Yesterday I hit a new personal low. I
found myself arguing with the parking lot attendant at my son's
school.
It wasn't just any parking lot attendant. This woman's job is
to make sure the buses for the kids with disabilities can get
through.
I was having a particularly angry day.
I was mad at my husband for something from the day before. Dishes,
garbage, I can't remember. Something had needed doing and he hadn't
done it. He had sat with the kids and played games on the Playbook
instead. He just didn't care!
So I was still stoking the embers of my
anger from the day before. Not sure why. To top it off, it was cold,
windy and rainy. I didn't get much work done. I was coming down with
a cold.
I decided to head to school an hour before pick-up time. If I couldn't
be productive I could at least secure a parking spot. Besides, the
lot would be crowded later because of the weather.
But when I got there, the lot was
already full.
I decided to park on the boundary
between the regular parking and the lane where the buses come to pick
up the students with wheelchairs, leg braces, prosthetic limbs and
all the other equipment our kids think is totally cool.
(Our four-year-old son's latest song is called “My Wheelchair Does Loop-de-Loops”
and is a lengthy ballad featuring a wheelchair with lots of buttons
and turbo power.)
Anyway, back to the school, where I had parked in a dubious spot, at 3 p.m. Dismissal is 3:25, and a bit earlier for the handicapped
students.
I sat in the car and read my book. Around 3:15, something
caught my eye. I looked up and saw a teenaged girl with cerebral
palsy wheeling back and forth in the school yard.
“Good for her,” I thought. “She
has a non-motorized wheelchair. So she can get her exercise.” Then
another thought briefly occurred to me: maybe I was becoming an
asshole without even knowing it. But I swept the thought away.
The girl kept wheeling back and forth,
back and forth, and it slowly dawned on me that she might be trying
to get out of the school yard—but my minivan was blocking the exit.
I looked out my front windshield and
saw the parking attendant was already on the case, jaw steeled,
making her way toward me.
“I can move, I can move!” I said.
“But where should I go?”
Why? Why did I ask her that? She's not
a valet. She's there to make sure kids with disabilities get onto
their bus safely.
“Look, I got four buses lined up
here,” said the attendant. I glanced behind me and cringed. I was
an asshole. I was blocking four buses. For kids. With disabilities.
And I didn't even apologize. I just kind of crumpled into myself and
got angrier.
“I think there are a lot of people
who park here who shouldn't be in this lot!” I blurted. She gave me
a look that said, “That would be you!” But of course I was
referring to the other assholes, people who park in our school
lot to go to the nearby gym or shoe store.
I skulked away, full of directionless
rage.
Then it hit me. That lesson my husband
keeps trying to teach me. Inadvertently of course. By example. By
doing things like playing on the Playbook when he should be emptying
the recycling. What's the big deal? It's only parking. So what if I
get a ticket for parking on the street this time? Maybe walk next
time. Whatever. Sometimes to be better moms, we need to think like
dads, and just care less.
