The Tooth Fairy Diaries.....

2/12/05 Dear Diary, Sophie lost her first tooth today. The tooth fairy arrived home five nanoseconds before the tooth fell out. Unfortunately, she had arrived home from a three day stint in the hospital delivering Sophie's sister by c-section and was in no condition to carry out her tooth fairy duties. (Percoset on the rocks, anyone?) Not sure who misplaced the tooth, Sophie or the tooth fairy, but Sophie left the nicest note (in dad's handwriting) under her pillow explaining the missing tooth.

2/13/05 Dear Diary, Sophie was amazed to find a $20 bill under her pillow. Desperate times call for desperate measures as we were all too sleep-deprived with the new baby to actually get behind the wheel of a car to go get change for a $20, which was all we had. This could get expensive.

5/10/05 Dear Diary, Sophie lost another tooth and the tooth fairy is caught in a huge dilemma. How do you convince a five year old that her first front tooth was worth $20 but her second one is worth only $1? The problem solved itself as the tooth fairy was too lazy to schlep two kids into car seats and hit the ATM. She found a $10 bill in her purse. This could get expensive.

7/21/06 Dear Diary, Sophie lost another tooth. She has become emotionally attached to the little tooth and is unwilling to give it up to the tooth fairy. I've worked hard to attain my position as tooth fairy. Frankly, I'm more excited than the gap-toothed tyrant about the whole thing and am not about to let her keep the stupid tooth and deprive me of my duties. No amount of cajoling, bribing (Another $20?) or stomping of feet would convince her. In desperation, we helped her write a long letter to the tooth fairy explaining her wish to keep the tooth. She put the letter under the pillow. The tooth fairy gave her 50 cents.

7/22/06 Dear Diary, Sophie was bummed about the 50 cents. We explained that the tooth fairy paid according to the weight of each tooth and since she kept the tooth, the only thing the tooth fairy had to weigh was the letter. Sophie said next time, she was writing the letter on her skateboard, since it was pretty heavy. The tooth fairy thinks she might need to get a part-time job if this keeps up.

7/22/06 Dear Diary, Sophie just reminded us that she got $20 for that first tooth and she'd given a letter to the tooth fairy that time, too, so she thinks she just got gypped. The tooth fairy is running out of creative explanations so she's hired an assistant. Let him figure it out.

(Fast Forward to 3/29/09)Dear Diary, the tooth fairy has been out of work for quite some time, so imagine her shock when Sophie loses a tooth while eating a brownie at lunch. Not sure how this happened, we thought she'd lost all her baby teeth. Apparently, this one had been holding out on us and Sophie is now old enough to know the value of a dollar (she's saving for a DS game), so the emotional attachment to this tooth doesn't exist. (A letter and a 50 cent payment is out of the question.) SHIT! Its 2009, the tooth fairy doesn't carry cash so, unless the kid has something hidden under her pillow that the tooth fairy can swipe her ATM card through, we are in big trouble. Makes a mental note to make a bank run after dinner but somehow loses mental note.

3/29/09 (9:30pm) Dear Diary, Oh shit. Tooth fairy knew she forgot to do something today....go to the bank for tooth cash. Consider writing Sophie a check. Scratch that. Consider an IOU under the pillow but finally opt to send Dad to the drive-through ATM. Dad returns looking concerned. The ATM only spits out $20 bills. He got one but it seems excessive. Now what?

3/29/09 (10:00 pm): Dear Diary, Tooth fairy is tempted to just come clean about her identity and take the kid out for ice cream after breakfast but chickens out. We agree that (once again) desperate times call for desperate measures and slide the $20 under her pillow. (Allie will be 5 in February and will soon be losing her own teeth...this could get expensive).

7/22/09: Dear Diary, Tooth fairy needs a drink. Sophie had another hold-out. I'm starting to wonder where these teeth are coming from. We are in the middle of a heatwave and the tooth fairy is unwilling to leave the comfort of her air-conditioning to procure money for a damned tooth. Suggests Sophie sell it on eBay and begins rooting through the pantry for a bottle of wine.

7/22/09: (11:58 pm): Dear Diary, Guilt has set in. Worries the tooth is actually under the pillow and that Sophie will be traumatized to find it still there in the morning. Scrounge through coat pockets, car ashtrays and couch cushions looking for change. No luck...Sophie's already got it, she is saving for another DS game. Tooth fairy wants to cry. Briefly considers IOU. Lays down on her bed to think through the options. Falls asleep.

