There are few journeys as rife with drama and intrigue than school pick up. Yes, you have your Jason Bournes and the new Wolverine and Deadpool if you swing that way, but the school pick up hands – or claws, Hugh – down, has them beat.
First in the long line of dramatics, is the school parking lot. Whoever designed apparently every school parking lot in existence, is still laughing. There are never enough spaces for the number of parents who consider it a banner day when the stars align and we manage successfully to play musical parking spaces except without the music or the fun.
All of this amounts to me leaving 40 minutes early so I can sit in the eerie calm before the storm. I wait and ponder what excitement will come my way. I should cherish this time, ideally live it up. Bring a cold drink, maybe a few snacks, an eye shade, and a small pillow. Maybe bring out the nail polish and various accoutrements of self-indulgence. I should do this not to pamper myself but to fortify myself for the onslaught that awaits me every day at 3:40 like a twisted version of groundhog day. The nail polish probably won’t work, because there is a slight tremble to my hands as I wait expectantly.
The weather is the second variable to consider. I’ve stood outside the school basking in the warm glow of the sun’s rays and marvelling at the beauty of nature. I’ve also sought non-existent shelter from wickedly cold winds and storms pelting me unforgivably. It seems to be a natural law that bad weather if coming will hit 10 minutes, give or take a few, before pick-up. Although I have no actual proof, my own empirical and impeccable, if I do say so myself, research suggests that this rule holds true from school to school and region to region.
Then we have the unveiling of what six hours navigating the turbulent waters of elementary school could bring to four impressionable children prone to leading with the most dramatic version in their retelling.
The youngest may be smiling from ear to ear or perhaps barely able to walk upright with the weight of the day bearing down on her tiny shoulders. The oldest will appear disappointed that it is I who picked them up despite the fact that I am always the one to pick them up. Or alternatively, she will say that I didn’t greet her enthusiastically enough. I usually get this wrong when I read the room, or in this case, the school grounds. The middle children will be a toss up. “How was the day?” I ask. “Bad. I hate it. I had a supply. My sandwich fell. My water bottle spilled. My carrots didn’t taste good. You forgot my fork. You put the wrong lunch in my lunchbox.” So in response to my inquisitive and perhaps naive question, I get a litany of my failings. On other sunnier days, I get a “good. Teacher took us outside to play. I won a lollipop from the teacher,. I got to be leader. We made pumpkins! There is a new seating plan”. That last one works in both the positive and negative column. Then I have to remember which child Maria is and if she is the nose picker or the pencil sharing child so that I may arrange my face accordingly. One child at some point as we wait for one or more of their siblings will say in an impassioned plea “can we go?!” This is before they have all been let out. When I mention how I should probably not leave the same sibling I came to collect at the school overnight, this child finds this an absolutely ridiculous consideration.
Despite the children arriving in a staggered fashion, very quickly I am employing my ability to multi-task and multi-listen as everyone must talk at the same time. If I don’t focus on each child speaking, again my failure is brought to my attention. There are also days when the day has been too much and instead of rapid fire accounts of their days, there is nothing. No recognition that I haven’t seen them since the morning, and apparently they sat at a desk without any stimuli or thoughts for six hours. In this case, there is an uncomfortable silence and then we leave as if no one knows each other and I am left to fill in the day as it might have unfolded. I follow this now with my own rapid line of questioning that borders on badgering the witness. How was the day? Did you pass in your work? Did you play outside? Was there a supply? Were you able to ask the teacher your question? I begin to sound a little unbalanced. I’m too much. I get monosyllabic answers. No one will talk.
It is almost guaranteed that by the time we reach the van, someone is crying, someone is fighting with at least one of their siblings or even themselves if no one else gives them cause, and on an unlucky day, someone might even walk into the side mirror in the overcrowded blessed parking lot.
Now armed with what seems like more backpacks than children and loose hats, perhaps an unwieldy diorama, a paper crown, ever leaking water bottles if they found their way back, perhaps a gift made of napkins given by a friend – Maria? No, must be Josie, Maria’s medium would surely be Kleenex – we weave through the kiss n ride, a mile to the van. Without fail, before I can hit the unlock button someone has tried the van door four times and now we have messed it up. Wait, open, click. No, now. Stop. Eventually, with eye rolls and pleas, theirs, not mine, we stumble into the van. Someone steps on someone, someone hits someone with a backpack, no one is sorry and all are so, so hungry. Apparently, I didn’t pack enough for their lunches. It’s 3:43 and we will do this all again tomorrow. Maybe I’ll leave a little earlier to get a better parking spot.