Pickup Time

I see her before she sees me. I pause just outside the door, peering through the windows, observing and admiring her, completely unnoticed.

In this split second of seeing without being seen, I get to survey the situation. Is she deeply engrossed with a baby doll and a blanket? Is she bent low over a table, crayon in hand, masterpiece making? Is she huddled with a friend, weaving a story with little plastic people?

These are the things that matter at 4:30 p.m.

I pick her up at the same time every day but my arrival could find her at snack time one day, playtime the next. So, before she sees me, I scope out the scene. Have I landed on my sweet spot and found her between activities, thinking about what to do next? Or have I strolled up to find her three beads into a necklace that was meant to have 300?

When I’ve hit the sweet spot, her eyes lock with mine and she launches into a flying leap for my arms. We hug. We smile. I feel like the best mom in the world in front of a room full of little people, and a few teachers too. We stride off together, hand-in-hand, talking about her day in the way that they do on sitcoms and in storybooks where everything is perfect and overflowing with love.

When I’ve missed the mark, her eyes lock with mine and she delivers a sulky, teary-faced greeting. I drag her away with her unfinished necklace. We argue and my frustration shows. I feel like the worst mom in the world as I snap at her and we stumble out the door in a soggy, disheveled mess, arguing over who carries her lunchbox.

Hitting the sweet spot or missing the mark. These are the things that matter at 4:30 p.m.

Because I really want this time to be sweet. I want her smiles that lift me out of my day and place me safely into our day. I live for our day, when we are all in one place and time, together, hand-in-hand (or tush-in-lap as the case often is). We spend so much time apart; our mornings fragment us off to work and school, in as many different directions as we are people. But when we come together, that’s where we do the work of being a family and it’s where we reap the rewards too.

The truth, of course, is that regardless of which path we take, the afternoon will still find us driving home together, her sipping chocolate milk and telling me about the funny thing her friend did at lunch and me navigating the early side of rush hour and asking about what she did in art class. We’ll still catch up. We’ll still reunite. The storybook moment will still happen and, the truth of course, is that it will happen a few times over before bed. Though I try to convince myself otherwise, the truth is that what mattered at 4:30 p.m. doesn’t matter so much at 5:30 p.m. or 6:30 p.m. or 7:30 p.m. Joyful or tear-stained, pickup and that unfinished necklace will be long forgotten by the time dinner reaches the table or pajamas are slipped over heads. We’ll move on, forget about how we met, overcome a bad reunion, and breathe in our time together as a family.

And when that happens, none of the rest of it matters at all.

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