My normal morning routine was to get dressed while my daughter ate breakfast, help her get ready, walk her to the bus stop, come home, and THEN have my cup of coffee and go on with my day. One morning she got up early with Dad, and was all ready to go when I came downstairs. Seeing a chance for a nice mother/daughter chat before school, I poured some coffee and sat down with her at the kitchen table. We had a lovely time talking, and I finished up my coffee just as it was time to start to the bus stop.
As my daughter donned her backpack and took up her lunchbag, I felt an inkling to do something that rhymes with "inkling;" but figured I could wait. We needed to leave or the kiddo would miss her bus. I decided to let yellow mellow, as it were.
The school bus only stopped at either end of our neighborhood. We were smack dab in the middle. So off we went, hand in hand, strolling past The Mean Lady's House, The Chudy's, The Trevore's, and on, down to the bus stop, which picked up down the clubhouse steps and across the parking lot. We got there before the bus and stood chatting with the other families.
About this time, I was wishing that the clubhouse opened at 8:00 instead of 9:00. It was 7:50 AM; I might have gotten a nice arriving staff member to let me dash in. But the lot was empty.
I started swaying from foot to foot in the cool air, hoping the bus would get there soon. A couple minutes later, I whispered to my daughter that I had to go home, that she could wait the last couple minutes with her friend and friend's mom. Being a first grader, she said, rather loudly, "But WHY, Mommy? Why do you have to go NOW? The bus will BE here any minute!" Rather than go into explanation, I just patted her and resumed my hopping.
As the bus rolled to a stop at the light at the corner, I realized that my troubles were now, shall we say, compounding. I told my daughter that as soon as the bus rounded the corner, that I'd be heading home. She said, "You're not going to wave?" The Mommies always waved until the bus pulled past the clubhouse. Oh, man.
"Of course, Honey. I'll wave." The bus ground to a halt, the doors opened, and the first little set of legs struggled up the steep steps. By now I was really bouncing. Finally, finally, all the kids were on the bus and in their seats.
Ever so slowly the doors closed, the jake brake barked, and the wheels inched forward. Bye! Bye! all the Mommies called, waving, myself included, though none of the other ladies were gritting their teeth as I was. As soon as my daughter’s little face and "I love you" hand sign rolled past my spot, I spun and began the racewalk home. I figured I could pretend I was exercising as long as I was out.
Back across the parking lot, up the concrete steps, and past nine houses. That’s all I had to do: make it past nine houses. But I had to stop at the bottom of the steps. And I had to stop at the top of the steps. I REALLY had to stop after three houses, on the corner. I just stood there, leaning against a fence, nearly weeping. I could no longer stand up straight; I didn’t know how I was going to make it home. No, no, NO! I could SEE my house! Only six lots away! I had to get there.
I took several deep breaths, as when one is about to plunge into deep water, and resumed my strange, duck-footed shuffle-waddle, TRYING to remain upright as I went past all the neighbors. (By the way, this is California. No one knows their neighbors, but we all still wonder: what will the neighbors think?) I made it to the edge of our yard, but then I HAD to sit down on the planter wall. I was out of breath, exhausted and sweating, still clenching both teeth and cheeks. Oh, man. Man, oh, man, oh man. I have to get up. At least sitting there was keeping the lid on things. The lobster was clamoring to climb out of the steam pot. One meaty claw was snapping at me from the depths.
I dug the key out of my sweatpants pocket and even put it the right way up in my hand. I swung my feet up onto the lawn, forgoing the sidewalk, rolled over into a crawling position, and eased my way upward, hugging the tree for support. I started across the yard, trampling through the plant border, looking like an epileptic aerobics instructor on meth. I made it to the porch, shaking, gritting, clenching, sweating, cursing, trying to poke the key into the lock. Thank God I didn’t drop the key, or I’d never have been able to bend over and pick it up without causing the lobster to launch.
I got the door open, but I still had to make it through the living room and the kitchen to the powder bath beyond. I wiggle-walked the whole way, hoping, praying, believing I’d make it. And I did. Almost. As I was untying my sweats, the lobster broke free; but I broke him off at the claw. A quick flick of the chonettes, and he was released back to the sea, followed by his crusty brethren.
