Their objective was clear from before school even started:
Let no one ever know they owned jackets, or had a family here.
My two middle daughters started high school last week,
and, if ranked,
I think those two things would have been their top cares.
On the first day at drop-off, the traffic was horrendous, and in order for them to make it to their first class, we had to pull over in the far auto-shop lot and let them just get out there.
For me, anti-climactic for such a big life-moment to let them out to weeds, oil stains, and cigarette butts.
Their sighs of relief, however, at the fact we were so shielded from easy peer-viewing could be heard pretty far.
There no one would see that their mother was crying,
or the way that their father then drove crashing off a curb he didn’t see.
I took photos of them both walking away like a stalker.
Thank God no one saw that I had hugged them.
Believe me, they had looked around just to be sure.
Never mind that I’d gone through 18 hours of labor for them combined,
and that they’d kept me up at least one thousand nights.
They’d sure wanted to be near me and my wallet in the mall when we’d shopped for those mom jeans they were now wearing pulled up so incredibly high…
They sure needed me to help solve the life crisis of only one pack of graph paper to be found.
Me, standing there imagining myself with the wisdom of Solomon, declaring
“Divide the pack in half. This will show its true mother,” as they stormed through Target and huffed all around.
I have never even seen the likes of the hunt for the P.E. shoes when they both wanted Nikes in black and white.
“Not with any color showing,” and “No, that heel is too tall,” and “I don’t want this microscopic part on the sides.”
I nearly hopped in a South-bound car and begged “Take me with you” to strangers just to not hear about those shoes even one more time.
The day after school shopping I sat in my chair staring, nearly catatonic, and my mom noticed and asked, “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”
How could I tell her the list ranged from my new wirey grey hair to a Viking funeral?”
“I’m just tired” is all that I could croak out.
Prepping for this school year has felt like being dragged by a train, and not one on a smooth, straight course.
Between worries over Covid, and a near-Olympic race to highly specific Jansports,
I’m feeling pretty coal raked.
I’m in need of a bunker with snacks, a couch, and soft music,
and no one asking me to make food for their needy face.
After going through all that I went through to get them from birth to that auto shop parking lot saying our goodbyes, I really wished for more than what I got.
I didn’t even get to take my desired picture of them standing in my desired picture spot.
Moms have to put a whole lot on the back-burner.
Would it kill them to let us take the pictures we want to take?
I just did what they wanted and tried not to embarrass them by shouting loving things or wearing a costume, as I’d dreamed in my Initial Idea Phase.
I just went home and got asked by my gum-smacking nine year old daughter,
“So, are we just going to waste time every day, or are we going to have some fun?”
She popped in so much gum the closest her lips got to each other was 3 inches away.
When pick-up time rolled around, I was anxious to get them and hear how their first day had been,
but at the moment they saw me drive into the pick up circle,
they just bulged their eyes like “don’t make any sudden moves,” and waved me to drive on past them.
Heaven forbid someone at school finds out they’re not orphans,
and that they come from a loving home.
But, OK, I let them climb in and wait until we were driving before telling me how day one had gone.
As we drove I told them I needed to stop by the town grocery, though, to pick up some food for my dinner plans.
They asked to stay sitting in the car while I went in;
I guess hoping no one from school would know they go to stores and *the horror* also eat.
But wouldn’t you know, when I came out of the grocery, I’d forgotten that I still had the key fob on me,
so when I tried to open the car door from the outside to load the groceries,
I set the car alarm off, and it rang through the streets.
There, so close to avoiding mortification,
parked in the very front spot,
using my mom’s handicapped tag (another horror),
that alarm rang out for 10 eternity feeling seconds as my 14 year old Chloe looked like she needed a Med-evac.
“HOW DO I TURN IT OFF?!” she screeched and panicked from near the floorboard,
where I think she had gone hoping to pass away.
The BEEP BEEP BEEP of our car horn could be heard for a mile.
Everyone was looking.
They had tried to avoid it,
but we were now on full Green Family display.
Me and my wiry grey hairs every direction, and mascara still smeared from crying earlier that day.
Underside of my car dented from Justin driving off the curb that morning,
Like that car was actually just ripping the band-aid away and letting them know they may as well nestle into the high school years before them,
and just accept that this is the family they have:
*Beeping* loud, wild, and into public hugging.
Sorry, high-schoolers.
(Unlike those Mom Jeans by this time next year)
Your family is here to stay.
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.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
