Car Line

It wouldn’t be so bad if Olivia wasn’t enrolled in a kindergarten with a Car Line policy. That is, you drive up, unlock the minivan door, and a parent volunteer unbuckles the child’s car seat and off she runs.

And it wouldn’t be so terrible if it were the same parent volunteer each day.

But the volunteer position rotates among the parents of students in the three primary grades, twice a day, morning and afternoon.

Which means all those parents—how ever many that is—get to see inside my incredibly, mortifyingly messy car.

The door slides open and I can hear the gasps. Olivia’s rainbow of crayons, melted into the carpet, Mateo’s spilled milk, streaked gray and sour. The pads of wrinkled drawing paper, mounds of crushed Goldfish, scads of molding orange cheese sticks.

And I’m sure they’re thinking: From the outside, her car looks so normal.

But inside!

Two pairs of children’s galoshes; a baby jogger, an Army camp chair, a blanket from Mexico. Tennis balls, sand toys, sweatshirts, baby wipes. Pens, pencils, paper clips, rubber bands. CDs, DVDs, regular books, books on tape. Stencils, tote bags, two pumpkins for Halloween.

“Who cares what people think?” my husband says. “Besides, they’re busy unloading kids. They’re not even looking.”

But his car is vacuumed. You can see the floor of his car.

Tomorrow, I’ll try a new strategy. As I wave good-bye to Olivia, I’ll mention what a minimalist I am. How the only objects in my living room are a sofa, a few paintings and a fireplace.

“My house is nothing like my car,” I’ll say. And then, as the door is closing, I’ll uncross my fingers and add, “Just don’t open the closets.”

By Jessica O’Dwyer