This isn’t ‘Nam…

…there are rules.

Every once in a while the weather, or timing, or my daughter’s desperate requests to “please, please, please let me be a car rider today” necessitate a sojourn into the special kind of hell that is the drop off line at my children’s school. Today was one of those days.

My children’s elementary school is in the middle of a busy college campus. It is surrounded on all four sides by roads - a little island of instruction among streets heavily traveled by students who have had driving privileges for less time than I’ve been growing out my bangs and are likely hungover.

There are three entrances in which a child may enter said school. A front entrance, which may be accessed by car - AKA the “drop off line” - which also happens to wind through the main parking area for the school. This detail is important for later. Then there is a rear entrance, ensconced by what is called “the patio”, which is for walkers. It’s a bit of a misnomer to say walkers because the majority of those students are actually getting to school by car. There is a sanctioned parking lot across the street from the school where parents park and then escort their mouth-breathers to the patio entrance by foot. They are shepherded across the busy street by the world’s most cheerful crossing guard Rhonda, and, since this is a very popular option, often greeted by lots of other parents going to and fro. My personal favorite way to get to school is walking from the house to the patio so I can feel all virtuous about the start of my day but I also ike the parking and walking option. for days when I’m feeling lazy.

The third entrance remains a mystery to me because it’s the bus entrance. We live so close to the school that this option has never presented itself. I think they go in through the playground. The bus entrance is actually irrelevant to this story, but I didn’t want you to think I was being inaccurate.

So, assuming your kid isn’t taking the bus, you, as the responsible party for getting an elementary school student to school, are given two allowable options: drop off your kid in the car line at the front door or walk in the patio door from wherever you came from. Notice that the rules do not allow for driving your child to the patio nor do they allow you to walk your child through the car line. Why might these be the rules? Call me crazy, but I think it is because for most people, the idea of children and vehicles co-habitating feels somehow unsafe.

Our story begins in the car rider line, so let’s set the scene for that. The driveway into the school is a right-in, right-out situation. Meaning you can only turn right into the driveway and only turn right out of the driveway. There’s a little triangular piece of concrete dividing the driveway alerting drivers to this fact and some far too-subtle signage, but all those polite reminders apparently get chucked out the window of one’s Tahoe Limited when you’re running late for Pilates. So rather than being right-in, right-out, the drivers turning right into the car rider line are often confronted with the moral quandry as to whether they should yield to the rule-breakers attempting a left turn. As a person who grew up around the addiction community, I would contend that the decision to yield should be considered “enabling” and would strongly advise against. It’s awkward, but if you avoid eye contact and glue your vehicle to the bumper in front of you, it can be done.

This morning, however, I was distracted. We just recently replaced my distressingly underperforming European SUV with the greatest automotive creation of all time - a minivan - and I decided that my beloved black lab, Ruth Bader Groansberg, should come along for the inaugural ride to school in our new glorious masterpiece of Japanese steel. RBG was doing what she does, being TOO CUTE, and snuggling across the laps of my kids in such a way that I had to repeatedly turn around and allow my heart to melt, which resulted in me letting my guard down long to allow an Escalade from the other direction to start their creep across. Just then an impatient college student behind me decided that the three-minute delay being thrust upon him by our children’s educational experience was too much for his important life and opted to pull into the opposing lane of traffic and shoot through the rapidly shrinking gap between the Escalade and my sweet new ride, whom we shall henceforth refer to as “Stacy”. He made it, thanks to the Escalade slamming on their brakes, but barely.

Asshole.

At this point, we were minutes from the start of the school day. Stacy’s clock read 7:36 and the first school bell rings promptly at 7:40. As desperate as it may seem, I knew from experience that we would be fine as long as no one had a Stage 5 Clinger refusing to disembark lurking in the shadowy cars in front of us. What I wasn’t prepared for was the loss of faith in the system of all of the parents around me. Almost on cue, they started peeling off in various directions. In front of me, they were snagging empty spots in the parking lot. Behind me that were lurching across the road to park - poorly I might add - in parallel spots in front of an adjacent sports venue.

Anarchy.

All the while, those of us following the explicit guidance to use the correct entrance for your mode of transportation were steadily moving forward in line. But once these interlopers got their doors thrown open and their kids hauled out, there were no more rules. We were no longer just in a car rider line - we were in an obstacle course of human life. Cars and people, specifically anxious and irrational parents and sleepy and confused children, battling for on-time educational supremacy. I could no longer focus only on the bumper in front of me, I had to look left, right and left again to see if some moron was going to pop out yanking their little cherub into my path of travel. These people had all lost their damn minds. They opted to play Frogger, with their children, in the dark, for….what? To avoid their kid being tardy? I imagine the minutes before they made the decision to whip into whatever vacant space they could find and hurl their children into oncoming traffic were filled with cheerful chatter and the Encanto soundtrack. But then, suddenly, they see the clock hit 7:37 and a switch flips. “Oh well, I guess I’ll go from doting on these tiny people that I love more than life itself and instead play Squid Game with them in this parking lot because I wouldn’t want them to be late for the Pledge of Allegiance.”

I managed to gently twerk Stacy to a safe stop in front of one of the Safety Patrol-staff cones by 7:38, feeling a feeling that is whatever is one rung above smug on the ladder of self-righteousness. We had made it, on-time and intact, without breaking any rules. I lifted my right hand, somewhat in triumph but mostly to press the little door open button that invites Stacy’s graceful, yet sturdy, side door to glide open and present my children to their destination and … nothing. It did not open.

The young safety patrol man, well-versed in the many Stacys that cross his path every morning, promptly made an external attempt. Nothing.

My son is not happy. Safety Patrollers are fellow fifth-graders. This transgression could get back to his people.

“MOM! Open the door!”

Well, maybe you have to unlock it before the little door open button works?

Ok, I will look for the unlock button.

7:39.

Anxiety, that cruel bitch, forces my mind blank. The unlock button should be on the door near the window things. But there’s like a bunch of stuff over there. A lot of buttons. And I can’t think. I press the door open button again because at least I know where that one is. The Safety Patroller attempts the handle again. Ruth sits up and moves herself next to the door.

“Grab Ruth!”

My son violently pushes Ruth towards the back, taking his justifiable irritation with me out on her. I find the unlock button. Hallelujah! The door opens. I grab the dog. My son runs out of Stacy like she’s on fire. My daughter somersaults over my hand gripped around the dog’s neck to get out. There are no goodbyes, no “Have a Great Days!” Just panic and shame. I hit the door button (again) as the Safety Patroller does same. The door stalls. I give up and he closes it for me.

The bell rings.

Sigh. I turn right out of the school and nearly rear-end an SUV that is parked within 10 feet of the exit on the side of the road with its hazards on as a frenzied mother hustles her progeny to the front door. I shout, to myself of course, that “entitlement is not a reason to turn on your flashers lady!!” and swear unconvincingly that I will never again be tempted to enter into this lawless hellscape again.