MyThreeDaughters

Looking in my rearview at the grill of an SUV: Yo, Julie, it’s me. You know the Jetta. You trying to remove one of my bumper stickers with that faux-safari cattlecatcher on the front of your four-wheel drive?
Yeah, they’re back. Moms hell-bent on making the start of school, of not letting Emma or Michael or Audrey or Jackson miss one minute of pre-school circle time.
Honda Odyssey “mini” vans, Range Rovers and Land Cruisers and Ford Expeditions, all keeping their kids safe while they view my presence as the equivalent of a log in a bog.
Railroad tracks approach.
Uh, Julie, you’re speeding alongside me in a lane that’s going to end. You know that, right?
I, of course, have been driving this same street at the same stinking time every stinking day of the summer, but the time to yield has come.
These moms are focused. Locked in. They’ve got their yoga pants and game faces on.
The Jetta putters toward the tracks. Julie parallels us, oblivously, no apparent plan in mind.
Oh, I see, Julie. You’re coming over, huh? Don’t sweat that signal, baby, I gotcha. Just seeing you juice the gas and swing over into my lane? That’s a pretty strong signal itself.
Don’t worry. The Jetta’s probably got one air bag working, as opposed to the nine in your car.
We’re cool.
See you at school, in 18 seconds.