Yesterday the Director forgot to bring his coat home from school. This morning, the temperature was two degrees above freezing, and he asked me to drive him to school so he wouldn’t have to stand at the bus stop in his light denim jacket.
I muttered and grumbled, mostly because I’m not a morning person—at that hour of the day you could ask me if I wanted to help oil up John Barrowman and I’d mutter and grumble about it. But I grabbed my coat and my keys, gave the kid a hug and reminded him that Mom is grouchy in the morning and my muttering wasn’t his fault, and drove him off to school.
I came home, took off my coat, and went back to bed. (Last night was the first time since we all caught the creeping crud that I’ve been able to sleep reasonably well.) I was just dozing off when I heard the Artist cough. The Artist, who was supposed to be on the bus to school by now.
I got up and shuffled into the hall; there he was in the living room. “What are you doing here?”
“Bus never came.”
“Weird. Well, grab your stuff.” Once more I donned my coat and drove a kid to school.
In about half an hour I’ll be going to pick up the Director from school; he likes to get a ride home in the afternoons so he doesn’t have to face the noisy school bus. A couple hours after that, I’ll be picking up the Artist from swim practice.
Sometimes it feels like my main use to this family is my driver’s license.