Natalie Whatley

I say this all the time and people chuckle, but it’s true: I don’t have time to be sick.

I constantly scan my surroundings looking for sickly behaviors and perform sharp 180-degree turns away from those who display any. I’m almost to the point of donning surgical masks in public as technology has allowed me to see cough and sneeze particulates in slow motion. 

Yet another case of ignorance was bliss. I wish I could “unknow” how far and fast that stuff can travel. 

Imagine the tizzy I experienced this past week as it became apparent Streptococcus bacteria was an unwanted visitor causing strep throat and misery at the Whatley Estate.

Wearing a Tyvek suit and flanked by Clorox and Lysol, I’ve been waging a ferocious battle against the known but invisible intruder. Only time will tell whether or not I was victorious.

Please note that for your safety and even though my hands are raw from washing them roughly 2.7 billion times in the past week, I am wearing rubber gloves to type this. Can’t be too careful.

This ne’er-do-well hitched a ride into our home via youngest cherub, Erin.  As an aside this is the same young lady who rolls her pretty little brown eyes when I lovingly persuade her to wash her hands as soon as she comes in from anywhere and before eating. 

If I had a snippier disposition, an “I told you so” would be in order.  I figure a nasty sore throat will be a far better teacher.

It’s my understanding this sneaky little piece of contagion is pretty much everywhere.  I can also report directly from Texas Children’s Pediatrics that they are seeing case after case of strep throat in this area.

But anyway, while Erin was on the mend and penicillin was putting up the good fight, mean old Streptococcus found its next host: Jeremy.

After the requisite teasing about kissing his sister we got on to the business of fighting in his arena. 

His case was more time-sensitive as he was to escort the lovely Miss Melanie Butler to Ross S. Sterling’s Star Ball this weekend.

I never saw a young man more excited to get all fancied up formal-like, and he was none too happy over having fallen ill. With his southern drawl he made it quite clear, “Gotta get this taken care of now. I cannot be sick this weekend!”

 I’m curious to see if his enthusiasm wanes after being in a tuxedo and what I imagine will be uncomfy shoes for hours.  Probably not. He’s a trooper for his Star.

Happily, he cleared the contagious phase and will be in tip-top form for the big event.

As for me, I think I may be in the clear as I have surpassed the time period whereby I should have succumbed. And that’s a good thing because I’m exhausted from being a short-order cook, nurse, quarantine-enforcement officer, medical chauffeur, and decontamination specialist.

But wait. There is an opportunity here for a few lazy days in bed minus the yucky symptoms. My acting skills may just be up to pulling off Streptococcus Poppycockus.

Picture Scarlet O’Hara (big, fluffy southern-belle dress and all) dramatically throwing her head back and resting the back of her hand on her forehead, “I do declare I’m feeling a tad feverish.”

I don’t want to see any eye rolling.

Wash your hands, folks!   

© 2012 Natalie Whatley

What follows will not be a tasty treatise on the finer points of pie making just in time for your holiday baking, but rather an illustration of how I can’t cut it when it comes to proper slicing.

It’s  not often a mom gets the chance to play life-like cops and robbers with her son, especially when said son is almost grown and is trying to carve out some pieces of life that don’t include his mommy. Luckily I fall very loosely into the football-girls-car trifecta in that I watch him play, am female, and own a car used a great deal to motor him around until his big, happy, driver’s license day arrives. Otherwise, he might have forgotten I exist.

So when I saw an opportunity for a little quality time where I knew Jeremy would sit, stand, and slice pie alongside me with rapt attention and of his own free will, I grabbed a gun and a flashlight and went after it.

Since I have gone through the rigors of the Baytown Police Department’s Citizens Police Academy’s basic and advanced curriculum, graduated, and joined the alumni association, I have opportunities from time-to-time to observe and participate in some real police training.

Of course these classes are watered down a bit for the ease and comfort of the uninitiated, but still a great peek into the work of a police officer.

Enter my middle child, Jeremy.

 For as long as I can remember, Jeremy has planned a career of military and eventually law enforcement.  For some crazy reason that doesn’t scare me. I’m just plain proud of who he is and what he wants to be.

That gushiness aside, when I learned a new group of citizen’s police academy students were scheduled for comedic Officer Shawn Latta’s and Corporal Monica Summersill’s building clearing class, I knew Jeremy and I needed to attend, observe, and yes, clear a building together.

After our training, we were “called out” on a night-time burglary in progress. Neighbors reported a bad guy in the house and it was our job to go in and remove him—by force if necessary.

