The Pick Up Line

Emme has been participating in an Arts/Musical Church Camp this week. What this entails is morning rehearsals that culminate in a musical production to be performed this weekend. She did this last summer, and a once shy, and rather reserved child had the time of her life performing.

There’s that nut. Falling dangerously close to the tree. Or trees, as it were.

So, this week, we’ve been rising with the birds to get Emme to her rehearsals. By we, I mean Fiddledaddy. While I stay home with Jensen. But yesterday, Fiddledaddy had a meeting to attend and needed extra time to get ready, so I magnanimously offered to take all the children and drop Emme off. There is a system in place so that the children can be dropped off and picked up, and I wouldn’t have to get all the other children out of the van.

I love a system like that.

So, I didn’t worry about my appearance. I had just washed my hair, and let it just air dry. Without the aid of my straightening iron, I resemble a dyed blonde version of Rosanne Rosannadanna. I didn’t bother with makeup either. What’s the point. The eyebrow pimple is back. But it has morphed into a hideous black mole looking type thingy. In the middle of my eyebrow. And there’s just no concealer invented that will help me now.

Anyhoo. I was looking good. At the last minute I changed out of my t-shirt with the holes in it, and ratty gray shorts. Instead I wore a different t-shirt with holes and ratty running pants. Not that I run. The pants were on sale.

As I was climbing into the van, Fiddledaddy hollered out the door, “You know that you have to go IN the building to check her in, right?”

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”

Then he caught sight of me. “Um, honey, do you have a rubber band or something?”

“NO, I DO NOT. I JUST CLEANED OUT THE VAN.”

And since we were running late, I had no choice but to get my little songbird to the ball. And pray that Jesus returns before I reach the church.

We park. I assemble the stroller and deposit Junior into it. And we trudge up to the building. When we arrive at the door, there is a gaggle of hosts there to greet us. One really well put together mom said to me, “Didn’t you know that you could drop Emme off in the front?”

“Well no I didn’t. How handy is that?” I say calmly, trying hard not to owe the cuss jar any money. Thoughts count too, you know.

I load the remaining two children back in the van and headed home. By the time I went to pick Emme up, I had altered my appearance only by arranging my bangs to cover the eyebrow pimple hematoma.

The pickup line was arranged alphabetically on two sides of the building. Very clearly marked. And I was armed with a map giving detailed instructions. Very detailed instructions. “Who do I look like, Magellan?” As I toss the map aside with disgust.

And I entered the wrong way. And got stuck. And drew quite a bit of attention to my plight. I felt like Michael Keaton in “Mr. Mom” when he entered the school pickup line going the wrong way, causing all of the other moms to shake their fists and call him “idiot” and “moron.” They might as well have. I know that’s what they were thinking.

Mental note:  next van, splurge for the tinted windows.

My sullen mood is broken by my bubbly Emme, who climbs into the van in great spirits. She said, “Hi Mom! You look great.”

And through her bright blue eyes, I do. Just because I’m there. She can see beyond her Mommy’s wild hair and eyebrow pimple. And she knows that I will always be there for her.

Even if I am facing the wrong direction.