Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off To Practice We Go

Can you call yourself homeless if you find that you more or less live out of your car? Honest to goodness, I spend as much time in my vehicle as I do in my house most days of the school year.

It’s not that I don’t love my house. I’ve got the best comfy recliner. But I rarely get to sit more than 20 minutes at a stretch in my chair. My poor kitty feels so alone.

But I have children. And they have school, and sports, and lessons, and social lives. All of which I am the designated chauffer for once it hits 3:30. Just the sport practices and games are enough to make you weep. Monday is school volleyball practice. Tuesday is volleyball practice, soccer practice, and football practice. Wednesday is piano and two hours of volleyball conditioning. Thursday is school volleyball practice, football practice, and a soccer game. Friday is British soccer camp practice. Saturday is football chalk talk and a possible soccer game. Sunday is multiple football games and multiple volleyball matches. Then Monday we start it all over again.

Plus, I am generally on call for any school event that requires a driver. Because if you don’t have a regular 9-to-5 job, you don’t have anything better to do than drive the school kids to their game or the field trip, right? You don’t mind staying up ‘til 11 or 12 pm doing the work tonight that you would have done during the day, right? You don’t mind footing the bill for the gas either, right? Sure I can drive . . . yes I am a sucker. (Actually I’m not bitter. I really do enjoy going to these events now that Joe is no longer in the lower grades and I don’t always have to drive his class. Thank you Ms. Marquardt.)

As we travel down the happy road known as life and the children become more and more familiar with the back of my head, numerous items accumulate in our vehicle. Somehow our roomy seven-passenger Traverse seems cramped with just the three of us on these weeknights. Life gathers a lot of junk. The vehicle collects wrappers, sports equipment, clothing, and all sorts of other clutter that give off all sorts of disturbing odors.

If I went out to my Traverse right now, I bet I could write a novel about all the junk in that vehicle. But instead of a novel, here are the highlights of the random items found in the Traverse on any given day:

--half empty Gatorade bottles

--hundreds of ponytail holders (unless we need one for practice, then they all go into hiding)

--one soccer cleat

--mittens and gloves from last year (none of which match)

--wadded McDonalds napkins (sometimes handy if you can make out if they are unused)

--ketchup packets

--at least three jackets or sweatshirts

--a volleyball kneepad

--one to five folding bagged chairs (unless I leave the house for a game without checking, then they have all been removed)

--a ratty blanket

--numerous empty CD cases

--at least one volleyball or soccer ball that rolls back and forth in the back seat every time we turn the corner

--a broken phone charger (still plugged into the lighter socket)

--expired coupons

--old church bulletins

--hundreds of unsharpened pencils and old pens

--bottles of hand sanitizer

--a hospital puke bag (thank you Melissa, this is vital)

--dozens of half-eaten granola bars

--a half-torn drawing pad

--dead French fries

--knitting needles

--a partly broken red umbrella

--unmatched dirty socks (oh, Joe)

This happy family of discarded and lost items contentedly travels to the far reaches of Lincoln for all the sports practices, piano lessons, school events, movie dates, restaurant dashes, or any other thing I try to fit into my schedule during the waking hours, and even a few sleeping hours.

I’ve tried to clean it out, but these items keep finding their way back into the Traverse. At one time or another, almost all of these items have come in handy in a pinch. Of course, when you need one of these items desperately, someone will have thoughtfully taken it into the house the last time they got out of the car.

When I say I live in my vehicle, I mean live. Some days as I leave the house, I pack a little travel bag to keep me going. I throw in my knitting, my low-cal granola bars, a couple cans of pop, and a few random magazines. It’s not as if I can do a quick drop-off and go back to the house on my own. Why? Take, for example, soccer practice. Because Mandy continues to play with the same soccer team she’s played with since she was about 5, we have to travel to Airpark for practice. That takes me 25-35 minutes of travel time, one way, depending on the construction and train traffic. Practice is one and a half hours, so there is no point in driving home. I stay, read, knit, walk, text, call, watch, text some more, and then maybe take a nap. Then we drive to volleyball practice. I try to walk her in and leave, but funny thing, I seem to get sucked into conversation with the other volleyball moms, and by the time I look at the clock, there’s 15 minutes left of practice. I know, right? Me, talk? Also I am aware I’m not technically in my car for volleyball, but I’m not home either. You caught me on a technicality. My bad.

I know I am not alone. I see you out there, you other mothers with children in umpteen activities. You have that same haggard look. Sometimes I see you at the stop light, trying to hand out the drive-thru food on the way to the next practice. Sometimes I see you sitting in the parking lot, trying to catch a quick nap before the next trip. We are easily recognizable, if not by the type of vehicle we drive, but by those silly sports stickers on the backs of our windows. I’m Magic Mandy. I would also be Assurity Joe, but my husband, who only COACHES for Assurity, forgot to order a sticker for his son. But once again I’m not bitter…

For my birthday, which was in the middle of September, I asked my children to wash the Traverse and vacuum it for my present. Following a rainy midget football Sunday, the vehicle had become coated with chalky mud from the parking lot and the floor mats were filled with gravel and dried mud. It’s almost October and the mud and gravel are still in residence. I keep waiting. I keep hoping. But you know how this is going to end.

I’ve about a good hour until I have to saddle up and make the haul over to the school and start the week all over again. I’ll sit there and wait at practice with my knitting and my dirty floor mats, fuming that nobody loves me, at least not enough to pull out the shop vac. If only someone would vacuum. Maybe I’d lose a few of these French fries and ponytail holders along with mud. Oh well. Good thing I’ve never been bitter.