When interviewing for my first job in the 1990s I always looked forward to answering the question, "What's your least favorite trait? That you see in yourself." Or something to that effect, it's been a while since I've interviewed or spoken to an adult. Without giving it much thought, I always answered honestly. "I dislike that I am punctual."

It's the truth! It's a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad trait to have as I am not always waiting for people but also weaving ridiculous scenarios in my head justifying their tardiness.

Like today. When I waited for over twenty-two minutes in which my heart, I'm convinced, stopped beating for some time.

"Girls! Girls! Shoes and shoo-shoo it's time to go outside and wait for the bus." I congregated the two banshees in the mud room and handed them some side walk chalk. "We need to leave Jay some clues so he can find his first-day-of-school present."

I glanced down at my blackberry and noted I was about five minutes early. Just. Enough. Time. For the girls and I to draw some clues that led up to the gigantic calculator and new alarm clock waiting for my first born child on top of his Star Wars sheets.


Seven minutes later the bus's engine rumbled across our tree lined neighborhood. The girls enthusiastically ran to the curb and I took my position as the good mother photo documenting the first arrival of the school year of her eldest.

However. The bus did not stop. In fact. It kept rumbling.


We patiently waited. And waited. Perhaps the bus stop moved and I wasn't informed? "Get in the car girls!" The girls jumped into the minivan while I ran inside the house to grab THE school folder full of essential contact numbers. Because, obviously, my mom-radar was spot on and I'm forever a girl scout prepared for the worst case scenario.

I circled around the neighborhood not once. Not twice. But three times with my windows rolled down and my head stuck out as far as it could, hollering "Jay! Jay!!! Where are you Jay?" Immediately thinking the very worst, I dialed the school's transportation number while Lola schooled the Feenster about the situation. "Our brother is lost. He might be gone forever, Fifi."

"Hello?"

"Hi. My son. He didn't come home. The bus drove by our house. He's. Not. Home!!!"

"Name, grade and bus number please." The calm operator asked.

"Jay. First grade. Bus number 15."

"The buses are running a little late today."

"But. The bus just passed us. It was one minute late according to my blackberry. I've circled the block four times now."

"Please. Calm down and pull over."

"Okay. I've pulled over. Tell me where my son is please." I imagined my perfect little child in his white polo standing alone in front of the school. Or tied up in a trunk. Or abducted by aliens.

"Where. Is. My. Son????" I cried. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw Lola's face.

"You know, Mama. He might be gone forever." The child that was born to push my buttons, admitted.

"Hello. Hello. Are you there? Where's my child?"

"It's the first day of school lady. Buses are running late."

"I just told you that the bus flew by without my son."

"According to our records. That was the intermediate school bus. And it's running 10 minutes late. So your son's bus is probably running 10 minutes late."

"Really?"

"Really, lady. It's the first day of school. Buses are always late."

"Okay."

Just like clock work, 10 minutes later, Jay stepped off the bus and onto our curb.


"Jay. Jay. Jay Karwowski! I wuff you." The Feenster screamed, dressed in a leo for the third day in a row even though she's not enrolled in any dance classes.

"Jay. We thought we would never see you again." The middle child confessed.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Sweet Jay. Mama was a little worried because your bus was a little late."

"Mom. It's the first day of school. The bus was late."

And just like that, brushing off a mother's heart attack, he followed the loving notes scribbled across the driveway into our house.


On my next interview when I'm being admitted to the Betty Ford clinic for the abuse of popping pills (Excedrin-migraine... my choice today) to get me through mothering not once. Not twice. But thrice. I will be brutally honest and point them here to acknowledge that the trait I dislike most about myself is... being punctual neurotic, obsessive, terribly horribly no good very bad CRAZY.

Oh.  And, you know, that (fat) picture of myself I posted online two days for the world to see that I won't link to now?  Yes.  That's me bloated in preparation for "that" time of month after inhaling $30 worth of Trader Joe's miniature peanut butter cups.  I must be the first stoooopid blogger that did that, no?  I'm brilliant.  Furthermore, I'm totally suing the PMS foundation because it should be illegal for a mother to be this emotional on the first day of school.

Carry on.