7/23/09 (5 am): Dear Diary, Tooth fairy is startled awake and realizes she has not figured out the tooth issue. Feels the weight of her guilt and stumbles into the hall. Debates driving to the ATM in her bathrobe but is afraid the sound of the garage door opening will wake Sophie and blow her cover. Tooth fairy has a light bulb moment and remembers Allie's birthday money is stuffed inside a plastic piggy bank. Briefly wonders if she will go to hell if she steals from one kid to pay the other. Sits down on the stairs and ponders dilemma until she begins to doze. Jolts awake and decides guilt is for sissies.

7/23/09 (5:30 am): Dear Diary: Tooth Fairy uses all of her magical powers to sneak into Allie's room, stuff an IOU into the piggy bank and rip off a $5 bill from her youngest child, without making a sound, and sneaks into Sophie's room to retrieve the tooth to leave the cash. Sophie is blessedly snoring and does not stir while the exchange is being made. Tooth fairy goes back to her room and falls asleep.

7/24/2009: Dear Diary, Have decided to write a self-help book. Will title it 'Tooth Fairy for Dummies'. This will be followed by a sequel entitled "Tooth Fairy On A Budget".

Have been invited to speak at the next Convention of the Tooth Fairy Society, where I will discuss having an open line of communication with pediatric dentist so there are no last minute hold-outs dropping out of child's grill and surprising parents before pay day. Will also discuss the benefits of a pricing guide and hidden cash jar specifically for tooth payments. Last, will provide referral to my psychotherapist for tooth fairies suffering from post piggy bank robbery guilt.

7/25/2009: Dear Diary, Have decided to retire. Will promote Kevin from assistant to Senior Tooth Fairy. My work here is done.

My First...Thousand Word Thursday

(For more A Thousand Word Thursday, check out Jen at Cheaper Than Therapy.)

It's the relaxed smile on Sophie's face in this shot that really speaks to me. It was a 'girls day out' to the water park and Kevin had to work. He's usually the "fun" parent while I'm shouting for them to be careful and not forget their sunscreen and to stop bickering. That day, though, we swam and splashed and drank cherry snow cones until they melted down our arms. We were driving home at the end of the day whenit occurred to me I'd taken off the 'responsibility' hat I normally wore and I'd actually gotten down and PLAYED with them all day and it had been FUN. What a glorious day we had together.

Top 10 Highlights Of An Afternoon In The E.R.

I called my mom on Wednesday and, apparently, the shock of this unplanned phone call caused severe distress. She immediately began to feel dizzy and nauseous and handed the phone to my brother (who happens to be visiting this week). He seemed to think she'd be fine so we hung up. I received a phone call one hour later from the local hospital where my brother had ultimately rushed her (by running red lights and speeding like a maniac through town...most excitement my fellow townies have seen all month).

I have to say, my experiences in this particular hospital have been interesting, though the last time I was there it was due to my own illness so I wasn't being a good people watcher (read: eavesdropper). This time, I was totally on my A game. Here are the highlights:

1. When the instructions on your prescription bottle of Soma indicate 1 pill four times a day, this does not mean that it is acceptable to wake up at 7 a.m. and take one, followed by another at 8 a.m., followed by another at 9 a.m. followed by another at 10 a.m. This might eliminate the hassle of having to remember to take your medication later in the day and before bed, but it also ensures you will wind up comatose, miss a day of work, and be laughed at by the nursing staff who think you are a bloody idiot when they ask you for your date of birth and you respond by telling every female in scrubs that she's hot and you want to marry her. (no this was NOT my mother, it was the 28 year old married guy in the cubicle beside hers. For the record, his wife was present at the time.)

2. If you must bring your small children into the ER (I left mine at home with their father), please be advised it is best to bring along something to keep them occupied (Nintendo DS works marvelously). When they become hungry and cranky, threatening to have the doctor bring an extra 'shot' just for them if they don't shut up is just plain wrong. Also, good luck the next time you visit the pediatrician's office for immunizations. Don't come crying to me when your kid freaks out and wonders what he did wrong to be punished by the doctor. Oh yeah, and if you do lower yourself to threatening your kids with needles, let me know which pediatrician you use so I can ensure I find another. I find it rather traumatizing to listen to children believing they are being tortured.

