It was a short week- we went to Beaufort this past weekend and I have not a single picture as I misplaced my SD card. Whoops.
But, it's Friday! Husband was on call last night, which meant I was the driver of Birdie this morning. Friday, I invoke my father and his parenting skills. When I was a kid attending Parochial, Dad drove the morning carpool. We would pile into the War Wagon- my mother's wood paneled station wagon and the original SUV. Those red vinyl or velour seats held a smell of melted crayons, McDonald's french fries, and throw up.
Dad was always doing fun things in the morning, telling us we were going to the beach instead of school, practical jokes... or that time he wrote in shoe polish on the side of the car that "Today is NOT Alison's birthday" for everyone to see when he pulled up to drop us off.
The nuns loved him.
He blared The Bangles and MC Hammer as loud as those old speakers could handle and roll the windows down. We'd sing along- a car full of girls and my poor brother in the front seat. There were five, six, or seven of us- depending on the year. But, always Brother was the only boy. He was not a fan of the times when the chick music went on and the volume went up.
It's Friday! I only yelled at Birdie once when she insisted on having butter on her waffle. Finally, I said, "If you want it, do it yourself." A light flicked when she realized she could do it herself. She smeared a full tablespoon all over that EGGO waffle and I didn't correct, as much as my OCD self wanted to.
I wake up Fuzzy, ignore that Bennie is without pants and crank the car.
"It's Friday! You know what that means???"
Birdie responds first- "Whose turn is it to pick the music?"
"It depends on who picks which song."
We agreed on "Best Day Ever" and the four windows went down. The sunroof opened up and the kids screamed, "Cut it ALL the way up, Mama!" Fuzzy was fist pumping, Bennie was singing along and Birdie screams, "I LOVE THIS SONG! HAPPY FRIDAY, MAMA!"
We drive the mile and a half to Parochial. As we get off the main road and into a neighborhood, the faces I once went to Parochial with are older now with children of their own. They turn around to see what moron has their volume turned all .... the... way... oh... It's the Cagles.
That makes sense.
I turn the volume all the way down and stick my head out the window to passers by. The girls and I all scream, "Good Morning!" or "Happy Friday!" or "It's going to be the best day ever!"
Fuzzy fist pumps.
The girls are gleeful.
The principal looks at me like I have two heads. The reading instructor finds a way to pull her eyes above her sunglasses to see who this person is that is roaring into Parochial with the music louder than a mother should.
I laugh and lower the volume as we pull into the parking lot.
Birdie says, "AHHH.... MOM! Cut it back up!"
Bennie says, "Video Keeled Da Ray-D-O star, Mama?"
The eighth grader opens the door for her and doesn't make direct eye contact. He's confused as to what to make of this car. Kisses to the blonde girl and I send her off the same way my father did.
"Bye Nerd. Have the best day ever! Don't give the zoo keepers any trouble!"
"I won't, Mommy. Promise."
As we pull out of the parking lot, Video Killed the Radio Star comes on and Bennie screams, "Cut it ALL DA WAY UP!"
It's Friday, so I have to oblige.