Armed with a flashlight, simunition gun (shoots fake bullets) and our wits we entered the unlit interior of a dark, layout-unknown-to-us residence.  

 I let Jeremy take the lead. He has a booming voice, is large enough for me to hide behind, and plus I wanted to get the full view of him under the effects of what’s called an adrenaline dump—see if he was as commanding under a little stress as he claimed he would be.

Together, we “sliced the pie” (room clearing method whereby a space is visually cut into pieces) and made entry into three rooms without incident.

Looking into the fourth room, however, we found our burglar. At that point it was quite obvious I was only along for the ride.

And when I heard, “Police! Put your hands up!” I didn’t even recognize my own child’s voice.  I was scared for the burglar (Officer Stewart Beasley) and was happy when he complied.  Then Jeremy communicated as trained to his fellow officer, me, and in my rattled state I didn’t quite follow protocol. Go figure. Let’s just say I was a little too eager to ‘cuff the burglar. I was duly chastised on the way home, but it was still loads of fun.

And be thankful that someday Jeremy will be soldiering and policing in far better form than me. When he slices a pie, he does it cleanly and serves up a near perfect piece. Me, I just a make a mess.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

It was the last Bingo number called for the night. “B-1” made yours truly the proud new owner of the prize no one else claimed in the two hours preceding:  a countertop cotton-candy maker. Am I lucky, or what?

I’m sure luck had nothing to do with it. It takes special skill and laser-like focus to win at Bingo.

The winning streak was running long for the Whatley Clan at the BERA (Bayer Employees Recreation Association) Annual Bingo Bash beautifully put on twice each year by Andy and Clarissa Legg, who by the way are new parents to one of the cutest babies I think I’ve ever seen. I swear by Hasbro toy makers he is the real, live Cabbage Patch Doll.

Fortune —or misfortune depending on where one is situated in the parent/child equation—had already smiled upon us earlier in the evening. Jeremy won an electric keyboard and Erin a karaoke machine.

These items complement the electric and acoustic guitars as well as a viola already enjoyed in my home. Told you I was lucky.

All that’s needed to topple my mental state into insanity and make permanent the nervous tick I have acquired is a set of drums.  No, I will not accept donations from any of you who’ve already lived through this special brand of crazy-making.

But getting back to cotton candy:  My not-so-little cherubs couldn’t wait to try it out. And I bet you already know they weren’t nearly as enthusiastic about cleaning the thing afterwards. However, as the webbed confection blew through the kitchen air, they did run in circles catching the “mess” with their tongues. Good times. (The cotton is supposed to stay in the collection bowl atop the maker IF/WHEN the operator is skilled enough to catch it all on the provided cone. I need to practice.)

Nostalgia Electric’s Hard and Sugar-Free Candy Cotton Candy Maker transforms hard candies straight into honest-to-goodness carnival deliciousness.

I banned cotton candy from my personal diet a long time ago as I was concerned over ingesting tons of pure sugar, but I was amazed to learn how much sugary cotton was produced with a mere two pieces of hard candy.

Two peppermints, which I’d never blink an eye over consuming, are two peppermints regardless of their form. And two of the red and white candies provided a perfect, pink serving. I love it when I learn something new like this. Life is sometimes so sweet.

We played with our new toy until queasiness set in, and I must admit to my surprise the machine was incredibly easy to clean.

Afterwards, you know I had to find out how and who in the world discovered a pillow-like material that literally melts in one’s mouth.

Its roots go way back to the banquet tables of European aristocracy and a time when sugar was so rare it was kept under lock and key. Spun sugar was the precursor to the cotton we know and love today. And it’s all about caramelization and what happens to sugar when it melts. It gets a little scientific.

That’s not entirely interesting, but what did make me take note in confectionary history was that the first patent on a cotton candy machine was obtained in 1899 by candy maker, John Wharton, and dentist, William Morrison. You think those two were in cahoots? Pure-sugar genius there.

Anyway, back then what was produced became known as “fairy floss” and cotton candy as we know it didn’t really become popular until the 1920s. It has remained a fun staple ever since.

All of that aside, I had an unexpected great time with two of my most favorite human beings on top of a fun night of Bingo with family and friends.

It’s a beautiful thing to be living in such high cotton. And when it gets too noisy, I’ll stuff some in my ears.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

It has been said that we all must “pay for our raising”.

 I believe that’s true and my mother, the stunning Linda Rowe, will no doubt rejoice (or at least giggle) over the fact that I’m making payments.