3. If you still insist on bringing your children into the E.R., letting them play on the floor beside their stoned father's stretcher is asking for trouble. For one thing, every liquid and solid that can possibly issue forth from a human body has been on that floor. No amount of antiseptic wash could possibly be strong enough to render the floor an acceptable place to play, eat or nap. Period.

4. Do not be impressed when your E.R. doc starts throwing around things like, "MRI", "EKG" "CT Scan" or "BP". All of these mysterious letters boil down to this...Standard Operating Procedure. In other words, they make money off of you while covering their own asses in case you happen to go home with an undiagnosed condition that kills you later that night and your family decides to sue them.

5. If you work in the hospital's food services division, it is expected that you will be insolent and lazy. Its not as if anyone actually likes what you serve them. However, if you would like to remain gainfully employed(though under-appreciated), do NOT 'forget' to produce a meal specifically ordered by a doctor who's patient is diabetic and suffering from hypoglycemia. When said patient collapses from low blood sugar, it will be your ass on the line. Plain and simple.

6. If you visit the E.R., the temperature on the outside of the building is irrelevant. You could fry an egg on the pavement in the Ambulance Loading Zone, but it will be cold enough to cause hypothermia once you enter the building. For that reason, be prepared to wear closed-toe shoes to avoid potential frostbite. Remember, you are there to be a support to the patient, NOT become one (and seriously? Nobody looks good in flip-flops after their toes have been amputated).

7. Hospital time is...well...its kind of like Blackhart time, actually. Don't bother to watch the clock, it will only drive you crazy. Lab test results, intake forms, discharge paperwork that could be provided in five minutes anywhere else, will take five hours. Come to think of it, hospital charges follow the same protocol. A $2 box of tissue from Wal Mart will become a $30 box of tissue on your bill. I've had various medical professionals explain this anomaly to me but it still only makes sense to them and good luck asking if you can go tissue-less, I've tried it, no dice.

8. After three hours of lab tests and no diagnosis, expect the doctor to begin the avoidance dance. This is where he has no answers but doesn't want to admit he's as clueless as he was before he started poking and x-raying. This is to be expected. He (or she) has his/her pride to think about and cornering him in the nurse's station to say, "Fifteen years worth of education and you can't find anything? Was your medical training done through a correspondence course?" will only prolong your E.R. experience.

9. When the doctor has ordered every single test in his bag of tricks and is finally ready to give up on the patient, he will manufacture something that sounds serious but actually means nothing at all. In my mother's case, for example, he strolled into the room looking quite serious and announced that she was suffering from....(drum roll, please!).....Acute Vertigo (capital letters intended). This is the part where he hopes you are gullible enough to accept his answer, or at least uneducated enough to believe this is a legitimate malady. At this point, he's basically done and your discharge papers are about to be signed so if you want to laugh or roll your eyes, feel free. I pointed out that I'd never heard of Vertigo (dizziness) that wasn't acute. You're either dizzy or you're not, right? Secondly, in my world Vertigo is a symptom, not a diagnosis. Spin around in circles, drink too much tequila, suffer from an inner ear infection....all these things give me the SYMPTOM of acute dizziness.

Read between the lines: You have been punked. You will now be expected to turn over your firstborn child in payment for the expenses incurred but there is a bright side to this. You will get a parting gift! Oh, goodie! I love presents. The doctor will hand you a prescription (with his autograph) for something you could buy over the counter at Wal Martand thank you for coming in (after all, if it weren't for your Acute Vertigo how would he make his Mercedes payment?)

10. Once you are dressed, you will begin the slow process of weaving your way through the of the waiting room to get the hell out of there. It is then that the dangerous part begins. You will discover that the dregs of society use the waiting room as their meeting place. Police officers escorting drunk drivers to the lab to measure blood alcohol levels, tattooed gang members visiting a 'homie' who happened to find himself on the wrong side of a sharp knife (and typically, he won't remember who was holding it). You will be exposed to a virulent cocktail of bacterial and viral infections of the worst kind through oozing burns, open wounds, saliva particulate propelled 500 miles per hour by a diseased cough-er. You will try not to breathe, or touch, anything and you will hope that your undiagnosed reason for being there is not being supplanted by a germ that will send you back for something diagnose-able. Run fast as you will be as close to Hell as you can possibly get without actually dying and being sent there.

