I was awake before the alarm, determined to make the morning as easy as possible for my girl. My daughter was entering a school for the first time in 14 months, a new school. No longer was she entering a building crammed with adorable five year olds who swung their Batman and My Little Pony lunch boxes while attempting not to trip over their once-again untied shoes. In her new building there would be children who were budding into men and women.
I wanted her to be at ease. Therefore, I filled the house with the smell of bacon and the sounds of her favorite band, Three Days Grace, although I would rather listen to a couple of raccoons cage fighting than listen to that band.
We sat down together and enjoyed a lovely breakfast. As Conley packed up her backpack and rolled her eyes as I made sure (once again) that she had everything she needed, I cleaned up the dishes. My mind wondered a little and I thought back to how tense most school mornings were for me. The unpredictability of my house kept me on edge for most of my life. Even when my mom was smothering me in hugs and kisses and cutting my fried bologna into the shape of PacMan, volatility was lurking behind every door. I was happy that this was not a feeling my daughter knew.
I was secure in her security.
I had also gone out and rolled down all the windows of my car in a futile attempt to fumigate it from the the stench of the gasoline and Frebreeze combination that has permeated the interior for almost two weeks. Right before the pipeline hacking made people hoard gas in plastic bags that rip if you put some Doritos and a loaf of bread in them, we needed gas for the lawnmower.
It was at the start of the devastating three-day gas crisis. Although our local stations were still pumping gas freely at this point, I felt like a criminal or worse yet, a Republican, for putting five gallons of liquid gold into a gas can – even if it was for a legitimate reason.
However, after taking a couple quick glances around, I filled up the can as stealthily as possible, paid and drove away, hoping not to become a meme.
In my haste, I didn’t properly secure the gas can and it tipped over on my way to a quick stop at the grocery store – unbeknownst to me. As soon as I opened my car to load the groceries in, it became very beknownst to me. Approximately four of the five gallons had leaked out and began a passionate love affair with the carpet fibers.
In the past two weeks, I have shampooed my car twice. I have had it professionally steam cleaned once, I have sprinkled about six cubic tons of baking soda in it and I have doused it with enough vinegar to float an aircraft carrier. And, it still smells like gasoline. Well, gasoline that went out partying with ocean mist Frebreeze.
I didn’t want Conley rolling into school smelling like this special putrid chemical perfume that I had created so I rolled down all of the windows a couple hours before we needed to leave.
After mentally patting myself on the back for providing my daughter with a nutritious breakfast on a Monday morning that was more akin to it’s easy Sunday counterpart, I cheerily told her it was time to head out. Oozing with my superiority in all things parenthood.
But, then my keys weren’t where my keys always are. Always.
“Don’t worry. We still have plenty of time. I’m sure I just sat them down somewhere when I came in from rolling down the windows,” I said.
We calmly looked in the various rooms I had been in. We looked outside. Still plenty of time. Nothing to worry about.
I looked through the trash, the recycling. I opened the refrigerator.
“We’re good. It’s why I built so much time into the morning, Conley.”
“You built time into the morning because you planned on losing your keys, mom?”
I ignored the sarcasm and continued my calm search.
“Honey, why don’t you just go sit in the car. I don’t want you to get tense.”
What I really meant was, I need you to get the hell out of her so I can freak out in private.
After lifting the couch up and ripping the large rug from the floor, I knew that I was going to have to ask for help. I ran next door to my neighbor and asked if I could either borrow his car or if he would take Conley to school. He kindly said that he would take her so that I could continue my search.
As I walked back across the driveway, I looked in the passenger side, past my daughter who was sitting in the passenger seat and saw my keys – in the ignition.
“Conley, have you been sitting here for 10 minutes and didn’t notice the keys in the ignition?”
“Oh no, lady! You are not turning this around on me. I’m 11!”
As my neighbor was exiting his house, I casually yelled, “Oh! No worries! I found them! Thank you so much!” I left out where I had found them.
Conley and I both started laughing about it once it was clear that it was going to be close, but that we were going to make it to school in time. She said, “Mom, at least it will make a good story for you to write about. You can call it ‘Breakfast and Breakdown’…cause I knew when you sent me out of the house you were about to go mental.
She’s right. I was about to go “mental”. However, if lifting up the couch and shaking out a rug while saying a couple of choice words is what my daughter considers as an emotional breakdown for me, I’ll take it. Every day of the week.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