Before I get started on describing the nature of the currency with which I’m repaying childhood debt, I must confess that I was the most difficult child and teen to get out of bed.

 The fact that I showed up for school and later work on time was a testament to the grit and determination of my maternal figure.

Also know that this whole bit is more than slightly tongue-in-cheek.  I do realize that if what I intend to complain about is the worst I have to deal with: I’ve got it made. But it’s still annoying and teenaged son and I are having the devil of a time finding an amicable resolution.

Not one person residing at the Whatley residence could be labeled a “morning person”.  However, we do manage to tell each other to “have a good day” after grunting and growling and before heading our separate ways. “I love you” also manages to sneak its way past snarls.

It gets so ugly because three out of five of us don’t hear alarm clocks. That includes me. Shameful, I know. And I’d appreciate if we could just keep that here between us.

Making things worse, every member of the family keeps different hours—not by choice but by school and/or work mandate. The going and coming is nothing short of chaos.  Mornings are the worst.

I knew the new school year with one cherub transitioning from a junior-high school start time of 8:40 to high school’s 7:15 was going to be a challenge. Minor miracles take place each day he catches his 6:27 a.m. big, yellow, chauffeured-limousine ride.

I’m certain he arrives at the bus stop with a scowl that matches the one I wear for the remainder of my morning after we’ve tussled over his not getting up on time and the ensuing rush accompanied by my harping.

And when he misses his chauffeured-limo ride, it’s a most unpleasant trip by private car to the Ross S. Sterling campus. Two-year-olds have nothing on me when it comes to the tantrums bus missing induces in me. It’s pathetic, really. But I do put on my big-girl britches before getting behind the wheel.

It’s all very odd because this particular young man, who I’ll refrain from embarrassing by name, is at any other time polite, agreeable and just generally an easy-going pleasure. Love him dearly.

But, between the hours of five and six-thirty a.m. he is the spawn of Satan. And, yes, as his mother I fully understand what that makes me. I’m living up to the part beautifully.

So Jeremy . . . oops, I wasn’t going to mention his name . . . and I are going to keep at this morning thing and together we’re going to conquer his losing that hour and a half.

In the meantime: If you hear my hollering all across town in the wee hours just before day break I’m not just making a fuss, I’m raising Cain out of bed!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

When the human body becomes overheated, or maybe it’s half-baked, things go haywire.

Bad timing like no other, my home’s air conditioner chose this past week with its 100-degree temps to have issues. In a heat-induced hallucination I began dreaming of an ice cold “Winter Wonderland” devoid of heat and bickering teens.  In that snow white pleasant state of delirium I heard bells. School bells.

Then I found myself humming Felix Bernard’s famous winter melody and taking liberties with the lyrics Richard Smith added to it. I’m certain they won’t mind the ramblings of a deranged woman.

 Open your freezer door, stand in the crisp coolness bellowing out, and sing along in celebration for what is truly the most wonderful time of year:

                School bells ring, are you listening

                In the lane, Mom’s smile’s a glistening

                A beautiful sight,

                We’re happy all right.

                Kids are back to school throughout the land.

Gone away, is the summer,

Here to stay, homework’s a bummer

It brings smarts along

To even the headstrong,

Kids are back to school throughout the land.

In the classroom they can’t visit sandman,

And someone will be acting the class clown 

He’ll say: Are you buried?

They’ll say: YES, man,

‘Cause who can do a job

When they’re this down?

Later on, they’ll aspire,

As they scheme with some ire

To launch a tirade,

Over assignments displayed,

Kids are back to school throughout the land.

At the schoolhouse they will now spend their days,

And complain it’s really quite a bore

I don’t care the complaints leave me unfazed;

I did my time, now you must do your chore.

When school starts, ain’t it thrilling?

‘Cause young minds get a filling

They’ll whine and they’ll cry,

For summer’s gone by,

Kids are back to school; life is grand!

Ah! Back to school is so refreshingly cool.  The thermometer can explode tomorrow for all I care because life will be good, and more importantly: quiet. 

Summers with my children are special, but mostly because they’re fleeting. No way could we all handle so much together time year-round.

The last couple of weeks are always an extreme exercise in toleration. And to have the indoor climate control on the fritz when folks are already hot under the collar: not pretty.

But we made it through and fully recovered with the help of a skilled repairman and several hundred dollars.

We’re cool, calm and collected—ready to take on the new school year and jam-packed calendar.  And I can’t stop myself from singing: When school starts, ain’t it thrilling . . . 