Feel Better Soon....and have a nice day!

Seasonal Psychosis in BlackHart's World....

As a kid, nothing beat Summer vacation. Until I was out of school and working full-time, I equated Summer to lazy afternoons on sunny beaches, the smell of suntan lotion, chlorine and hamburgers on a hot grill. Now that I have children, my perception of Summer has changed...drastically.

In our neck of the woods, the temperature averages about 100 degrees in July. Often, it rises even higher than that. Unless you happen to be part cactus (or lizard) it is unwise to engage in any outdoor play between the hours of ten a.m. and five p.m....heat stroke is a bitch. Every swimming pool within a fifty mile radius has turned to bathwater, you might as well practice your backstroke in a hot tub. My kids get cabin fever.

At first, the novelty of Summer keeps us happy and relaxed (within the confines of our air-conditioned abode) but boredom sets in pretty quickly. Sophie and I signed up for golf lessons. We made it through five of them. Chipping and putting ceases to be fun under the blazing sun. We'd end our lessons dehydrated and sunburned, sitting in the golf course's restaurant guzzling bottled water at $3 a pop. I cancelled the 6th lesson for fear one of us was going to drop dead before the ninth hole. I also suspected that Child Protective Services would consider golfing in triple digit heat 'child abuse'.

The upshot of the hot weather combined with Summer vacation is that I no longer get nostalgic over the smell of coconut oil and the sound of crashing waves. I'm too busy associating Summer with "I'm booo-ooored." and "I'm hungryyyyy." while chasing the girls with a Costco -sized can of spray-on sunblock and breaking up arguments over who touched/breathed/looked at whom. I am sick to death of the tattling: "Mo-om! Allie snuck a cookie!" and "Mom, Sophie won't play with me!" I am slowly losing my grip on sanity. I finally decided to send them upstairs to play in their rooms. This was a major mistake and a huge contributor to the Summer Psychosis I am now suffering from. Apparently, children with cabin fever morph into tropical storms during Summer vacation....don't believe me? Take a look at this:






This is what happened after Hurricane Allie blew through. She assured me that when she was done playing she had cleaned her room. I was afraid to ask what it looked like before she 'cleaned'. Not to be outdone by her sister, Tropical Storm Sophie blew through. I'd say this was about a Category Five. You be the judge:


Evidently, I'm suffering from hallucinations because when I announced there would be no swimming at Grandma's house until they had straightened their rooms, they were shocked that I could not see the blood, sweat and tears that had been shed in their herculean efforts to restore order. FEMA kept wanting to install a trailer in our backyard for temporary housing purposes until Kevin went upstairs with a trash bag and announced that everything still on the floor when the sun went down would be given to the garbage man. (Allie was horrified. Sophie pointed out that he needed two bags because Allie had some plastic toys that should go in the recycling container so they didn't wind up in a landfill...smartazz.)

I'd like to say that the girls dove in and restored order. I'd like to say that their garbage-bag-wielding father made an impact. I would definitely be suffering from psychosis if I did. Instead, Sophie threw everything in her closet and Allie hid behind the sofa in the playroom with her Barbies while I cleaned her room. The fact of the matter is we have three more weeks of Summer Vacation and the thought of two little girls stuck in the house without their toys, without being sent to Grandma's swimming pool occasionally wouldn't just be a punishment for them. It would be the equivalent of water-boarding for me.....slow torture.

There is a light at the end of this tunnel. It is circled in red on my calendar. I only hope I haven't degenerated into a drooling idiot by then.

I Spent The Night In a Thailand Jail

Sophie's Girl Scout troop decided to do an overnight 'camping' trip to Monterey Bay Aquarium. (I admit, this is not real camping, but as it did require public bathroom facilities and a sleeping bag, in my world, 'roughing it' would be an understatement...). We were admitted to the Aquarium about seven o'clock, just before closing time on a Saturday evening. We'd had dinner at Bubba Gumps, so nobody was particularly hungry when we schlepped all our tote bags, pillows and sleeping bags two blocks from the parking lot we'd found. The wind had picked up, as it normally does on Cannery Row, and while it should have chilled me to the bone, I was sweating like a pig on a spit from the two block hike.

