Welcome to the Thunderdome: Pick-up Letdown
A certain confluence of chaos that parents battle through is the pick-up from daycare.
Every day, my wife or I arrive between 4:30 p.m. and 6:30 p.m. to pick Gwen, our five-year-old daughter, up. It is equal to a demolition derby. At the back entrance of the church, where the daycare is located, there is an awning that covers a drive-thru area. Two cars can park under the awning. There are another two lanes out from under the awning, the far left lane is typically left open for through traffic. Adjacent to this drive-thru area is a typically unused parking lot.
Thus, the rub.
A vast majority of us parents just want to grab our kid(s) and go. We want to get home, cook dinner, spend time with our youngsters, take baths and play games. Or drink. (j/k.) (LOLZ.)
Some people want to talk and get in my goshdarn way. (Author’s note: This was written with a maximum of cursing/gnashing of teeth. To [dis]honor the Crib Keeper, I cleaned it up ... talk about censorship!)
Due to the constricted space in the drive-thru area, traffic can back up quickly. Cars often get blocked in and people are forced to wait in their running cars until certain parents grab their rugrats and vamoose.
Some folks could give a poop about where they are parked in relation to everyone else and, frankly, the goshdarned conversation they’re having is just too important or the goshdarned baby their holding is too goshdarned cute.
Basically, these people park right under the awning forcing every other parent back, and they go inside and have long, drawn-out conversations about such inane bullmularkey whilst the rest of us just want to leave. It is quite literally the most disrespectful behavior that I encounter on a fairly regular basis.
One individual irks me the most. I shall call her … Black Escalade.
This boob parks her monstrosity of a vehicle – always perfectly washed, mind you – smack dab in front of the door and there it stays for a half hour or more. At first, I never connected lady with the vehicle … until the behavior continued. I realized it was the same woman – some loudmouthed lady, who knows absolutely everybody. Many times you find her putting her grubby, Williams-and-Sonoma-catalog-perusing, biscuit-eating hands pawing up on someone’s baby. I’m not 100 percent sure she even has a kid at the daycare. For all I know she’s just some lousy blockhead that has a general disregard for the seven billion people sharing this blue little marble with her.
Worst yet is when I walk in, I am forced to punch the last four digits of my Social Security Number into a keypad in order to check my kid out. Black Escalade and a number of other women (note: All of these offenders are women … I’m not making this up, it’s just fact … deal.) will stand there in front of the keypad while two or three other parents wait. No, she’s not keying in her SSN. She’s just standing there. Jabbering.
I stand there, inches behind her and glare at the back of their head. I swear I do this. They feel my presence and turn around and jump with a little fright. Some cordiality will lurch out of their bulbous snood, and she’ll move to the side. I just try to look as irritated as possible.
I’m not one to complain with a solution. Generally, I don’t care if females want to waste their time talking to others. It’s not my bag, but whatever butters your bread. I do suggest instead of inconveniencing the dozens and dozens of other parents, you park your ostentatious Escalade in the parking lot. It’s not a lot to ask. Just a little more to walk.
And you could use it.
CRIB KEEPER’S NOTE: Naughty language = work place web filters. Blocked grouchymuffin at the office = a fate worse than death.