So there I was in my bathrobe and fluffy slippers, blowing my son a kiss as he rode his bicycle down the driveway on his way to school. I was feeling particularly warm and fuzzy that day, you know, sort of like June Cleaver. (For those of you too young to remember June, she was the perfect mother in a perfect family in the perfect town, on a show called “Leave it to Beaver.”) June never had a bad hair day, though, and my mop was leaning up and to one side pretty badly. She also woke up with makeup on, and I’m the first to admit I look like something the cat drug in first thing in the morning. But I was feeling good anyway.
I shuffled back into the kitchen and then puttered around awhile, until I noticed he had left his lunch on the counter. A fate worse than death in his eyes, since he would rather starve than eat cafeteria food! Egads! Since I was feeling sort of like the perfect mom, I raced to my car to try to catch him. Oh, how grateful he would be!
Never think you (in a car) can catch a child (on a bicycle) in a school zone during the morning rush. I frantically made my way closer to the bike rack, just in time to see him disappear through the school door. This sort of stuff wouldn’t happen to June. She’d catch up with the Beaver in the nick of time, or if she didn’t it wouldn’t matter because she’d look like a million dollars and could jump out of the car and run after him in her size 3 dress and stiletto heels. I wondered briefly if I should dash in after him, but I glanced into the mirror and was amazed at just how bad I really looked. The kid would be horrified to see his mom running after him and I knew in my heart that he would never forgive me for the ridicule my fuzzy slippers and alien hair would bring.
(Note: If you ever want to embarrass your son, wear slippers to school. Heck, even the wrong kind of tennis shoes will do. If that doesn’t work, kiss him in front of his friends.)
Now I was just plain frustrated, and yeah, sorta mad. At my son, at myself, and at perfect June. Now I would have to run home, change clothes, come back up here, yadda, yadda, yadda. So there I was talking to myself, practicing what I would say to my son after school, how he owes me a backrub or something …
Until the flashing red lights showed up behind me.
Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no. I was three blocks from home, and there was no way I was going to stop in the middle of all that traffic and let the whole world see me. He would just have to follow me home.
Two blocks from home, he turned on his siren. Really? I guess he thought he had a real felon on his hands. I was sure he would understand once he saw me. “Just hold your horses,” I thought.
I finally pulled into my driveway, and no sooner had I done so than he swerved around me like he was cutting me off at the pass or something. I saw his face and he was mad. I no longer thought he would understand what I was going through.
“Get out of the car with your hands in the air!” he screamed over his speaker-thing. Say what?! You’ve got to be kidding! My perfect June Cleaver day had fallen apart at the seams. In a matter of hours the whole town knew what color fuzzy slippers I had and how I looked with my hair AND hands in the air. I was especially grateful I had on my robe. And thankfully, it was before Facebook was a thing.
It was a long time before he forgot his lunch again.