When we checked in, the hand-stamper-guy assured us that there would be refreshments, including coffee, upon entrance. We debated making a Starbucks run, just in case, but were told that outside food and drinks were forbidden. Wanting to set a good example, we cheerfully agreed that the Aquarium coffee was probably just as good, no big deal. Only, once we'd stowed our gear, we couldn't find anything resembling coffee on the premises (well, there were the giant urns in the cafe, but they were empty and the place was closed!) I finally stumbled upon a water cooler and a stack of paper cones provided for the campers. ONE bottle for 300 people??? I guess we were expected to dip our cones into the shark tank when we ran out.

We received a copy of the evening's schedule and a general sense of panic descended on us all. Tours and activities and movies to be held throughout the facility stretched until nearly midnight. We had a dozen girls to supervise and not a whit of caffeine between us. I don't know who first mentioned smuggling in contraband lattes, but when we asked to step outside, we were told that the buildings had been shut up like Fort Knox. We're talking door locks, alarms, steel gates, the works.

We regrouped to discuss our setback in what was to labeled "Operation Coffee Addict". I thought kindness might be the best way to handle the situation, schmooze the guards, flatter them into opening the gates. I concocted a great story about one Girl Scout's need for medication that had been inadvertently left in the car and I couldn't possibly walk two blocks alone in the dark to get it....it worked, we escaped and ran hellbent for leather to the nearest Starbucks where we proceeded to spend a $100 on over-priced bottled waters and a dozen espresso drinks and with no way to camouflage our coffee to sneak it past the guards. (FYI, I did not tell the medication story in the presence of the Girl Scouts...lying is wrong, people!)

I'm in denial about my age. I forgot that to a twenty-year old security guard, I'm a real live adult. A mother. An authority figure. I'm not happy about being perceived as 'old' but one of the perks is bullying the rent-a-cop (threaten to call his mother) into allowing the coffee into the building. Fortunately, my compatriots were much more savvy about this maneuver and got us back into the Aquarium before the coffee cooled off. We gulped it down, knowing additional coffee was to be provided at "snack-time". Snack time was a major disappointment. Milk and cookies for 300. We were supervised to ensure we took only ONE cookie and were advised that there would be no "seconds". Our friendly neighborhood rent-a-cop was not in charge of the cookie table. I ate my one cookie, wishing I had a cup of coffee to pour some of my milk into. I should have rationed my latte. Hindsight is 20/20.

By the time we were instructed to find a place to unroll the sleeping bags, we were thirsty and hungry and slightly irritated to discover that only ONE restroom had been unlocked for all the females in the building. It had four stalls and three sinks. I only hoped our girls hadn't filled up on milk or paper cones of water. Otherwise, we were going to have a serious problem on our hands. Additionally, we discovered that privacy was at a premium. We were all to bed down on the same floor; men, women and children, most of whom were strangers, and sleep side-by-side. I was horrified. I didn't think I could do this. Our troop leader came up with a sleeping diagram designed to keep our girls insulated from potential perverts who might wander the premises in the dark. This diagram ensured our girls had no contact with strangers but it DID ensure we adults were sleeping beside complete strangers all night long....not exactly my idea of a one night stand.

We were wall-to-wall sleeping bags in front of the Jelly Fish exhibit. I'd dressed for Monterey's chilly evenings. I did not take into consideration that the Aquarium's ventilation system is on a timer set to regular business hours. I did not realize that between the water-filled tanks, lack of fresh air and 299 bodies, the place was going to become downright tropical minutes after the lights went out. I was no longer sweating like a pig on a spit. I was raining perspiration and from the smell of it, more than one camper had discovered that on occasion...deodorant can fail. I imagine our evening was akin to being jailed in Thailand. (Not that I've been to Thailand, but I have cable, afterall).

When the sun came up, we rushed the cafe for our complimentary breakfast (cranberry bread and Folgers coffee anyone?) before tackling each other in our attempts to get out of the building as fast as possible. Unshowered, un-caffeinated, unfed and sleep-deprived, we made our way home...it was an adventure. The fish were nice. I would have like them better during normal business hours. Sans sleeping bag. This camping thing is torture. The kids enjoyed it, though. I high-fived the rent-a-cop on my way out the door. He looked relieved to see us go.

