Am I insane? I waited in line again for the second day in a row.

Justin had a play Friday afternoon. And after the play I had to line up to take him home. Again.

Then I had to waste an hour and a half until Amanda and Autumn were done with track practice because gas is now $3 a gallon. OK, so technically it is $2.79 a gallon, but you know…

Oh, and I had Chinese for lunch Friday and was not alone.

Yesterday I had to pick up Justin and Maxine after school because Justin had a dentist appointment at 4:15 p.m. If he rode the bus home, he wouldn’t arrive home until 4:20 p.m. So I had to pick him up at school at 3:10 p.m.

Justin attends an elementary school, and Maxine attends a middle school. Justin is 8 and Maxine is 9. To get Justin out of the elementary school, I must stand in line (a very long line) and sign him out. To get Maxine, I have to track her down because she can just wander wherever. Although we had previously agreed I’d find her at the public library which is located right next to the school.

As it turns out, I had been warned about The Line by my husband. He told me it could take forever to get Justin out of school. And so I decided to show up early. I was the fourth person in line when I arrived at 2:45 p.m. And after standing there for five minutes, I realized this was still going to take considerable time, and I was wasting productive work time. So I went out to my car and grabbed my computer bag. I went back inside. I was now parent #6 in line. I sat down on the floor and began working on my laptop.

See, Thursday was deadline day for the newspaper. And I had stories to write and edit before sending them to my editor. It worked out well. And with five minutes left, I put away my computer and stood up ready to sign out my kid.

Now keep in mind I was working while in line, but I still managed to notice some line politics. May I just say I am shocked parents would be willing to put themselves through this horrid experience on a regular basis.

Part of the line was so parents could "sign out" their kids. In order to pick your kids up after school, you have to send a note expressing your intentions (so preplanning is required). From those notes, a list of students being picked up is generated. Those students are herded into the gym after school behind a line on the floor.

On the other side of the line, a school official stands next to a rolling cart. On top of the cart are two notebooks. Those of us standing in line must sign the notebooks, noting our child’s name and our name. And then we can pick up our kid. It is supposed to be all official and a security measure — they need to know who is taking the kids.

However, the school official NEVER actually looks at the what you write. The adult isn’t required to show ID, and there is no double checking to make sure you walk out with the kid you wrote down. It’s just the illusion of security. Plus it’s a royal PITA.

And I was a bit miffed, as I put away my computer, to note that a state trooper was walking out of the school with his young son before school was actually dismissed. He obviously knew whoever it is you need to know to get your kid sprung sooner.

As Justin and I exited the school, I noticed how long the line was, and I thanked myself that I had managed to get to the school at 2:40 p.m.

A lady was walking out ahead of us, and she directed her children to a vehicle parked on the curb right outside the door. She had parked the vehicle right in the traffic lane. This is a crowded parking/drive area anyway, and this woman just parks her vehicle right in the main flow of traffic. It irked me. Where did that trooper go? I think he should have written her a ticket.

Justin and I walked over to the middle school and found Maxine before she had a chance to go to the library.

With the kids loaded up in the car, I was on my way to the state police post to continuing working. After that, I had to track down an internet connection to send my articles.

Once that was accomplished, I was back at the school to pick up Autumn and Amanda from track practice. Amanda is the manager. I then went to a store and bought a birthday cake and ice cream, picked up a pizza and went home to celebrate Steve’s 36th birthday.

Let’s be thankful I don’t have to pick up Justin every day. It is, as I’ve already said, a farce and a PITA.

Happy Birthday to Steve! (Mar. 29, 2007 — he was born at 11:57 p.m.)

—

Justin went to the dentist. He does not have an abcess or a blocked gland. The dentist thinks some food managed to work its way down under a baby tooth. Once in that space below the baby tooth and above the adult tooth, the food rotted and infection set in. If the infection is still there in a couple of weeks, the baby tooth will need to be removed. In the meantime, Justin continues on antibiotics to clear it up. His face is no longer swollen.

Oh, and during the dentist visit, I sat on the floor in the examining room typing into my laptop in order to get my deadlines done. I love having the ability to do this. Laptops are great.

—

Today I am going to stay home. I was going to travel to Mt. Pleasant to meet with my thesis committee chair, but the pressing deadlines of another grad student lowered me on the priority list. I am to go next Friday. In the meantime, I will be able to get some of my homework done.

I wasn’t sure what category to stick this in, but I finally decided on parenting because there is a huge heaping of parental guilt in this post.

It is 3 a.m. I have been working with student papers for the past two hours. I went to sleep around 9 p.m. after I started falling asleep while "watching TV" at 7:30 p.m. I actually went to bed at 8:30 p.m. but for some reason couldn’t sleep.

I am trying to get everything out of my brain so when I go back into my room in a bit, I will be able to sleep. I am back to the "I have too much to do and not enough time, how can I sleep?" concern. It does no use to toss and turn. Once I wake up and my brain starts listing my to do list, I have learned I just won’t go back to sleep until I get up and finish some of it.

Now comes some of that guilt — I called the dentist Monday to schedule an appointment for Justin later this week. The idea was to let the swelling go down first. He is on antibiotics. He’s not in pain. Why poke around when you can’t see anything? But the dentist wanted me to bring him in Monday. Note, I called from Kirtland. And I was about to teach. So I decined. Then they suggested Tuesday morning.

I countered with "how about Thursday?" Because Thursday works in my schedule. And by Thursday, his mouth won’t be swollen. Plus, that’s what the doctor suggested. But now I’m talking to… I don’t know who I’m talking to — the scheduling lady? I have no idea what her medical background is. I just know I do not want them poking around Justin’s mouth, making him miserable, and then telling me "We can’t see anything, come back when the swelling is down. How about Thursday?"

