Opinion: Call for help

Uncle! I’m calling it. I’ve had enough with the bad mojo in the world bringing me down. At a time when I am supposed to be giving thanks for what I have, I seem to be continually distracted by major bummers. Like the day I forgot my phone at home.

A typical Tuesday would see me leaving work as soon as the bell rings and racing across town to pick up my youngest from her Orff ensemble practice to get her to tumbling by four. Even with perfect execution, we’re usually a couple of minutes late.

On my phone-free day however, already running about five minutes behind, I found a cop car completing blocking access to my normal route. People were stopping mid-street and three-point-turning-it to go back the way we’d come, but in my infinite wisdom, I continued onwards towards a super-secret short-cut. A mile later, I realized my shortcut actually started at a different location, one that required access to the blocked street. Argh! I did my own U-turn and ended up back in the same traffic jam I’d just scoffed at.  After another excruciating five minutes of waiting to turn left onto the detour, I found myself first stuck behind a school bus dropping off kids and then at a stop light that was allowing only one car through the intersection each cycle.

Completely helpless, I watched the pick-up time come and go. Subconsciously I reached for my phone to call the school or a neighbor before realizing that said phone was not in my van but rather charging on my kitchen counter. Cue panic! How could I communicate my predicament?  Should I pull over at the gas station and borrow a phone?  Can I get internet on my laptop while driving?  Why is this [sniffle, sob] happening to me?

Just drive, woman, drive! Images of my abandoned daughter crying in the cold drizzle dive-bombed my already-guilty psyche, bringing with them my own tears of frustration. When I finally reached her school, a solid 20 minutes late, I was one hot mess. Her teacher had kindly waited with her inside the building after two separate mommy-friends had offered to take her home. But tumbling obviously was no longer a possibility.

My daughter’s sweet words of “It’s OK, Mom. I have a lot of homework anyway. I’m just glad you’re OK!” made me feel even worse. She’d tried to reach me several times and was starting to think I’d been in an accident. To that end, she’d called my husband Doo (of course away on a business trip) multiple times to ask for help.

All because I left my stupid phone at home. UNCLE! Peace out.

Danielle Wilson

I was born in Louisville, Kentucky, the same year Dick Nixon was elected. Along with my twin sister and three younger sisters, I attended Catholic schools for thirteen years. (Holy Mother, pray for me.) I spent two years as a cadet at the United States Air Force Academy in Colorado until I wised up and transferred to a more normal school, Indiana University, where I received a B.A. in history and a teaching license just for funsies. In 2001, I officially entered the ranks of stay-at-home moms to care for my two-year old son and newborn twins. I have mentally blocked all of 2002 and most of 2003. In 2004, I received a Master’s degree in U.S. History from I.U.P.U.I. and a fourth child from my should-have-had-that-vasectomy-sooner husband. From 2005 until mid-2010, I played Super Mom in the yet-to-be released indie film "Provide Daycare for Your Sister-in-Law's Children Because You Don't Have Enough to Do Already." I returned to teaching this fall at an undisclosed Indianapolis school where thankfully very few parents know who I am. I am considering developing a bad habit.

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