Newsflash: Camping Is NOT A Vacation!

I realize its the camping season and, yes, Target has been stocked to the gills with sleeping bags and portable stoves and cutesy little marshmallow roaster sticks, but camping is NOT a vacation. A vacation (as I understand it) involves going someplace and taking a load off, relaxing, enjoying a little time away from the daily grind and chores. Parking my ass in a forest without access to Starbucks or a microwave only makes my job that much harder. If my kids have to use an outhouse or public bathroom at a campground, this requires me to get off my lazy rear and escort them. I don't have to do this in the comfort of my own home. Hell, I don't have to do this in the comfort of a suite at the local Hilton. Camping as relaxation? Apparently, whoever came up with this idea had no children.

Early in my marriage, I put my foot down and refused to camp. I know, it sounds diva-like but my childhood camping experiences left a bad taste in my mouth and I had no desire to repeat them. I suggested if Kevin wanted to camp, he'd buy a motorhome and then I'd be happy to go wherever he wanted. Seemed like a fair trade to me except I hadn't been pricing recreational vehicles and had sticker shock when I discovered how expensive they were. So, we simply didn't camp...not without complaints, Kevin loves to camp and hike and thought I was being a whiny brat (I was! Nothing new about that.) Besides, the first five years we were married he provided me with a trip to Jamaica, two trips to Hawaii and two trips to Cabo. Why would I camp if I could lay on a beach with an umbrella in my drink?

Our children arrived and provided the answer to why people camp. Its cheap. It requires little in the way of supervising your children in public. Table manners are optional. So are showers. Eww. So long as the kids don't play near the campfire, feed the wildlife, or wander off, we're good. I still hate the idea but I've already been recruited three times this summer and its only July. Don't get me wrong, I like to immerse myself in nature. I just prefer to do it with flushing toilets, air-conditioning and electricity. Truth be told, if I could camp and still get room service, and complimentary turn-down service every evening, I'd be the first one in line. Instead, I avoid it until the pressure of two children and my husband becomes overwhelming. Either that, or until the gods decide to conspire against me.

First, there was the annual family trip to the Santa Cruz mountains. This should have been a walk in the park, so to speak, as it was late June and the weather was SUPPOSED to cooperate. It didn't. I froze my arse off, wrapped in a winter coat and wool scarf, tiny handwarmers in my pockets. The fact that dinner for the event was catered and entertainment provided, that we dined at actual cloth covered tables with real china and had appetizers, was of no help. My teeth were chattering at such a fast clip that I could barely chew. I tore open ten disposable hand warmers and placed them in my sleeping bag before retiring. They were ineffective. I forced my daughters to 'cuddle' with me in the tent all night, simply for the additional body heat. I did not, however, admit this to them.

It backfired when Kevin teasingly asked them the next morning if they'd caught sight of the bears running around the campground. Sophie raised her eyebrow at her father and told him (in front of 100 of my nearest and dearest relatives) "Daa-aad, that wasn't a bear growling, that was just mom snoring." My family erupted in laughter. So much for family loyalty. I was just glad we got through it without freezing to death. Oddly, I was the only one who complained of the cold. Does this mean I'm just a wuss? Probably. As my mother would say, "Oh well, think of it as building memories." Yeah. Sure.

BlackHart v. Minivan Bandit: We Meet Again...

We live in a small town. The chance of running into someone you know the second you step out onto the front porch is so high that I invariably question whether I should sneak out in my pajamas in the morning to grab the newspaper off the driveway. With the economy currently in the tank, the town is sorely lacking in retail establishments so we all shop in the same places. Walking into the post office is like attending a social event. Running into the Minivan Bandit was, therefore, inevitable. The surprising part was that I never suspected I would actually discover her identity or come face-to-face with her.

(Let me bring you up to speed on the so-called Minivan Bandit.) While attempting to drive through the pick-up lane at the local elementary school one afternoon I managed to breach some unwritten code in the Child Retrieval Handbook. I'm still not certain what code it was but the driver of the minivan behind me wasn't happy about it. She yelled at me through the driver's side window. I ignored her. She continued to yell at me as the line of cars in front of me inched forward. I continued to ignore her until I'd reached the head of the line and my daughter scrambled into the backseat. At that point, I heard real-live swear words issuing forth from the minivan.