I have a flexible schedule. The times I teach may change semester to semester. The times I work at the paper is also flexible. But once I have that routine set for a semester, there isn’t a lot of flex time. I can’t just cancel class. That puts the students behind. I can’t put things off for the paper because if I do, I’ll miss the deadline.

Last week, due to Autumn’s strange eye thing, Steve and I lost a comination of two days. It would have been three, but I made Autumn go with me when I worked one of those days. I have four children. I can’t lose any days this week. So that means, I have to fit things into my schedule.

But the scheduling lady (who may or may not have a medical background, I have no idea) was pretty heavy-handed on the guilt trip. "Well if it is as swollen as you say, we should see him right away. There might be something else going on." Ack! What else could it be? What is she saying? Is she saying if I don’t take him in right now, he could lose his jaw? What? Or is she just saying, "You are such a bad mom." Because, frankly, on Monday, I was hearing the latter option.

Let’s review. Justin has been seen by a doctor. He is on antibiotics. He is not in pain. His face is swollen so you can’t see inside his mouth. There are no obvious problems. There is no fever, for instance. And, Justin is 8 and not likely to like people prodding around in his mouth, so why poke when you most likely won’t be able to do anything?

Or am I just making excuses to explain away my guilt. Because I’m feeling guilt.

—

I also have some cool announcements.

On Monday night, David Letterman had a segment on his show called Small Town News. It’s a regular feature. Alas, on Monday, Letterman quoted from MY paper, as in the newspaper I work for, and (wait for it) he quoted my work. Ha! It was from the police beat. It involved a swear word, which we ultimately decided to print. And which Letterman bleeped out.

I am not quoting myself, but the summary of the report involved a man complaining about his neighbor deliberately blowing snow into his driveway. The man said he’d received an unsigned card from the neighbor. The card said "Jesus Loves You" on the cover, but inside was written, "Everyone else thinks your an asshole."

If anyone happened to tape that segment/show, I’d love to hear from you!

Second bit of good news:

I was accepted to attend a four-week writing workshop this summer. It’s part of the Crossroads Writing Project (a national writing project for teachers). It’ll be at Ferris State University. The first week will be four days. I’ll stay in the dorm. The next week (July 4th week) will be two days. The following week is five days. And the last week is four days again. There is also a pre and post retreat. I’m looking forward to it. One of my friends will also be going, so we plan on commuting.

And now, perchance, I shall sleep. Or lay awake and suffer from guilt while mentally compiling my to do list. Only time will tell.

Thanks for playing.

"Sign here," Amanda tells me, handing me a piece of paper that already has her own signature in place. She points to a line with my name printed beneath it. She is covering the words placed above where she wants my signature to go.

I grab the paper before she realizes my intent. She’d hidden the words "Sign for the thing on the front of the paper." I flipped the paper over to the front.

The paper was lined, ripped from one of her blank journals. She had written a contract and had hoped to get my signature before I’d read what I was signing.

"To parents of Amanda Sherwood,

I am getting older and I can have my bed how ever I want it.

Sign on back."

I grabbed the pen as if to sign it, but instead added my own terms to the contract.

"As soon as you move out and buy your own bed."

Amanda had been under orders to get upstairs to her room and clean up her bed. Amanda tends to keep so much stuff on her bed there is rarely room for her to sleep in it. Instead she sleeps with her sister, Maxine.

Last weekend the girls weren’t allowed to go anywhere or to have any friends over because their room, well the room is messy. It is more than messy. It is a safety hazard. It is a battle I have fought since my children were big enough to know how to pick up after themselves. When they were younger, I had an elaborate system, modeled after the finest preschools, where as every type of toy had its own container. Each container had a picture and word label.

The problem with that system is that the girls didn’t play with just one type of toy. They would get them all out and play with them all and use the containers as makeshift cars for their Barbie dolls.

Since then, my standards for cleanliness have declined. Now I just ask that the floor be kept clear, primarily because I fear for my own safety if I should have to wander up there in the dark. I also request clean clothes be put away in order to prevent me from washing clothes that hadn’t been worn since the last time I washed them. I have enough laundry as it is thank you very much. Even with my lower standards, the girls usually fail to meet my requests.

Amanda, especially, hates to put things away. She loves her stuff, and she wants it all out where she can keep a good eye on it. If she were to put something away, a sister might take it without her ever knowing it was missing.

The battle between cleanliness and slovenliness continues. The contract remains unsigned.

Justin has either a abscessed tooth or a blocked salivary gland. The result means his left cheek is puffed out like a chipmunk. I now know what Justin would look like in the face if he were to have a double chin. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.

He is on antibiotics and will need to go see a dentist when the swelling goes down. Right now everything is so swollen you can’t see what is happening. He is still able to go to school. But that means another week of schlepping a child to the doctor’s office.

Autumn is back in contacts this morning. She is pleased. She has started track. Amanda applied to be manager of the team. She hasn’t heard yet if she was selected.

"Who are you?" is what my children said to me when I arrived home with a new haircut. I had about five or six inches cut off. I once again have bangs. It’s been a while since I had bangs. The new cut is just above my shoulders. I also have lots of layers so it is no longer flat.

Someone told me it made me look 10 years older. I pretended to be offended, but that’s what I thought too when I was still sitting in the chair at the salon. This was not a planned haircut. It was a walk-in, chop-off cut.

I think it is a more "professional" cut than I have had. As in, now I look like a professional. Oh, and the person who said it made me look older sugggested my previous cut made me look 20 years old. Nice save.

I like that my hair is no longer flat.

Today it is supposed to be in the 70s. We have packed away our snowpants and snow boots and hats and mittens. Spring has finally sprung.

AND there are just three more days before a major holiday in our house — Steve turns 36 on the 29th.