While I was growing up my parents always lamented over some difficult task “taking an Act of Congress”.  As a grown-up, tax-paying voter watching the news and cringing, I get it.  Why must things that seem so commonsensical to us ordinary folks be so mired in a wormy-muck maze?

I experienced such duress trying to—of all the silly things to get miffed over—shut off a cell-phone line.  Previous attempts had proven fruitless even though the 18-year-old I-want-my-own-phone-plan-apart-from-mommy-and-daddy user of said line was readily handing over the early termination fee.   

With elevated and then subsequently-lowered blood pressure, I left my provider’s establishment telling yet a different child accompanying me to handle his own cell-phone issue, “Well, that took an Act of Congress!” 

And I should also make clear that it wasn’t a local in-store issue putting me through my paces, but rather a rude man sitting in some unknown super-secret location at the end of a “customer service” number. I tired of dealing with him and showed up where I could talk to another human face-to-face.

As if living with three teenagers isn’t trying enough, today’s technology adds a heaping, wriggling can of worms. And I’m not even talking about the venomous-snake mess that is troubling content potentially at a young person’s fingertips. No, I’m referring to just the basics: music, pictures, games, and their storage and retrieval.

When it comes to technology, there is a GIANT chasm between my children and me. It’s nothing personal, and we try not to let it affect otherwise loving relationships, but more often than I’d like to admit, there are things I simply can’t help with. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t know how.

So when a speaker went out on my middle child’s phone, making it impossible to hear the person calling, I knew exactly what to do: get another phone. But wait. Middle child had spent hundreds (of his own hard-earned money) on music and games. Those purchases and copies to be downloaded to a new phone were available . . . somewhere out in cyberspace.  Retrieving them proved to be a long, winding road.

 As you all know I’m profoundly techno-challenged and to the degree that I can, I’ll keep it that way. I’ve only mastered what was necessary for survival.  And believe me when I say I’m dragged kicking and screaming when survival ups the technological ante.

But back to being at my service provider’s brick-and-mortar: I was there because I needed help. (You’re right: Verizon Wireless cannot provide the help I really need. I’m almost ready to check myself into the nearest psych ward.) More importantly, my child needed help.

Laptop computer in hand, Momma Bear charged in to show the techies who had so carefully—just days before—given precise instructions on how to accomplish the retrieval mission that I apparently wasn’t doing it right. Error messages don’t lie.

Like a true saint, Verizon’s Senior Sales Rep Mr. Ronnie Chaidez patiently worked through the very same walls I was running into. (It was somewhat comforting to learn I was indeed following directions, but hitting an account snag that I didn’t have the proper national security clearances to override.) Only he didn’t stop at each one to bang his head, but rather knocked them down and made my and Jeremy’s world all better.

And even though I’m not savvy enough to grace Verizon’s 4G network from my own personal phone, I hope Mr. Ronnie Chaidez can here me now . . . THANK YOU!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

I have admitted before that today’s technology is often the bane of my sometimes pitiful existence.

This past week, in a moment of almost sheer exasperation while sitting in a snarl on the nightmare that is Interstate 45 under construction (isn’t it always?) I nearly smashed a human-sounding Garmin Street Pilot —a navigational GPS device for those even more technologically challenged than me. I’m not typically that violent, but I was having a “moment” as another crooked issue was coming to a head.

The Big Guy saw fit to bless me three times with healthy babies. And with the exception of the usual childhood maladies my kiddos have remained that way. However, we had a bit of a scare and I was in no mood to deal with a testy woman. You decide who was being testy . . . me, or her.

A routine physical for a young man who grew a foot in height in just shy of 18 months turned up a spine that looked like it was making a wrong turn. Possible scoliosis.

Of course that scared the heck out of me, but worse than that was the worry over a young man whose dream it has been to be in the U.S. military since 9/11/01.

Days shy of his fifth birthday and having seen news coverage of the devastation at the Twin Towers he patrolled our front yard with a plastic gun.

Go ahead and shoot me. I allowed my boys to play with toy guns —with caps even— and now go the range and fire the real thing alongside them.

“I’ll protect you, Mom,” he said in his Texas twang with dogged determination in the brown eyes set into a little, cherubic face.

Hands down, one of the most touching moments of my life.  And being a soldier and protecting this entire country is all he’s talked about career-wise since. He’s almost 15 now.

Even the slightest possibility that he would not be able to recognize that dream had me reeling. It’s that important to him.  And I know he was worried, too, even though it’s not in his nature to say so.

