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Chances are, whether you’ve known me for decades or just a few months (outside of essays and social media), you’ve never witnessed my anger. You might have seen me cry—thanks to the experience of being a young widow—but rage? Not so much. Most people haven’t seen that side of me.
Generally, I handle my anger internally. I’m soft-spoken and composed, and I take things in stride. In the last ten years, I can count the number of times I’ve lost my temper in public on one hand. Once, late at night in the emergency room, I raised my voice at a young doctor for something outside his control. I regret that moment, but in my defense, I had just learned that my husband’s brain cancer had spread into his cerebral spinal fluid, and my little boy was calling in tears about his birthday. Another time, I confronted a contractor who double charged me shortly after my husband’s funeral—no regrets there, but I was drowning in grief and barely recall the frantic words I shouted.
But when it comes to the morning school car line? I transform into a rage monster. Think ranting and raving, throwing my hands in the air, and rolling my eyes. Picture me narrating each snail-paced move with an impatient snark.
I’m not proud of this behavior, and thank goodness I have enough sense to keep my windows rolled up. There’s no justification for my actions. I’m simply furious at the parents who disregard the rules about staying in their cars.
The rules are clear and frequently reiterated: Drive up to the curb, stay in your vehicle, and let your child exit. For the younger kids, teachers and assistants are available to open doors and help them with their heavy backpacks. Parents should remain in their cars or park in the lot if their kids need extra assistance.
The car line is meant to flow smoothly—a drop-and-go system. When parents disrupt that flow, my rage escalates.
Here’s the thing—my mornings are meticulously planned. I have to drop off my elementary schooler, then my middle schooler, and finally head to work. Every extra second it takes to drop off a child feels like an eternity that I desperately need.
Sure, I could leave a few minutes earlier, and I’ve tried that. Yet, those rule-breakers seem to appear whether I’m among the first at drop-off or not. And waking my tween boy and middle school girl just to leave a tad earlier feels counterproductive; their body clocks don’t align with an early start. Why should they sacrifice precious sleep just because others choose to ignore the car line rules?
Okay, I need to pause because I feel that rage monster surfacing again. The truth is, I don’t want to start my mornings in such a state of anger. My kids find it hilarious to see their usually calm mom transform into a rage monster over a slow-moving car line. I’d much prefer to impart lessons of grace and patience rather than whatever it is I’m currently teaching them—most likely the opposite. But I guess no one’s perfect, and perhaps there’s a teachable moment in there, too.
Like a lesson on the consequences of disregarding rules, where usually calm people might surprise you with a fierce glare. Just kidding—mostly.
I truly understand that some children require extra help getting out of the car, and parents of those kids have schedules just as tight as mine. I sympathize with kindergarten parents sending their little ones to school for the first time amid a pandemic. Rationally, I know we’re all doing our best. Still, it’s hard to suppress my feelings, roll my eyes, and grumble about it.
So fine, I’ll allow you your moments, but let me have my rage. I promise not to let it extend beyond the car line.
But really—let’s keep the process moving.
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Summary
In this humorous reflection, the author shares her struggle with maintaining patience during the school car line drop-off, where she often finds herself transforming into a “rage monster.” Despite being generally calm and composed, the disruptions caused by parents who ignore the rules trigger her frustration, highlighting the challenges of managing tight schedules while navigating the complexities of parenting.