Car Line Catastrophe

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Like many parents, I have spent many hours in car lines at schools. In an effort to offer each of our four children the best possible education, for a few years I’d dash between two different schools picking up from one early and the other late. This did not make me a very popular parent. In fact, I KNOW I was not a popular parent.

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My boys were consistently in trouble in car lines. Either excessively talking, running, wrestling or tossing a rock around. It really didn’t matter, they always seemed to be in the hot seat. It probably didn’t help that they ran as fast as they could and body slammed themselves into the side of our vehicle vying for the front seat each afternoon. I finally assigned seats for each day of the week. That helped….a little. One  afternoon, the assistant principal got wind of what was going on (or got complained to, more likely) and outran the boys to the car and jumped in the front seat first.  The shock on their faces and stunned reactions ended all fighting (that day).  I admired him for how he handled that.

I also remember the last day of school when a teacher grit her teeth at me in a grimacing smile as she shoved our car door shut. She said, “Have a good summer!”  But I read through that look to mean “Thank God this is the last day of carline with the Turners!” That was just about the time I learned the truth….

You see, prior, I was eager to please and concerned with what others thought.  Having triplet males was a cure all for that.  As I wondered if I had an “It” tattoo on my forehead most days, I later realized I grossly underestimated reality.  While I anticipated flying book bags, shoes and lunchboxes at carline, I did not realize the walkie talkies the teachers used were for conveying surveillance of the load and launch of the Turner triplets.  Yep, they were all talking about us alright- EVERY. SINGLE. AFTERNOON.

I now get to tell people that they don’t need to worry about what other people say about them… might be much worse than anything they could imagine!




Before anyone calls the cops (or DHR for that matter), please read the rest of the story.  When our daughter was about two years old, she had a really hard time verbalizing syllables.  Her brother’s name, Jordan, was especially hard for her to pronounce.  She ended up spontaneously calling him “Weedo.”  We all ended up calling him that for nearly 15 years until he finally (exasperatedly) expressed his true feelings about his nickname.  And they were not pleasant!

The term of endearment did, however, apply until high school.  Since we typically made his lunch on school days, one morning I absentmindedly wrote “Weed” on his lunch bag. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care. When he went to lunch, his friends died laughing over the fact he was carrying his bag of “Weed.”