Tardy

This fall I began working as a substitute teacher. When I arrived at my school assignment, I saw this sign and had to take a quick pic. I texted the pic to my daughter so that we could both reminisce about the "Tardy Days". You see, my daughter's elementary school years (the first two anyway) were plagued with the need for tardy slips. It is not a memory I'm proud of. In fact, I still get a little sick to my stomach when I think about it. 

Funny enough, I wrote this many years ago. I think I may have written it as I was journaling about motherhood failures. 

I'll share it here...only, please don't judge.

When my daughter was in elementary school I often had to sign her in "late". It was so lovely going into the school office and feeling the judgment of the school secretary. When I (we) arrive in the office, she clicks her tongue. It's as though I am the one in trouble. Which, I am. After all my child couldn't very well drive herself to school could she?

Each time my daughter was tardy (ahem, I was late), I had to sign a log. It was an acknowledgment, if you will, of my being a negligent if not just simply a bad parent. I had to write an explanation for my child's tardiness. Every. Single. Time.

"Really?!" I wanted to say, "If my kid is late then you know I'm REALLY late. I still have to get to work, you know." I mean, how else can we afford to live in the house that affords my daughter the right to go to such a good school?

Driving into the school drop-off zone, I would try to come to a rolling stop as I said to my sweet child, "I'm sure you're not late. It's probably just the first bell," I would say as I encouraged her to go ahead into the school.

"But Mom," she would say, "you know we're late. The teachers aren't out here anymore and there are no other cars in drop off." She was right, of course. All of the good mothers had already been and gone.

Parking illegally in the drop-off zone, I would take my sweet girl to the office so I could be judged. It was bitter medicine. My girl was here! Here, bathed, clothed and homework done. I'm not a complete failure. (Am I ?) Am I traumatizing my kid?

So each day I would smile as I wrote down our excuse in the log. "Car wouldn't start; Alarm didn't go off," that sort of thing.  Once I wrote, "You don't even want to know".

Did I tell you the secretary reads what I've written in the log before she issues the admission slip? Often she reads while pursing her lips to look at me. She thinks carefully before deciding if my reason is acceptable. Finally, she writes the admission slip for my cherub. The "Get Into Class Free" card. "Yes," she decides, "this little girl will get her free public education today". I'm thankful and I'm sheepish and I'm grateful.

"Yes," I say to myself, "even children with flaky working mothers deserve their education".