Anyway, the two of us embarked on a bit of a field trip to have the potential problem area thoroughly photographed at a Texas Children’s outpost.

Even though I pretty much knew the way to our destination I handed navigational control over to Ms. Garmin. I just didn’t have the mental capacity over my worry to bother and assumed she’d do her job and do it well.

A third of the way there she took me off in a questionable direction, but I figured with all those maps in her head she knew exactly where she was going – or possibly even a shortcut. I followed her directions dutifully.

For some unknown reason and just minutes away from where we were supposed to be going, she kept “recalculating” and I kid you not sent me on three left turns in a row. Jeremy and I got a chuckle over having been sent in a circle (actually a square) around our intended location and he even suggested I turn her off.

Problem was: all that turning had me turned around and I was lost as a goose or at least a directionally-challenged female. Ms. Garmin knew where we were, if not where we were going.

All said, between the three of us, we made it.

His spine had its picture taken and we heard back that afternoon that while he did have a slight curve it was not going to impede him in any way and was not scoliosis.

In the end I was glad I didn’t throw Ms. Garmin into oncoming traffic because we wouldn’t have made it there without her. Three lefts eventually made everything turn out right. 

 ©2011 Natalie Whatley

Last night was all about the Pomp and Circumstance March. I took in all the sounds and enjoyed the moment mainly through my auditory buds because something went haywire with my eyes. They kept filling with a salty liquid and blurring the experience—not unlike the passage of the past 18 years.

My oldest cherub stood in a sea of Ross S. Sterling Ranger royal blue caps, gowns and tassels and was awarded his high school diploma. I’m sure it was a beautiful sight, and special thanks to my ears for not failing me at such a critical moment.

 Come to think of it, as of late my hearing has stepped up to the plate just when I needed it most. It’s almost as intuitive as Gladys “Granny” Adcox of Highlands, who mails this silly columnist beautiful handkerchiefs that magically arrive on days when I’ve been a tad weepy. My hanky collection has become extensive and that’s a good thing. For those who don’t know, I’m the biggest crybaby on the planet.

Anyway, on recent, late nights as I yearned for sleep while the hamster in my head ran frantically on its wheel —unsure whether it’s coming or going—I heard a beautiful song that I had forgotten and honestly taken for granted.

Initially bothered by the loud, unceasing racket, I discovered the rhythmic sound was a time machine. All I had to do was close my eyes and listen.

My six-year-old bathing-suit clad body is sprawled out on the lush front lawn of my Seabrook, Texas home. Warm, solar rays surely meant just for me beam down (the beginnings of my love affair with Mr. Sun), I stare at the clouds above as they gently shift high in the blue sky above. The water sprinkler I wore myself out running through is still oscillating and providing a sporadic light shower. I spot a rainbow in the shower’s mist and become aware my breath is taken away . . .  until the scent of sweet honeysuckle reminds me I am still breathing.  Is it any wonder I don’t have a care in the world? And furthermore, is it any wonder I want to visit frequently?

The warm temperatures have welcomed back our noisy friend: the love-seeking male cicada. The boys are the noisemakers; the girls quietly flick their wings in admiration.

For my purposes, it really doesn’t matter who or what is performing the “singing”. All I know is that it relaxes me. And I need all of that I can gather as I wrangle a young adult male of the human species onto the path of independence.  He makes his noise, and I wish I could sit idly by and not allow it to cause more than stir of my wings. But I can’t.

And so a group of insects providing a momentary escape from the very natural order of an age-old process is music to my ears, even when the faucet in my wide-open eyes won’t cooperate.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

It’s alarming what must be done to prepare little cherubs for the rigors of the real world, and at this time I’m only too happy to do it! I have mentioned before that I have sleep issues. Sometimes when my body desperately needs some shut-eye, I just can’t perform.  Now, sleep issues of a different variety have taken me over, and today I’m sounding the alarm.

The moment when I will forever resign from the personal wake-up-call business has officially arrived. Time has run out for those who utilized my services. Per the legal requirement of my contract, this column will serve as notice by publication.

It’s spring fever season, and despite the fact that I reside with three teenagers I admit that by far I have the worst case. But since I aimed to be a responsible adult figure, I set my ailment aside and fulfilled my parental obligations. No more. Young people who have math homework I no longer understand can surely figure out an alarm clock.

