Eleven minutes

Our high school is notorious for its traffic situation around the 8 a.m. hour. There is a single lane going in to the school, circling the perimeter of the parking lot, going past the school office, the theater, the aquatic center, the athletic field and eventually making its way back to the main city road. Just anticipating the traffic and then sitting in it raises blood pressures as parents drop off their teens (some still bleary-eyed) and get on their way to work! According to the smart map apps on our phones, a drive in “normal traffic” from the outermost boundaries of the school’s service area should take less than 11 minutes.

We escaped dealing with the 8 a.m. traffic for three years, since the older one always had a 7 a.m. “Zero Period” – Marching Band in fall and Jazz Band in second semester. Drop-off was a piece of cake for Dad, the icing on the cake being the unmistakable, invigorating beat of the Marching Band drumline. Nothing like a group of spirited high-schoolers drumming and marching powerfully to give you a boost in the morning. But, with the younger one entering high school without any Zero Period activity, and first period at the dreaded 8 a.m. hour, there was no reprieve this year!

As I took on drop-off duty, my patience wore thin every morning initially as the 11 minutes started to extend. When you have been raised with an impeccable, dare I say British, allegiance to the clock (regardless of the thousands around who happily follow the relaxed – are we 35 minutes late to the party – who cares, its Indian Standard Time!) and an inborn sense of urgency, sitting behind the wheel with the engine idling feels completely unproductive. Which is the exact opposite of my cool, relaxed, American teenager. “Mom, are we ever late to school? Just chill!”

And chill I did. Indeed, we were never late to school nor for any meetings at work. We fiddled with the car radio when the national news got too awkward. We tested my hybrid car’s pickup speed at Normal and Sport mode much to my teenager’s delight.  We talked about what was going on in Journalism class and what sport to play after soccer season ended. We chuckled as we read out aloud the stickers on the cars in front and I gave him a background on the ubiquitous “Horn, OK, Please” he had seen on trucks in India.

My precious cargo perched on the booster in the back seat of the car for many years was now sitting by my side every day. I was enjoying my eleven minutes of “sonshine” each morning and did not mind spending an extra few minutes in traffic after all.

-AK Irvinekar

P.S. The credit for the word ‘sonshine’ goes to my sister!

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