Understand, I was the secretary for the parent teacher club at the school and I felt strongly that I should provide a good example by ignoring the outburst. I drew the line at four letter words being shouted within earshot of 300 grade schoolers, however. So when the minivan pulled up beside me I rolled down my own window and said to the driver, "You are on an elementary school campus and your vocabulary is completely out of line here." I must have touched a nerve because the Minivan Bandit tried to shoot me with laser beams from her bulging eyes. She opened her mouth and fire billowed across the pickup lane. I think her head spun around.

The next thing I knew, I'd been called a female dog (yes, the B word) and then an 'effing' female dog before she sped off into the sunset, her hand out the window, proudly flipping me the bird. If you know me, you know I put some truck drivers and most sailors to shame with my colorful language, so its not as though I'd never heard such words before. I do, however, believe there are certain words and behaviors that simply have no place on a grade school campus or when children are present.

I hopped out of my car and demanded to know the identity of the bird-flipper. Not a single teacher, aide or student knew who she was. I went to the office but had no luck. It was like the Minivan Bandit had come out of nowhere. I suspect she spent the next few days driving a different vehicle to the school in an effort to stay under the radar. I don't blame her for that. I'm not certain I could have held my head up after that debacle. I know I couldn't have returned to the pickup lane without feeling like I'd be doing the walk of shame.

I finally saw the minivan again...albeit weeks later. I had no opportunity to confront her though. The bigger issue was how in the world was I supposed to react? My natural instinct was to stomp over to her car and bang on the window and chew her out but I'm not fifteen years old, and I have children to think about, a reputation to think about, not to mention 300 grade schoolers as witnesses to whatever I chose to do. On the one hand, I regretted not being able to act like a fifteen year old. On the other hand, I really didn't have the energy to engage in battle, possibly making the situation worse.

We ended the school year, the Minivan Bandit and I, calling an unspoken truce. I didn't know who she was, she didn't know who I was and we pretended to ignore each other, though I knew she paid close attention when I was in view. I could almost feel her eyes following me behind her dark sunglasses. I willed myself to treat her as I would treat any other parent in the pickup lane, but mumbled insults under my breath until my daughter climbed into the car. The year ended without incident. She'd had the last word (the middle finger) and I'd just have to live with it. I promptly forgot about her.

My younger daughter attends preschool two miles away from the elementary school. Its a difficult preschool to be accepted at. Rumor has it that the waiting list is so long that pregnant women have been known to turn in applications without filling in the sex or name of the future student, seeing as how the fetus has yet to be christened with a name. I knew all the parents, or thought I did, until the four-year-olds' graduated and a whole group of new three-year-olds' replaced them. The school is year-round (though the Summer program is noticeably lacking in ABC recitation and there is an abundance of art and water play) so I quickly began meeting new parents.

I pulled up to the gate one day, parked behind a blue minivan and hopped out of my car just in time to pass a sunglassed lady holding the hand of a tiny, three-year-old. I couldn't place her at first. It was her friendly smile I didn't recognize. I suppose the sight of my car gave me away, because I've never seen a smile vanish so fast. I knew then it was the Bandit. I could have said or done anything at that point. I could have flipped her the bird in retaliation, I could have scowled or berated or critisized. Instead, I discovered that being fifteen years old wasn't all it was cracked up to be. As an adult, I can simply raise an eyebrow and nod in greeting, pass by, and make a much bigger impact than if I jumped up and down and turned the air blue with my bad mouth. Also, I walked away with a measure of dignity. She walked away looking slightly embarrassed.

At fifteen, everything is a personal insult. As an adult, I know that marriage, children, finances, job stressors and a host of other things can turn a perfectly normal, well-adjusted woman into a nut job. It doesn't have a darned thing to do with me. I just happened to be the one she lashed out at, probably because she'd been dealing with toddler tantrums or a cranky boss all day. Not a great justification for her scene, but as a fellow mom, I feel compelled to give her a pass on this one.

The new school year is going to begin soon. I'll continue to pretend I don't recognize her and hopefully, she'll do the same. In the meantime, if anyone knows anything about pickup lane protocol, shoot it my way. I'm not comfortable being the victim of road rage unless I know why I'm being targeted. Makes me paranoid.

Mer