Fireworks on the Freeway

Every once in awhile, I'm called upon to do something millions of mothers do every day without incident. For some reason, I find it to be one of the most painful tasks conceivable. I'd rather spend some drill time in a dentist's chair than do this: pick my kids up from the sitter.

I work from home and I totally get that I'm blessed, my boss is the greatest human being ever, yada yada yada. But sometimes it is unavoidable - I must swap out my PJs for real people clothes and work off premises. This is all good and well until our beloved nanny Norma - a person that is on the short, short list of human beings I cannot live without - offers to take the kids home with her. I can just swing by and pick them up on my way home. This is very generous on her part because it usually means she hangs on to them longer than she should.

HOWEVER.

Every time I pick the kids up, #1 freaks out because he simply does not want to go home with me. He wants to stay and play with Norma and I have to hear him scream and cry about it all the way home. There's a couple of key things to consider here before passing judgement on me. 1) I pick them up right during the heart of rush hour traffic. The ride home usually lasts anywhere from 45 minutes to an hour, and #1 doesn't usually calm down until we're pulling up to the driveway. 2) Although I know how to get to Norma's house, I don't exactly know how to find the freeway from there. And so you say, "Hey dumbass, why don't you just retrace your steps from how you got there?" To which I would reply, "Because then I'd have to go north to go south and I hate backtracking more than I hate that you just called me a dumbass." So I end up driving around, trying to figure out where the hell I am, weaving in and out of good and bad neighborhoods, all while #1 is saying things like, "No Mommy! Stop the car! I want to get out now, please! I want Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooorma!"

Sometimes I turn the music up louder, but then I feel bad for #2 who is patiently waiting for me to find my way. He gets me. He lets me be me and figure out my way in life, unlike #1 who has already told me, at the ripe age of 3.5, that he doesn't like me anymore. They grow up so fast, don't they?

Anyway, after going through all this drama a few too many times, I finally figured out what the hell will calm the little maniac down. For some reason, brake lights remind #1 of fireworks, which prompts him to ask me to sing the Fireworks Song. Do you know that one? I bet you do. It's a little number by Francis Scott Key, AKA The Star Spangled Banner. By the way, I happen to think The Star Spangled Banner is one of the most beautiful songs ever written. I get teary eyed even when I sing it (just so you know, my vocals are akin to Alfalfa from The Little Rascals). Some day I dream of doing this songs justice by learning all the actual words.

Anyway, tonight after I sang it about twenty times and we were driving up the hill, 60 seconds away from our house, #1 said, "Mommy, I'm not sad anymore. I'm happy now."

And I was happy too. Happy for my kid. Happy for America. Happy to be home.