海角大神

Not a peep. Shoot.

The bright digits of the stove clock read 3:07 p.m. It鈥檚 almost time to pick up my daughter from school, and my son is napping. Either he will wake up, come out of the room, and shout 鈥淪urprise!鈥� or 鈥� ranking just below a painful dental cleaning 鈥� I will have to wake him.

I open his door to let sounds in. Eyes shut, lips parted, my 3-year-old lies on his side, clutching his small, light blue blankie. Volleying his needs and her needs 鈥� the maximum nap and the on-time pickup 鈥� I鈥檓 aiming for an even score. I locate my sweater, put on lipstick, and drop my keys into my coat pocket, glancing again toward the stove: 3:09 p.m. School lets out at 3:20. We must be out the door by 3:10. If we leave any later, we race.

鈥淪urprise!鈥� My son charges toward me, and as we hug I tell him we鈥檙e going to pick up his sister. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 want to go outside,鈥� he says. As if I鈥檓 untangling live wires, I handle his mood delicately since I need him to cooperate, to put on a jacket and get in the stroller. 鈥淚 want to play,鈥� he says, running away.

Opening the pantry, I call after him, 鈥淚鈥檒l give you two M&M鈥檚, a green and an orange.鈥� Not to be confused with 鈥� ahem 鈥� bribery, I consider this treat an apology for dragging him outdoors into the cool air on short notice.

My son reappears, compliant. We forgo his shoes; it takes four seconds to put those on. Once he鈥檚 seated 鈥� pinching the M&M鈥檚 between the fingers of both hands, tapping them together 鈥� I step out to press the button for the elevator. I slip on my coat, wheel out the stroller, and lock the door. Not a spare move. Not a wasted second. With this kind of efficiency, I could direct air traffic at LaGuardia.

In the elevator, after fastening my son鈥檚 seatbelt, I check my watch: 3:14. I get on my mark. The bell dings as we reach the first floor. I get set. The doors slide open. I go!

Pushing the stroller, I run down our wide block to compensate for the late departure. I am an express train. Thrilled by the speed of this ride, my son yells, 鈥淔aster!鈥� I turn right onto the main street, shifting gears to a fast walk amid pedestrians. We pass every business in a blink: Chocolate shop. Barber shop. Photo shop. My son holds his M&M鈥檚, studying the colors, which have run onto the beds of his fingers. 鈥淓at the M&M鈥檚,鈥� I instruct him, talking loudly over the traffic. I couldn鈥檛 manage the drama if one should hit the pavement. 鈥淧ut the M&M鈥檚 in your mouth.鈥澛�

Next block: Nail place. Pizza place. Hummus place. I try to breathe deeply. The muscles in my back are tight as we overtake everyone 鈥� kids on scooters and kids in strollers, people with cigarettes and people with cellphones. With the reflexes of a New York taxi driver, I avert collisions.

Wine store. Framers. Tailor. It鈥檚 cold out, but I鈥檓 perspiring. Without breaking my stride, I remove my jacket and sling it over the top of the stroller, minimizing wind resistance, shaving six-tenths of a second off my race. I鈥檓 an Olympian.

At the corner, I鈥檓 forced to stop for traffic. Despite wearing a watch, I fish out my phone to confirm the time. It鈥檚 3:19. In a worst-case scenario, my daughter will be taken to the 鈥渓ate room.鈥� She has never seen the inside of this room, and only once has she been the last child picked up.

The chain of cars passes. In the final block, I maneuver through noisy packs of middle-schoolers
on their way home. Cleaners. My son says something I can鈥檛 hear.

Optometrist. Moms and children we know from other classes are walking toward us. Chicken joint.

Whoa! I nearly run over someone鈥檚 toes.

I hurry across the last street, making a sharp right up the crowded sidewalk toward the fenced-in yard. Working the stroller around clusters of adults and lines of students, I spot the parents in our class chatting, waiting. Our children have not yet emerged from the building.

Hallelujah. It鈥檚 3:21 p.m.

As I park the stroller, nodding hello to other mothers and allowing my surge of adrenaline to subside, my daughter鈥檚 teacher steps out of the school with two rows of first-graders streaming behind her like tired soldiers, spent from learning, barely holding formation, their backpacks outsizing their backs.

My daughter is squinting, her light curls catching the sun. Feeling composed now, even triumphant, I call her name, bending down to ask my son if he sees her, too.聽

Glancing my way as she walks to the lineup spot, my daughter waves halfheartedly. There鈥檚 no happiness, no excitement in that wave. It鈥檚 merely a split-second acknowledgment: She knows I鈥檓 there, and that, to me, is worth a million dollars.