The world of parenting is dotted with countless commitments, responsibilities, and extracurricular activities of our children. You know, soccer practices, swim meets, school functions, and the like. Whenever these events occur regularly and for an extended period of time, mini-societies are spawn. Societies in which the kids are the focal point. Societies in which most parents play but a supporting role, usually that of chauffeur. Societies in which these chauffeurs are bound by the laws of common decency to engage in awkward conversation with the other chauffeurs regardless of how well they know their counterparts. Societies in which a ruling class of adults will govern. Societies in which many interesting dynamics exist.
With the triplets now at preschool two days per week, and with Lovie in charge of getting them there safely, I’ve suddenly become a member of yet another society. Only this one doesn’t require that I bullshit aimlessly with strangers. In fact, my only requirements are to pick kids up and drop them off. That’s right. I’m now a proud member of the Carpool Society. Piece of cake, right?
Wrong. First off, it turns out that being prompt is a big deal. Which shouldn’t present that big of a problem. Unless, of course, the driver thinks school starts at 8:30 when it actually starts at 8:15.
No wonder Lovie wanted me to leave so early.
Luckily, I got Pookie and her friends to school on time, albeit barely. A wave of relief swept over me until the sight of carefully orchestrated, soccer-mom-operated SUVs brought upon another wave. One of anxiety. After all, if this rookie was fumbling with incorrect start times, no telling what else I didn’t know. I had the sinking suspicion that these right-hand-only-turning divas would make mince meet out of me in short order.
As if my peers in this Auto-Bond society weren’t daunting enough, suddenly before me stood the ruling class of adults presiding over the carpool line, their smiling faces belying the steely disposition required to attain such a lofty and authoritative post. My hands trembled, struggling to maintain their grip of my leather-covered steering wheel. My right foot sat like a boulder atop the break pedal, rendering me unable to lift it, and, therefore, unable to coast the few feet that now separated me from the car in front of us.
What was I to do? Pull up and bridge the gap? Or wait until the three cars at the very front rid themselves of their backpack-toting cargo such that I could assume the foremost position of the unloading area, thereby allowing those behind me to fully occupy the yellow lane, thus allowing for maximum unloading? In a moment, my mind locked in on its answer.
Pull up and unload now, it said. Who’s to know how long the cars in front of you will take? Better to keep the unloading process going rather than to get greedy and wait for a maximum unloading opportunity which may not quickly present itself.
Wrong move. Or so one of the kids told me. One is to wait and pull all the way up. Embarrassed, I quickly put my car back in gear to follow protocol, the lead cars having vacated the lane and permitting me access to the very front. But one of the kids had already the door open. Which allowed the sinful sounds of my stereo to pollute the carbon-monoxide-filled air, a no-no, I have since learned. All stereos are to be turned off in the carpool line.
How Footloose-ean.
Surely my peers scoffed at my embarrassing faux pas and would delight in recounting my cumbersome navigation of the carpool society at the water cooler, gym, country club, or wherever their day might take them.
Not to mention the ruling class. The only thing that could have possibly drawn more disapproval from the elite would have been a poorly timed cell call.
I drove out of the parking lot that morning with hampered pride, but also with an unwavering determination. One that will compel me to one day master the intricacies of the carpool line such that I can promptly, safely, responsibly, and efficiently execute my commuting duties, thus pleasing both my peers and superiors.
Incidentally, if any of y’all have the handbook, would you mind emailing me?




But on the other hand, songs containing sexually explicit themes, misogynistic lyrics, and drug references are hardly anything new. Recently, Elise LeQuire White shared with me a 

























