At my dance studio, the pay phone was located on a wall to the right of the door, tucked behind a staircase that led up to the gymnasium where the early 90s versions of Chatham College students would work out and shoot hoops in unflattering gray sweat pants. My class though, was straight ahead through the double doors and down three steps.
Within my hour long tap class, I would float away to a world where I was triple ball changing with Shirley Temple and Gene Kelly. It was the highlight of any given week. Surrounded by mirrors reflecting my best self, pumped with the rhythms of Paula Abdul, removed from the judgement of my schoolmates, I passionately danced in leotards that proudly exposed my 6X tummy.
An hour later, as the 6:00 PM adult jazz students started arriving and putting their shoes on, I would return to reality, and the pending worry that accompanied it. Would I have a case to take the pay phone off the receiver tonight? Please say no.
After changing, my classmates and I waited outside, looking for our rides to come around the bend. Divya went first. Then Meghan, Nuka, Ozzie, and Devon. Sarah and Jackie were next. It was down to me and Mandy. It was always okay with one other person sharing my burden. Five minutes went by. Six. 'Ah, there she is,' Mandy sighed. 'See you next week.' One left. Me left. Seven minutes, eight. No tears. No crying. Nine minutes. Ten. Eleven. I dug around in my dance bag, no change. The tears started coming.
I walked back inside and picked up the phone.
1-800-C.O.L.L.E.C.T. Ding!
Please enter the number you would like to call.
412-Home.
Please say your name.
A quivery Loooaaaaa.
Please hold while we connect your call.
My mom would answer as if totally surprised to hear from me. I could hear Evening Magazine and my brother and sister in the background. She said Dad was on his way.
Okay. Pull yourself together. Don't let the collegiates see you with red eyes. Inevitably, a minute later my Dad would be there. Phew. Let's get out of here and eat some Linguine with clam sauce.
***
Comparatively, picking up my Mom last weekend in our ever connected world was a lot less dire. On Friday night, we heard that she was stuck in New Orleans. On Saturday morning she was stranded at Midway, in need of getting to her golden destination. I knew that feeling well, so we packed up the car, kids and all, and came to her rescue.
Where are we going (clap, clap, clap)
Save Nana!
We didn't have definitive weekend plans, so it was no sweat off our backs; rather a chance to dress the kids in their Irish ware ...
My parents were very appreciative (Peter even got to go to the game as a thank you.) I figured how many times had my parents driven out of their way to pick me up, see me play or perform, or show me something new? I was happy to be the in case of emergency number, and when we were running fifteen minutes late, relieved that I could text my mom and say we were on our way. She showed no signs of teary eyes when we pulled up at entrance 2.
Looking back on it, I don't know why I used to get so nervous about my parents being a couple minutes late to pick me up. It's ridiculous, but I think with each passing minute, I feared that I would never seem them again. Yes, dramatic, but a possibility in my young mind.
This week, as I was flying higher and higher above the Midwestern landscape and south into Arkansas, the same fears I had as a kid started creeping up. I got nervous that something would happen, that I wouldn't make it home in one piece and that I wouldn't be there to pick up my kids when they were waiting for me.
I reasoned my way out of the paranoia and into my book, and lucky for me there was cell phone reception on the other end of my flight. With it, pictures and texts relaying news about Bobby crawling up stairs and cruising, Mary wearing undies all day, and Daddy surviving the night without me. Better than that, there was Facetime in the morning and more photos throughout the day. Finally, there was ultimate reassurance when I texted, 'landed' late Wednesday night.
I think that's the hardest part about being a working mom, and in particular traveling for work; the gap that exists each day between you and your family. It's challenging and a little scary at times and there's always that possibility that you are going to be late. But knowing you have an amazing partner and extended family at home, making the wait fun (as well as a cell phone with a charger) makes all the difference.
Lo.
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