Road rage

Mood: annoyed and irritated

I love the smell of asphalt in the afternoon...NOT.

Afterschool today, I had to run out to the store for a quick errand.  It was one of my quickest trips ever, considering little miss was on the verge of a tantrum even the wee car cart couldn't appease. 

I was feeling pretty smug about getting in and out so quickly when I was brought crashing back down to earth by road work.  My route home was blocked.  Ordinarily, I take these things in stride, as long as no one's crying and the CD player still works.  But my patience is worn thin by all the road work on the streets surrounding our neighborhood. 

Everywhere you look, there are signs and detours, and more signs telling you where you can't go, usually exactly in the spot you want to get to.  Today, it seemed to take me longer to get home than I took inside the store.  UGH.  It is particularly annoying because I'm usually running a few minutes late as it is. 

Don't get me wrong, I realize you have to make allowances for time.  But you try getting four kids, all on the same page, all out the door on time.  All the time.  Forever.  "Get your shoes on...brush your teeth...do you have your backpack?...oops forgot the keys....get in the car...didn't I just tell you to put on your shoes?..."  It's endless, and inevitably even my best plans are laid to waste because someone forgets something.  Something vital, or not, but something gets left behind.  Lunches.  Clarinets.  Gi belts.  Jackets.  Library books (now overdue).  

Getting everything in the car and everyone situated, particularly if we are going for a while, probably takes more time and planning than the attack on Normandy (and I mean no disrespect in saying that). 

So a little glitch, like extra road work, really makes my day.  I try not to swear at the winter visitors, who drive like crap as it is, and now are faced with the challenge of a new route (you know how the oldies like to change their routine).  I try not to break too many traffic laws, because my oldest takes a particular delight in sharing my traffic transgressions with his policeman Daddy.  "Today, Mommy ran a red light.  And she said not to say anything."  "Didn't you say you're not supposed to drive through the parking lot to get around that roadblock on the corner?  See, Mom I told you that's what Dad said."  Or he'll just make siren sounds when he knows I've done something wrong.  Little sh**.  Doesn't he realize that I'M the person he'll need to get through if he'd like to drive before he graduates high school?  That MY vehicle is probably the one he'll want to borrow some day?  We'll see about that.

It doesn't matter, in the grand scheme of things, I guess, to even get so worked up about this at all.  Because once we're all buckled in, and the garage door is closed, the next thing I'm certain to hear is:

"Mommy, I need to use the bathroom."