It’s 2:45 p.m. and I’m late—again. My husband, Jon, already texted me to tell me that he was going to be at a meeting, a subtle reminder that it’s my turn to pick up the kids today. I left my office on time, but I’d forgotten to allow for the construction project at the end of Evans Avenue, the main thoroughfare separating my office from the highway. So I’ve got my iPhone on the seat next to me, at the ready for when I hit the next red light, and I’m already scrolling through the list in my head. Should I call Delia? No, she’s working on Thursdays; so is Suelita, and she always works until six. Keiko and Mike are at work, too, and Jodi’s got to take her boys to baseball right after school. Laura, my friend who’s a dedicated stay-athome mom, just helped me out two days ago; I’m too embarrassed to have to ask her to bail me out again. Red light: what’s the plan? I decide to call Margie, who works at the school’s front desk, and ask her to catch my young family members as they exit the school and let them know I’m on my way. But I dread that, too: who knows what the school staff does with the dirt they have on chronically late parents like me? I suddenly find myself wishing, for the very first time, that my ten-year-old had a cell phone. Life would be so easy then, I muse. I could simply call Jonathan and tell him that I will be there ten minutes after school lets out, and ask him to alert his younger sister so that they can wait for me together. Such a call might have an added benefit, too: maybe I could forestall “the look” (any parent who’s ever been late for pickup will know exactly which guiltinducing look I’m talking about).
I quickly dismiss the idea of getting him a cell phone. I couldn’t do that, because then eight-year-old Allison would be more convinced than ever