Life on the Bandwagon


Welcome to the my second home...


It’s been three weeks since I last posted. Holy falling off the bandwagon! That’s backwards actually. I haven’t fallen off the bandwagon, I’ve been driving it non-stop, ferrying my teenage daughters everywhere they need to go.

Take today, for instance. I picked up my moppets from school at three p.m., scooted down the street to Tim Horton’s for a quick snack (“Mom,” Lindsay pleaded, “I am freezing. I need a French vanilla), then across the road to Fabricland to check out potential Halloween costume materials (“Do you really think we can pull off a mermaid costume this late in the game?”), finally doubling-back to the mall to pick up a long-sleeved T-shirt for Lindsay’s school uniform.  Regulation white, of course.

We then drove home, only to depart twenty minutes later for Sarah’s four- thirty singing lesson. Because I was momentarily distracted by the task of dissecting a pomegranate, we left with only eight minutes to make the twelve minute drive across town. Usually I leave early, deliberately adding five minutes as hedge against traffic lights or slow-moving farm vehicles.  Today, though, I white-knuckled it across the highway, forcing myself to drive the speed limit and repeating a silent mantra: it is okay if she is a few minutes later. The world will not end, really it won’t.

Sarah’s lesson spans a scant half-hour, so I drove to a lakeside park nearby, where I sat and stared into space for fifteen minutes, grateful for the peace. When we returned home, Sarah scurried into the house and I meditated in the driver’s seat waiting for the changing of guard, as Lindsay now needed a ride to her boyfriend’s house (eight minutes, give or take the temperamental stoplight at Laclie Street).  As it stands now, I have exactly three minutes to finish this post before I have to drive Sarah to her Oliver! rehearsal in a tiny hamlet twenty-minutes east of town.  There won’t be any point in coming back, as her session last only an hour.  [Sure enough, I didn’t even finish this paragraph and am now typing by the dim glow of my van’s interior lights.]

This isn’t even the heavy driving day.  Twice a week, we trek to a cheerleading club in another town, where Lindsay will spend four hours at a time tumbling and stunting.  We leave hastily after school and don’t pull into the garage until ten-thirty p.m.

Too much? Yeah, some days it feels like that.

But this is the choice I’ve made. I am a woman with two law degrees and a high-ranking job spelled M-O-M. The van is where I live, so I  suppose this is a sign that I need to make accommodations, take my blog show on the road and master the art of posting from my Blackberry, since, more often than not, I am behind the wheel of my van and not in front of my laptop.  And no, I will not type while driving. I may dictate notes to my daughter, though, thoughts to be scribbled on a napkin from the stash in the glove compartment.

How do you spell that mom?

It’s l-o-v-e, dear.

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