Trouble brews at the high anxiety paradise that is the HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET SCHOOL.  This time we have a bully.  At the drop-off circle.  Every morning.  Waiting, waiting for everyone.  This bully is tall, wears shorts in 40-degree weather, and screams at people until they do what she says.  She wears a yellow and orange safety vest, and she knows how ruin your life with it.  She runs the traffic circle.  And she is my age:  OLD.

The traffic circle bully (who shall hereinafter be referred to as the TCB) and I have a history.  My children, who stand in utter fear and trembling at the presence of any adult authority figure at their school, termed her The Crazy Lady because of the fact that she approaches each car, OPENS THE DOOR, and through a maniacally friendly smile says good morning, with a falseness that would make even Splenda roll its eyes.  She does this in hopes of expediting the children’s exits from their cars and the parents’ exits from the circle.  Crazy and annoying as this is, I appreciate her efforts in the name of expediency.  However, if there is a microsecond during which you do not PULL FORWARD she will command you, not like an authoritative traffic cop, but like a female cat after mating: squealing in agony, arching her back, and swatting her offended, puffed up tail.  Despite these wild behaviors, I didn’t use choice swear words on her (behind her back, like a good parent) until the time that she told me that I couldn’t drive through the circle twice to drop off my kindergartner at 8:00, when her playground opens, and my second grader at 8:15, when her playground opens.  I have indulged myself with this two-time tour around the hideous domain that is her Traffic Circle of Life in order to spare my second grader from waiting in front of the school in the cold and dodging sex offenders (two of whom were recently found walking close to school grounds) for fifteen minutes each morning.  When I politely explained my preference, she told me with a distinct edginess of tone, “You really should reconsider.  It doesn’t really make sense.  It’s RIDICULOUS, actually.”  She DARED use the word actually on me.  What a whore.  I kindly, but firmly told her that it was inappropriate for her to try to intervene in this decision.  And I continued to endure her unpleasantness two times per day.

So now she’s mad at me.  She no longer touches our car (thankfully), and she denies our children the traumatizing honor of her diseased good morning greeting when they walk by her.  And she’s out to nail me on the tiniest violation of the sacred Traffic Circle Code of Conduct.  Now, once I’ve assumed a forward-most position, millimeters behind the luxury vehicle in front of me, I have to scream at my sweet-faced 5 year-old to hurry up or we will be clobbered with a ferocious PULL FORWARD, a foot stomp, and a GAAAAWWWDD, delivered through the scowling megaphone of muscles and skull that encase her tortured PTA mind.  We have now been upgraded to the expectation to PULL FORWARD within the NANOSECOND (as opposed to the millisecond) the preceding car inches forward, even if my daughter’s water bottle is caught in her ear, her hair is wrapped around the buckle of her seatbelt, and one foot is stuck in the pocket of her sister’s raincoat while the other is doing a swan dive toward the asphalt of the TCB’s Web of Good Mornings and Black Death.  We must PULL FORWARD and risk loss of life, limb, and lunch bag.  When I finally do depart, I tend to drive a bit slowly since countless children walk on the sidewalk with the predictability of popcorn kernels cooking in a bag in the microwave.  I try very hard to keep this parade of school-aged whirling dervishes safe by slowing down from my regular highway speed of 65 MPH.

The TCB is especially dangerous since as a volunteer she is not really under much supervision or jurisdiction of the school.  She is a free-agent; that is, she does work for free.  They need her services, and they will probably not get rid of her unless she intentionally kills someone.  What kind of battered psyche does it take to be willing to yell at people in cars every morning between 8:00 and 8:30 for absolutely no pay?  It takes the psyche of a…a traffic circle bully, and we have one in the form of this fit, tanned, and curly-haired creature.  And I’m almost certain that this abusively altruistic non-employee doesn’t get quarterly performance evaluations nor does she pass out surveys entitled How are We Doing?

Other than disturbing the sense of peace that my brown-sugar-coated oatmeal enjoys in my stomach each morning, the TCB is emblematic of an emerging problem in our schools today.  I’m talking about the roving group of Turbo Moms* who engage in a ferocious style of volunteerism.  If a little bit of help is good, then a lot is phenomenal and likely to earn them an invite to the luncheon to receive a certificate soaked in the unsightly clip art images that result from a seeming obsession with the overuse of toner.  (These certificates are made by the rodent PTA president herself, the head proprietor of your generous financial contributions to the school.)  The Turbo Moms* spend a good portion of the day helping at school, and with that comes an untrained, uncredentialed, and unwelcome sense of control over not only your child, but you.  What happened to the days when volunteers simply made cookies or quietly assisted with the homework folders and engaged in polite gossip about your child’s academic performance with their closest 12 friends who all happen to know you and your kid?  When did these kinder, simpler times pass us by?  Now we function in a network that is a world of righteousness and lawlessness, where diamond stud earrings and gift basket donation dollar amounts reign.  Unlike our own eighth grade experience, where we were protected from bullying by caring teachers, scary administrators, and our status as the fastest in fly on the swim team, we must fight parental pushiness in order to protect our right to not drag our children from our cars as we hastily depart in observance of the almighty MOVE FORWARD principle for living life.

I find it ironic that in an age of bully-proof schools, we have bully parents selling the I Love Being Me bracelet for $2 each.  To our children.  (Who nag us for the $16 that their buddy Taylor spent on all eight of his.)  To fatten the PTA treasury.  So they can make more certificates soaked in toner to give away at the volunteer luncheon to award other bully parents.  Perhaps the PTA needs to launch a new program for bully-free parent communities.  Yes, they can spearhead the movement towards a world with self-esteem for all parents, who employ conflict resolution tactics via I-statements:  “When you scream at me to PULL FORWARD when only 40% of my child has left the vehicle, I feel like you hate my kids and my car, and that you want to bludgeon me to death with that ugly white visor of yours that you wear on even sunless days.”

This campaign would be a good use of the PTA’s strong-armed efforts.  Better even than having ME sign my daughter’s Cool The Earth coupon (which, incidentally is printed on HEAVY card-stock), pledging that I will wash all my laundry in cold water from this day forward.  I think that of all the wastes of toner in the industrialized world, the cause for a bully-free PTA would be the best use of it.

*A former teacher colleague coined this phrase to describe some of the lovely ladies who assisted her with the school fundraisers.  While teachers appreciate the help, they are not above naming the more unpleasant aspects of the package it arrives in.

I Wish I Could Quit You.  How I Came To Hate The PTA  www.babble.com

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