before the final bell rings. However, I quickly sabotage my plan when I start to worry that someone will report me as a suspicious character; I can’t close my eyes because I’ll need to be awake in order to smile at the officer who will inevitably be tapping on my window. My luck, I’d be passed out and mouth breathing with drool dribbling down my chin when a grumpy Sipowicz-type officer gets dispatched to check out the dirty minivan in the school zone.
Even if I can’t close my eyes, I’m desperate to minimize the pain, so I search almighty Safari for suggestions and eventually discover something called binaural beats for migraine sufferers. I put in my headphones, press play, and stare at the street ahead. Just as I start to focus on the two-tone musical frequencies instead of my brain trying to burst through my skull, a squirrel’s chirping breaks through the beats---there’s a good chance I might murder it. Twitter News Alert: “Crazed, drooling madwoman strangles Screwy the squirrel.” Eh, well, I guess that would make Sipowicz’s day more exciting.
I was going to graduate school and working as both a teaching and graduate assistant. My son was transitioning from babyhood to toddlerdom, and I was an anxious mess. While trying to wring groundbreaking interpretations from 18th and 19th century canonical literature (I’m laughing right now) and playing with abstract philosophical inquiry, I was also wrestling with critical questions like “Should I be using time-outs? Is the fact that he’s trying to shoot all the cats with the water gun normal---is it a warning sign of some kind of mental pathology? How much time should I spend playing hide-and-go-seek during the day? Can he watch any television? Why is he trying to bite me? Will the steroids prescribed for his allergy-induced asthma stunt his growth? Is he sick? Does he have a fever? Ear infection? Cold? RSV? Pneumonia? Cat Scratch Disease? ” The illness questions were the most prevalent because inevitably, every time I had a long paper or major task due, my boy would get sick.
Often, at one or two in the morning, I’d finally get done with an essay about the perpetual public veiling of women evidenced by the pseudonym-ed main character in Ruth Hall (or something), and I’d collapse into bed. As soon as I had tossed and turned into my most comfortable position and finally started to drift away, I’d hear a little “cough, cough” down the hall. No horror-film hallway scene compared to that late night sound. I’d rather see the little redrum girls riding their tricycles down my hall than hear my son coughing. I’d tense, and hold my breath, waiting to see if he’d catch his, but the cough was almost always followed by crying or vomiting or crying and vomiting or, on special occasions, pooping, crying and vomiting.
One day, during this high-stress time of terrible-two tantrums, phlegm attacks, and frenzied scholarly pursuits, I was headed to Walmart---again. I needed diapers or Butt Paste or amoxicillin or Boogie Wipes (or something). And I only had a few minutes before pick-up time at daycare, so I was speeding down the side streets. Caregivers of any kind will understand the intensity felt during this type of errand running---everything becomes time sensitive and strained---a simple drive across town feels like an action-movie car chase. During my personal Fast and Furious remake, I expertly avoided red lights and focused intently on my end goal. I finally saw Walmart in my view---it was a straight shot; I was almost there! As I approached the last cross-street before my turn, I saw some motorcyclists running the stop sign and turning onto the road in front of me. One, two, three biker dudes had the audacity to sail through the stop sign and cut me off. I remember thinking, “Who_the_hell do these jerks think they are?!” “What gives them the right to blatantly disregard traffic laws?!” “Oh no, I don’t think so, buddy! I’m not waiting for anymore of your ‘gang’ to round that corner!” So I floored it, and my dusty, Dodge Intrepid jolted ahead; I was determined to get those damn diapers.
And I, in my big ol’ mom car, did it---I showed those bikers who was boss. I stopped any more of them from running the stop sign. Boy, I felt vindicated---so proud of my total ballsiness: “That’s right, no one’s taking away my right of way! I don’t care if you are on Harleys!” Glowing with badass pride, I squinted into the rear view mirror at the bikers behind me, and then peered at the gang ahead. Just as I was celebrating my way into the Wally World parking lot, I saw that the same group was running the stop sign onto the highway as well. I couldn’t believe their nerve--bikers think they can do anything! I cursed and squinted at the caravan as it blocked traffic. Then, as I watched the front of the group heading east on the highway, I noticed that a black vehicle was leading them. Wait, could that be? No, no, no--it wasn’t. It couldn’t be! Yes, yes, yes, it was. A hearse was leading the biker gang. Yep, that’s right guys, I had just interrupted a biker funeral procession.
Immediately, my pride turned into vehement shame---I was mortified. I wanted to chase them down and apologize. But how could I? What would I say, Pampers made me do it? I’ve been watching Sons of Anarchy? I’m an awful person? I can’t run guns, but I can tutor your kids in English? (I know, the majority of motorcyclists are nice Janes and Joes, but my overactive imagination tends to initially direct me to believe all bikers are Hell’s Angels.) I imagined I would weep for their forgiveness, saying through tears, snot, and labored breathing “I’m so, so sorry. I’m an exhausted mom---inhale, sniffle--- who has to read Confessions of an English Opium Eater by tomorrow.”
A lightning strike of pain zaps me back into real time when my binaural track on Pandora is interrupted by the sound of a man screaming his admiration for a car insurance company. MURDER. Squirrel, victim #1. Man from insurance advertisement, victim #2. Oh, Grumpy Sipowicz, we are going to have a time!
The school bell is about to ring and the day is almost done. Soon, I’ll be able to take a few too many Benydryl, throw the covers over my head, and wait for the migraine to go away. My guy is old enough now to give me time to achieve this. Although, I know that while I’m unconscious he’ll probably end up binge watching the A-Team while simultaneously playing Madden on his iPod and eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch from the box. There’s also a very good chance he’ll let the dog out and said dog will bring another dead animal or better yet, a cow placenta up to the porch. Then I’ll end up having to clean that, only to find later that it was just half a cow placenta when the dog regurgitates the other half in horror-film style onto the living room carpet. Please, just give me the redrum twins instead. (Unfortunately, the dog thing has already happened. People, it looked like he was giving birth to a black slug the size of a bread loaf through his mouth. Sorry, so sorry.) I wonder why I get migraines.
To this day, I feel bad about my incredible lack of awareness. I so was blinded by my tasks that I couldn’t see the hearse right in front of me. The present moment didn’t exist, only the threat of the future did. Even though I understand the lesson, I continue to race around. Yet, I try to remember my biker blocking shame and slow down a bit---not having a toddler and going to graduate school also helps a lot. But, of course, there’s always stuff to do. Interestingly, much of my racing is now focused on getting the boy to school early enough for him to play the first round of Lightning. I guess motherhood has taught me a few things so far, and one of those things is that I am capable of taking on a biker gang, but I will feel incredibly guilty about it later.
P.S. Leave me a comment. ;)
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