Of Lattes and Land Rovers Confessions of a Prep School Mommy Handler

Everyone in the (Car) Pool! Deep cleansing breath iiiiinnnn . . . Exhaling all the toxins . . . Rrrriiiiiiiinnnnggg! Rrrriiiiiiiinnnnggg! Deep cleansing breath iiiinnnn . . . Exhaling all the toxins . . . Rrrriiiiiiiinnnnggg! Rrrriiiiiiiinnnnggg! Deep cleansing breath iiiinnnn . . . I am wearing a Kenneth Cole suit, standing in the middle of my old, wide-windowed office at work, chanting and performing yoga breathing exercises. I am trying desperately to hear my inner voice, to hear only birds chirping and the sounds of ocean waves, but I can hear only the ringing of my phone. Blaring for the fourth time in less than two minutes. I separate my hands, which are locked in prayer, and peer through them at the caller ID on my phone. Her again? My knees creak as I sprint out the door, in a semipanic. I'm already running late for afternoon carpool, running late for my mommy. It is the first day of school at Tate Academy, one of the nation's most historic and revered private schools, where I serve as "the mommy handler," and working the carpool lane is an essential, occasional, yet ongoing component of my job, kind of like working a streetcorner is to a hooker. In truth, there are real similarities: Each of us doggedly protects our assigned turf and, by end of the day, each of us knows we're gonna end up screwed. In completely different ways, of course. While my official and politically correct title at Tate Academy is Director of Public Relations, I was told that I was specifically hired to be "the mommy handler." Those were the odd but "secret" words that were used in my original interview not so long ago by someone who, of course, has since left the school. I know they were used somewhat facetiously, but there is still a ring of truth. And it doesn't take a linguist to dissect that phrase. I . . . handle . . . mommies. In essence, I am the bug guard on the institutional vehicle; I get whacked and splattered, take the hits, so everyone else riding in the carthe administration, the faculty, the staff, the studentsstays clean and unharmed from annoying, stinging insects. Working at a prep school, you see, is akin to being a beekeeper. You get stung enough timeslike I have, like all faculty and staff doand you always make sure to keep your protective gear on and zipped up tight. Frankly, you get a little paranoid. Because just when you are lulled by the sleepy hum of the buzzing or the richness of the honey BAM!the bees attack. It's just the natural order of things here, the way of the colony: I am half worker bee, half eunuch-drone. Today, this first day of school, I am on my way to get stung by the Queen Bee herself: Katherine Isabelle Ludington. Mrs. Ludington is my new liaison to the parent group and alumni group, the two groups whose work I help oversee. She summoned me to meet with her for the first time just a few minutes earlier. The sound of her clipped, every-syllable-is-overenunciated voice this morning set off my yoga-induced chanting, my last-ditch effort to center my mind and body. It didn't work, and I'm less than a day into the new school year. I quickly snake my way along the worn brick path that runs alongside our cobblestone carpool lanes, sweating in the heat. It is 110 degrees in the shade. In the summer, the humidity of our city hangs in the air like fogthe result of being so close to a big body of waterand its heavy, hot wetness wilts you on first contact, making it difficult even to catch your breath in this American rain forest. The reflection off the never-ending line of SUVs in carpool is blinding, and I did not bring my sunglassesmRouse, Wade is the author of 'Of Lattes and Land Rovers Confessions of a Prep School Mommy Handler', published 2007 under ISBN 9780307382702 and ISBN 0307382702.