Make Drop-Off Fun Again

Our youngest was with Grandma so Rich asked me if I can handle taking Jane to school since I am down to two children for the morning. (He has been taking her while we wait on a realistic bus schedule for Jane’s needs). I sigh deep. School drop-off is no joke. It’s physically demanding, and although I haven’t even put on my shoes I already feel the emotional weight of it.

When it comes to drop off time, I grapple with wanting to show up extra late to avoid traffic and the chance of interacting with anyone, or arriving somewhat on time with a mariachi horn blasting and a, “What up elementary school!? We cute! And we here!”

So I show up somewhere in between which mostly just feels like : Stress.

We park up the street since there is no handicap parking near the school entrance. I sort of park in someone’s driveway and hope they will understand when they see our blue placard and me hauling a wheelchair out the back.

I take a deep cleansing breath, prepare my emotions and get going. I unload a wheelchair, secure an immobile 5 yr old, and balance a 20lb child in one arm, and we head off to face the hoards of foot traffic.

Busy moms, dads, grandparents and caregivers flood the roads and sidewalks. Happy elementary schoolers with cute ponytails and cool backpacks are pumped to be in their 2nd week of school. I take note of the hair and school accessories. “Is that how a typical 5yr old girl wants to wear their hair?Should I get a giant bow like that for Jane? What kind of backpack would be a “cool” backpack? If she had shoes like that would they want to invite her to their birthday party?”

My bicep is burning as I adjust the baby, but I’m alert as I approach the crosswalk. As we cross to the other side I gear up for what we face almost every day: hoisting Jane’s chair up a curb with one arm. Many a slow, clumsy moment has this created as cars patiently wait for us to figure our life out in a busy intersection . Six different parents watch me coming, they see me balancing and planning my attack. They see the struggle and they step backward on the sidewalk to watch, and make room for our caravan.

It’s in those moments that I wish so bad that I had the gusto that some of my close friends have. I know it’s in there somewhere hiding behind my dark sunglasses. I want to laugh and yell, “Can I get a little help here!?” I know that the parents on the sidewalk aren’t trying to be jerks, they just don’t know what to say, or do. I was just like them for a very long time. Maybe if I yelled out for help we’d all have a good awkward laugh and maybe even get to chatting. But I don’t, I just hoist Jane onto the sidewalk with one arm and dawn a “Boom sucka!” look on my face. But really, I retreat further into myself , feeling like a victim to this terrible world full of normal, healthy people.

We are finally within school perimeters when I have to move off the sidewalk and onto the faculty driveway into oncoming traffic because 2 moms dressed in cute workout attire and large sunglasses are very much in a deep post drop-off conversation about some other lady who lives in their neighborhood. They are sharing opinions on another woman’s life and I wait for them to see me. Me with the wheelchair and child their kid’s age, and baby and hurting heart. But they don’t. Again, I was them once. I still am them. I understand.

Kids stand in lines, teachers try to account for their students amongst the hustle of hundreds of school aged kids. I keep my head down and get us through to the special building in the back. An oasis where all the other kids are a lot like Jane. Where the clock seems slower and they don’t talk with much words, but with lots of heart. These are my people.

Before I open the door to take Jane in her class, a little girl about 8 yrs old from a typical classroom walks by in line with her class. She looks up and waves. I wave back like I just saw my best friend. She smiles and doesn’t even really notice that Jane is different. Even the crossing guard we passed earlier couldn’t formulate this kind of response. An 8yr old little saint in the sea of noise.

I get Jane to class and say hello to all her friends. I tell them each to have a good day at school. Outside of their parents and teacher I may be the only one who greets them today.

I trek back to the car with the baby in my other, less fatigued arm. I shut myself in the van and let out a sigh of relief.

“If only she could ride the bus. I wouldn’t have to see anyone. I wouldn’t have to deal with the looks. She could have a nice quiet ride with her sweet drivers and be delivered directly to her teacher. No kids would stare. No adults would have awkward paralysis around us , and my heart would be safe.”

But then, somewhere deep down where the cynicism hasn’t yet reached, I remember the worth in the drop-off. The worth in seeing people, and brushing arms with strangers and complimenting backpacks and hair bows and encouraging a child to “Have a great day at school!” I don’t want to be the one who doesn’t see. Too busy in my own gossip or stress or heartache to notice someone else. I am thankful for the bus rides, please don’t get it twisted 😉 , but I don’t want us to hide on a bus. I want to be like the 8 yr old who’s parents, God bless them, taught her to acknowledge people and look up. I want to be someone who makes drop-off fun again, even if my arms are full and my heart is aching. It’s never a bad time to notice someone.