Each morning for many years I’ve had myself and three others to pry from the bed —not an easy task considering my three charges are night owls. (I was one, too, way back in the day before motherhood. My own dear parents even likened me in the early morning to a stirred rattlesnake.  Now I’m ready to hit the hay no later than nine and then it’s a toss up on whether I’ll fall asleep or not. Either way, I’ve never been one to bound out of bed. I’m only highly motivated now because waking and sending cherubs off to school means I get the house to myself all day. Yes, that makes me rattle my tail and I assure you anger has no place in it!)

Years of experience tells me that the behavior pushing me to my limits hits its peak as we approach the final lap of the school year. And even though I know that this too shall pass, making ample room for me to complain about something else, I’m still handing over the torch and hanging up my angel wings.

It all starts the night before with wishes of good nights, sweet dreams, and darling not-so-little cherubs requesting morning wake-up visits at very specific times. To make my job even more difficult, the times change almost daily. It’s hard for my pea-brain to keep straight. I may have—a time or two—awakened the wrong cherub at the wrong time.

One, who shall remain nameless, has his entire day ruined if his personal clock reads one minute too early or too late upon my arrival. And he’s quite vocal about it. Takes all of a nanosecond (that’s one billionth of a second) for my angelic demeanor to turn devilish. From there I begin a triangular path between three bedrooms . . . getting meaner and more impatient with each lap.

As I’m sure is quite apparent, I didn’t read the fine print before I signed on for my twenty-plus year stint, but working conditions have just become too risky for the safety of all parties involved. So, I hereby officially declare in writing that I will no longer sound the wake-up alarm. Nor will I pen notes of excuse for any party who may arrive at school late. How’s that for alarming?

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

I’m going to date myself this week. And it’s too bad because the intended audience is probably way too young to fully appreciate where I’m coming from.

Remember the Chiffon margarine commercials from the 1970s? The ones where a sweet, matronly-looking woman wearing a flowing white gown and a crown of daisies ominously declared, “It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature!” after she was duped by real-butter-tasting margarine. If that wasn’t scary enough, she then threw her arms in the air and produced a flash of lightning and a thunderous clatter.

And here I am some thirty-plus years later. She is me. I am her . . . angelic aura, white gown, floral crown, sweet as can be. That is, until I’m provoked. Let me state for the record that I consider myself a bit superior to the role actress Dena Dietrich portrayed. It takes far more than a butter substitute to awaken my wrath.

It’s that time of year —spring—when kids young and old get a bit mischievous and tired moms get testy. Strike that. I don’t need to be tired to be testy. Just play some little not-so-funny prank and watch the show! I’m going to start selling tickets.

One particularly harried day, I had after-school appointments one right after the other with plenty of time to arrive relaxed at both IF there were no glitches. (I know, betting on a big IF, but things had run smoothly for months on end.) Striving for the utmost in efficiency, I drove to the kids’ bus stop to retrieve them immediately upon disembarkment.  For the first time in ages, they were no-shows at the designated time.

Text message to Jeremy: “You on your way?”

Jeremy’s reply: “We were but the bus has a flat. We’re on the side of the road waiting.”

Of all days! Murphy’s Law, I suppose.

Text to Jeremy: “Can I come get you?”

Jeremy’s reply: “No. Driver isn’t letting anyone off the bus. We’re going to be a while.”

I won’t tell you what all was flashing through my mind, but rest assured it wasn’t spring’s butterflies and rainbows.  While uttering not-so-sweet nothings to fate I dialed appointment number one. Ok, it was only a hair appointment, BUT for a twelve year-old girl with an impossible schedule. We waited six weeks for just the right day. And if you’ve never dealt with a young lady and her hair . . . count your blessings.

Just for grins, and as I apologized for a last-minute cancellation to the very busy Hair Queen, Sharon Saenz, I thought I’d drive over and see where the bus was stopped. But wait. Said bus entered the neighborhood as I exited. How could that be? And, WOW, those GCCISD mechanics are FAST!

With Sharon still on the line I began mumbling incoherently, but managed to say I’d call her right back.

Annoyed phone call to Jeremy: “Is that your bus that just turned in?”

Jeremy’s reply:  “Yes”

My new not-a-mommy-mobile whipped around all on its own. Red (that’s my car’s name), among her many other talents, can read my mind. She took me quickly, yet safely and driving well under posted speed limits, to my darling cherubs at the bus stop.

I called Mrs. Sharon Saenz back and through loud claps of thunder and rips of lightning she was able to make out that we were coming after all. And Jeremy learned that on some days it’s not wise to mess with his mother’s sweet nature.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley