Viva La Vida

“Daly City stop,” the driver came through the speakers, “please check your surroundings and make sure you have everything. This is the last stop Daly City.” I embarked on my three day weekend, blissful to spend it with my two children and loving husband. I stormed down John Daly Boulevard to swoop Hunter from daycare. I was always worried about extinguishing my son’s anxieties. For most of the time, he was the last child to be picked up, and I didn't want to be liable for developing a mild abandonment complex. It was a gamble and a risk being punctual for the five thirty cut off time as I place all my eggs in the basket that is public transit. I was just thankful it was BART and not the miserable misfortunes that is MUNI. Samantha, teacher extraordinaire, was always understanding when it came down to delays, but I knew she had other places to be as she had two teenage kids of her own.

In traffic, I’m that crazy woman in the car with Rage Against the Machine smoking the speakers, as the kick ass bass lines awake the angry beast inside my calm being. I swerve from lane to lane, cursing at stop lights or anything that gets in the way of my punctuality and my son. Today was a good day, I had fifteen minutes to buy so all was good on John Daly Boulevard. Once Hunter is strapped in his car seat, I return to planet sanity.

Ever since I can remember, mom always had a snack ready for me when I came home after school. This tradition has always stuck with me. This moment was always parked in a warm spot in my heart. It was the seventies when deep fryers and transaturated fats were trendy as well as marshmallow rice krispies treat. I was greeted with mounds of fresh onion rings or french fries. My mom wanted so much to be the all american mom, she'd make her famous spaghetti and ketchup bolognese. The fact that my mom never missed one day of snack time, made me want to do the same for my kids. Having a snack on me daily can prove challenging when there's no back up in the glove compartment. Hunter has come to expect the daily snack so today I was on time, but I forgot his daily snack. I pretty much sucked.

I kindly asked Samantha if she had anything in her house that could sustain Hunter for the drive home as I've forgotten in the past and couldn't bear his crying and made a stop for french fries at Burger King. In college, I've taken nutritional classes that confirms that fast food chains chemically derive flavors in a lab to ensure addiction or craving. Yes, that yearning you get for McDonald's french fries is not because it's delicious. You're expiriencing withdrawals. Scary. Here I was well knowing, but couldn't tolerate the wrath of my son. Samantha, the all ever gift from heaven, gladly gave me a bag of pear chips, "oh no problem, he loves this stuff." I would've groveled on my hands and knees in appreciation, but a simple thank you sufficed.

I turn the aggressively nineties political music off and opted for a top forty San Francisco station. If you haven't noticed, radio stations play the the same songs at the same time -so much for random. Hunter had an ear for music like when the Black Eyed Peas song Tonight’s Gonna be a Good Good Night clogs my main aorta, he identifies it in three notes. As I always hone his music skills, nonchalantly switching radio stations, I’m confronted with a fight, “No momma, on. Momma on, “ he is pointing and demanding from the second row as if he was English royaty, “Pease momma, on! Pease.” This can go on for ever, but he’s incorporated the mannerisms of “please” - I cave in.
“Tonight, tonight, let’s live it UP, I got my money, lets UP.” Hunter enthusiastically sang .
“Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.” I joined in the sing-a-long.
“No momma, stop, my turn, stop, pease momma!“ My sweet brat demanded, again with the please. My beautiful voice came to a screeching halt, I loathe the song like I loath grapes with seeds.

Stevie Day always excited to see me. As she is with Lola, her wonderful care taker, for approximately ten hours a day. I’m redeemed as her spirit is lifted as I enter the room. This is evident by her swift swinging legs. So swift that if lifted a couple inches off the ground, she looks could be sprinting the fifty yard dash! Her bright grin from ear to ear, illuminated the room as she leaned towards me. Her eagerness to be in my arms, rectified my guilt and I couldn't help but think that I could dance on the ceiling! Lola reviewed the play by play of the day, “Tres poo poo, grande! Four hours sleep. Bath, Eat, eat, eat. Besos. Besos. Besos,” Lola continued on beautiful that is Stevie Day, “She’s my flower, my orchid, my rose.”
“Gracias,”I thanked her in my ever so fluent Spanish. Truth is, I was grateful for finding Lola as she is the grandmother that my kids don’t have in San Francisco. She was the stand in grandma. We suffer the abhorrence of out of state parents, she completes the formula. Unfortunately, Lola’s been stricken with a range of tumors, thus kids aren't in her future. Alas, I'd be honored to have Stevie Day as her stand in, so be it.


“Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Stevie Day discovering her singing prowess.
“Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Hunter joins in the family musical.
“Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Stevie Day has a set of lungs on her. Hunter sang in synchronicity. The headlights bright in the lane ahead, we descend Cesar Chaves Street off ramp. “Momma, Momma we’re home!” Hunter excitedly pointing at the home front with the front bay windows lit, “Daddy!! Daddy’s home!” Hunter wails, “out, momma, out, pease.”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” Stevie day joined in the circus of daddy. It was the end of an arduous work week, and both of the kid's facilities were closed for Martin Luther King Jr. day. I was beyond thrilled to spend a three day weekend with the ones that I love.

This is Shellie revitalized, “it’s a wonderful life,” back to you Bob at the Studio.