Yield to the mini-van

I have just returned from my daily pilgrimage to the same school I’ve raced to every afternoon for the last 10 years.  I do not use the verb “race” lightly.  That is always how it goes.  No matter how well I plan, or how often I swear that I can’t live on the razor edge of the second hand every day of my blessed life, I am still racing to get everywhere.  So here, I beseech you:  Yield to the mini-van.

Trust me when I say, the driver knows it’s her fault.  She takes the blame for everything:  lateness, lost homework and soccer socks, the wrong color sippy cup, the unacceptably empty jar of peanut butter, mean coaches, vegetables (i.e. existence and necessity of).   In her heart of hearts, she really would yield the right of way, but she’s perpetually running behind and just really needs those few extra seconds.  Yield to the mini-van.

I’m guessing the baby just had an epic blowout right before she was scheduled to leave.  Her toddler lost his binky and is so freakishly strong when he’s mad and doesn’t have his paci and she’s trying to buckle him in.  Her teenager suddenly remembered she had to wear a black shirt to play practice and JUST ANY OLD BLACK SHIRT WOULD NOT DO.  These are the things that make her late.  Yield to the mini van.

Or maybe her boss kept her late.  She swore she wouldn’t let this happen again, but what was she supposed to say?  Or maybe a meeting ran long.  It seemed like it was just about to wrap up and they had just FINALLY gotten to the really crucial part that she needed to participate in.  One time she made it all the way across town in 12 minutes and there was no reason to think it couldn’t happen again today.  Except it didn’t.  Yield to the mini-van.

Or maybe, just maybe, she was doing something really truly a bit selfish.  A co-worker stopped her and asked her opinion on a recent event and she relished the opportunity to discuss something that didn’t involve poop.  Or she spent a few extra minutes flirting harmlessly with her barista.  Or, God forbid, she dozed off for a minute.  Or (more likely) couldn’t bring herself to wake the baby until the last possible moment, only to discover that he had soaked completely through every piece of fabric in his bed.  Yield to the mini-van.

She’s already feeling guilty about everything.  She is staying home changing diapers instead of using her advanced degree.  She should be out contributing to society and her family income with a for-pay job that requires heels and panty hose (do working women still wear those?)  Or she’s out in the world every day pulling in a paycheck and adding coworkers and a boss to the list of people she disappoints every day.  And she’s walking away every morning (always walking away) from the precious people that mean the most to her in the whole wide world just to keep food in their mouths and a roof over their heads. Yield to the mini van.

You might be mad at her, but give her a wave instead of the finger.  She knows everyone is already mad at her.  Her baby is mad that she won’t give him another sucker (two is enough!).  Her kindergartner is mad that the Miss Mouse ears she stayed up making have a PINK bow and not the correct YELLOW one.  Her middle schooler is mad that she couldn’t find a tall enough Abe Lincoln hat at one of the 8 stores she checked in after realizing she’d missed the all important 2-day shipping window for President Day.  Her teenager is mad at her for… everything.  Her husband is mad that she’s always too tired for sex.  Yield to the mini-van.

Give her a smile, I beg of you.  You might not think she’s good looking (she agrees with you), but you might be surprised what happens on the rare days when she has time for both mascara and clean hair at the same time.  She knows she looks tired and a little disheveled and that a messy bun or pony tail aren’t necessarily style icons.  The only people who ever smile kindly at her are old men at church, and then only if the baby is quiet and she remembered lipstick and made it to church in the first place.  She truly still is very pretty, under the spit up and the exhaustion, and if you look closely you’ll see a softness around the eyes that wasn’t there before.  You’ll see a warmth you can’t cultivate with make up or designer clothes.  But still, most of you don’t turn your heads for the subtleties of warmth and softness.  You’re kind to “hot” and she probably isn’t that right now. Yield to the mini-van.

I promise you she is more tired and running on more coffee than you.  She’s been up all night with a teething baby, or a sick toddler, or worrying about a newly driving teen, or finishing up that report or newsletter.  She has had to go to the bathroom for the last 3 hours.  She hasn’t had a pedicure since the Bush Administration (the first one) and she’s still trying to lose that last 10 (okay 20) pounds.  She has her period and the PMS is making her crazy or she skipped her period and the terror or excitement or morning sickness is overwhelming her.  Yield to the mini-van.

I’m willing to bet that something hurts.  Her back hurts from bending over the baby’s crib for the last 9 months.  Or her knee hurts from where she fell trying to skate board with her 12 hear old.  Or her neck hurts from curling up last night in a single bed with ninja figurines and legos and a frightened kindergartner while protecting from a nightmare or a storm or a fever.  Or her breasts hurt because the baby’s still learning to latch, or she has a cracked nipple, or she’s battling mastitis (again).  Or her tooth hurts and she’s had to cancel the appointment to have it looked it the last three times she’s tried.  Or her hand hurts where she burned it baking cupcakes after everyone was asleep the night before the school bake sale.  Or her heart hurts because she snapped at her teenager before he left for school, or at her husband when he asked about the credit card bill, or because she’s waiting to hear what her mom’s doctor said.  Yield to the mini-van.

I’m completely certain that she knows that everyone’s life is hard.  She doesn’t think hers is any harder than yours.  In fact, she spends most of her waking hours thinking about how she can make it better for you—how she can make sure that you don’t miss anything, or that you have everything you need in your backpack, or that you’re getting all the right nutrients, or that your shirt is clean for your presentation or that your uniform is ready for your game.  She wants with everything she has to make things perfect for you.  She worries that she’s doing too much and always, always that she’s not doing enough.  That’s why she’s crazy and running late all the time.  Yield to the mini-van.

Trust me when I say she doesn’t think she’s better or cooler or remotely more important than you (she’s driving a mini-van for heaven’s sake) when she cuts you off.  She has dreams on pause just now because part of her dreams included those car seats you see in the back seat.  She’s in over her head no matter how much she wanted this family, and I’m totally convinced she is trying with everything she’s got.  When she’s her normal self (she barely even knows what that means on days like these) she really is a polite and careful driver.  But today, she needs a nap.  She needs a massage.  She needs a hug.  She needs a beach vacation.  She needs a drink.  She needs a break.  Yield to the mini- van.