Getting passed.

Drop off for preschool just isn't the same. In the olden days, you would pull up to the door and the teachers would unbuckle and drag your child to their classroom. Now, we have to park, unbuckle, gather our gear, wrestle kids out, dodge cars across the parking lot, walk in, maneuver up the stairs, get to the classroom and spend 15 minutes convincing the boys that their teacher can flatten play-doh as well as I can. Nothing really stressful until the convincing part.

Today, the stairwell became another "stress-zone" for me. I get it. The boys are slow, not because they aren't familiar with stairs, they are lingering in the stairwell for extra bonding time with me. I am slow, not because I want to be, but I am following 2 lingering boys and I have 2 backpacks. There was a Momma today that didn't care what my issues were, she wanted up the stairs. After bumping me in the rear with her son's backpack several times, I asked if she wanted to pass. Affirmative. The boys and I huddled against the railing while she hustled her son up the stairs. One of my favorite people at Mt. Zion made a face and I could tell she was thinking the same thing as me. "Take it easy, lady. I know your freedom is minutes away, but really? Really?" Another friend, laughed and joked that I got passed. No kidding. Not like it's my first time.

After delivering the boys to their teacher, I had to show out. It further encouraged my immature behavior that my friends were still laughing and the stairs were empty. At first I hogged the stairs, then I decided to walk as close to the wall as possible. Imagine a mix between Spiderman and spastic Mommy. Everybody thought it was funny until a high school friend's husband entered the stair well. I no longer thought that it was funny, more embarrassing. My friends . . . no longer funny either. Hysterical.