cat suddenly developed fourteen arms and tentacles and it took two of us to smush him into the carrier while he made sounds so ungodly that they haunt my nightmares to this day. It was just like that.

At this point, cars are lining up behind me, some moms are honking, and no doubt wondering what I have done to induce such hysterics. Finally I wrench his little tentacles off the car seat and give him a (gentle) push while the teacher delivers the rest of the dead-weight out of the backseat. Somehow he manages to sit down on the ground in front of my car and is now sobbing with such theatrical vigor that he is going to be a shoo-in for the Oscar category "Best Impersonation of a Prisoner of War – Ages 6 and Under."

I hope he thanks me before his agent in his acceptance speech.