I have mixed feelings about driving in the city in general, and driving my kid to school in particular. As a kid myself I scoffed at peers whose parents chauffeured them to and from school every day. It was uppity.
But we had yellow school buses. City kids don’t. While I would love for him to commute on public transit someday, I want to wait until my child is a little bigger — and hopefully more easily visible — before I ask him to cross a major road between school and the train station. I also confess to a covert appreciation of the built-in one-on-one time in the car.
So for now I pick him up from school every day, even though this chore reinforces every negative stereotype my teenage self had about parents who drive their kids to school and then some. It is anarchy in the worst way. Like everyone goes into the experience believing they are both the only people there to pick their kids up, and the only people needing to use the road in general.
I do not, however, engage with the carpool lane. Instead I arrive early enough to snag a street parking spot nearby. Then I slouch in my seat and disappear into a book until a yank on the rear door handle jolts me back to the task at hand.
Practical annoyances aside, this feels like a delightful little piece of reclaimed time in the middle of my day. Fifteen to twenty minutes just me and a book.
I will continue to have mixed feelings about any form of car commuting. I will also continue to use colorful insults to cope with the relentless scourge of double parkers, electric scooters, and the surprising number of people who will lean on the horn at a green light when the cars in front of them are stopped for a crossing guard. However, all of this is made palatable by a truth I’ve carried with me from childhood: any obligation feels more worthwhile if I can bring a book.
I guess this is a theme, because I took a similar photo and made a similar Instagram post out of it last year.
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