So I have a confession to make.
I'm one of Those Moms.
The ones who cut the school car line.
Shut up I know.
But in my defense, it's only because I think I'm better than you.
Or, you know, because car line can make normal people act like assholes.
Here's the deal.
Our school has three rules when it comes to dropping off your kid in the morning.
I know this because I write the weekly newsletter and am therefore possibly the only one who reads it.
So without further ado, here they are:
1) Stay inside your car. 2) Move all the way up in the line. 3) Children exit curbside.
Break these rules and there will be hell to pay.
By which I mean you will endure the low-key death stares of about a hundred skinny bitches hopped up on green juice, but nothing of consequence will actually ever happen.
Case in point:
There's this chick.
Let's call her Becky with the Good Hair. Because that would make me Beyonce in this scenario and even with all the Lemonade cheating rumor bullshit, who does't want to be Beyonce?
Anyway, what BWTGH does is, she stops her car smack in the middle of the drop-off line instead of pulling all the way to the front, a move that's shady AF because A) that's totally breaking Rule #2 and B) this sneaky bitch just gridlocked the faithful roll of SUVs now effectively trapped behind her.
So let's all serenade her with a nice, slow clap while secretly plotting to take a Louisville Slugger to her ride.
I know what you're thinking.
I've totally lost my chill.
But here's the thing. On a good day--the kind where my hair looks fierce, a forgotten bag of mini pancakes magically turns up in freezer, and I somehow manage to make it out the door without spilling coffee on a single item of clothing #flawless--I have no problem overlooking the rare carline infraction due to, say, the fact that your kid is on crutches, and it's the 100th day of school, and there's no shot in hell he's gonna be able to successfully maneuver that poster covered in Skittles you stayed up all night meticulously attacking with your hot glue gun.
I'll even pretend I don't see that wine glass-sized stain down there on the bottom left hand corner. Because anyone who can wield a hot glue gun like a boss without killing themselves clearly runs the world. So I'll just go ahead and make some metaphorical gin and juice out of this sitch and sit here quizzing my kid on math facts or something while you try and get your shit together.
Why, then, does this Becky chick get me as about as fired up as Solange was that time she tried to beat the crap out of Jay-Z in an elevator? Because Becky highjacks the carline every single day, you guys. And yes I sometimes exaggerate but no, I'm not exaggerating.
And BTW, she doesn't just totally pause her vehicle like Cher Horowitz at a stop sign. Instead she throws that sucker into park like a virgin who can't drive, gets out to unbuckle her kid and pull him out of the car, then kisses him goodbye and just stands there watching as he slowly trots away--looking pretty much exactly like Olivia did after Ben dumped her and her cankles, and left them stranded on that island.
And yes I just made a Bachelor reference because something tells me Bey totally watches that shiz.
If you're thinking right about now that I'm just a bored housewife with anger issues there's a small chance you may be right. But just for a second, imagine that you're stuck in one of those non-moving cars behind Becky because, like everyone else here you are actually following the rules. Meanwhile, the seconds keep turning into minutes, you totally have to pee, your own kids are now officially late for school, and your chance of making the 9 am Bikram is slowly slipping away.
Hold up--Is that why she does it? So she can score the best spot at yoga while we are all still stuck in the carline?
Well played Becky, well played. Because if you're not in the front row like, who even are you?
Look, we get it. You love your kids. And this is how you choose to show it. But girl, you are not the only mom on earth who has ever had to, I don't know, send your child off to school.
What you are is the drunk dude who stumbles over to the blackjack table and hits on a 14 when the dealer is showing a four, effectively killing the vibe.
So just get in formation, ok?
I get that drop off can sometimes be hard. Been there, lived that. But that was back in preschool. We're in elementary school now in case you hadn't noticed. The big leagues. And our school has a pretty kickass parking lot just a few feet away from the front door. Right over there to the left, to the left.
So here's an idea: Follow the rules and go freaking park there.
Otherwise I will just have to keep on cutting the line.
Because I'm a survivor, duh. So I will take all your dumbass lemons and I will turn them into Lemonade, ensuring myself a first-place win in the Worst Example Set by a Mom category as I step on the gas, pull around your basic, self-serving ass, and start shoving my kids and their backpacks out the window so they can get the hell into class without being tardy.
And I would like to thank Becky With the Good Hair, without whom I might never be tardy.
Obviously this was not so much a confession, as a rant disguised as a confession.
But I'm a suburban housewife with hot sauce in my bag and passive aggression is how we do, so just throw your hands up at me, K?
(A similar version of this piece appeared in June 2013 on suburbabble.com)
Hollee Actman Becker writes for sites like Parents, Romper, Fit Pregnancy, Scary Mommy and Flock U. Check out more of her work on her website: holleeactmanbecker.com.