Because My Instinct Said So

My office in Jersey City is in an old house, on the left-hand side of a one-way street going down a steep hill. Several of the buildings and some of the other houses belong to my college, but many (including a very large apartment building across the street with aging cement steps) do not. Parking is at a premium; there’s no garages to speak of for the residents of the apartments so the street is constantly lined with rows of cars, a beat-up yellow school bus with the windows painted white, delivery trucks. Students try to park on the street and the whole situation is compounded because our parking garage has been closed for repairs. I’m extremely fortunate to be able to park in the front of the house housing (yes, that was intentionally written) my office.

Sometimes someone unknown parks in the space and I have to squeeze my car as close as I can to the front steps. I always figure there’s a 50-50 chance of this happening as I make the right turn off Kennedy Boulevard. Thursday the parking gods seemed to be smiling on me and I bumped the car over the driveway which does not appear to be a driveway, as the sidewalk is not slanted and the words “DRIVEWAY DO NOT PARK” look more like “VEWAY O NO RK.” I pulled in, checked to make sure that Charlie’s teacher hadn’t emailed as I went up the steps, and gathered numerous things and tried to start some other things and went to class.

When I came back around noon, a car was perfectly parked between the lines edging “VEWAY O NO RK.”

Readers of my earlier blog, Autismland, may remember that there’s only one event, one time, that I orient my whole day around, the moment when Charlie gets off the yellow school bus. I’ve worked for most of Charlie’s life; as Jim’s always worked much further away and for longer hours, it’s generally been me who meets the bus. Class schedules, office hours, meetings: Everything has to be scheduled around When the Bus Returns and, as we’ve never lived close to where I’ve worked, I like to leave time plus to make sure I’m home. In past years, my commute was rendered much more interesting, and nerve-wracking, due to calls from the school nurse (”Mrs. Fisher, Charlie bumped his head and I applied ice”) or the principal, or hurried consultations with our home ABA therapists. Fortunately for me, by the time New Jersey passed its no-talking-on-the-cell-phone-while-driving law, Charlie was well settled into his current school placement. Indeed, as Charlie’s done better, I’ve been able to do more at work—meaning that I’ve more meetings, more appointments with students—more reasons to find myself literally running to get home.

I called Security soon as I got into my office. I had to keep suppressing the urge to see if the car blocking my car was gone. At 1pm, it still was, and I had to be gone in no more than an hour to make it back meet the Charlie on his bus. I felt distinctly annoyed at myself for being so distracted: My anxiousness wasn’t going to make it any easier for Security to track down whose car it was and I really needed to go over the rules of elision when scanning Latin poetry. Class ended; the car was still there. I called Jim; I knew he was flying back from California, but the sound of his voicemail message was reassuring. I graded a stack of quizzes; car still there, Security thought they had found the owner, but it turned out not to be the right person. My co-director started to talk about how we should make sure to keep the aesthetics of the house in mind when we ordered some new equipment and I was at first really annoyed, then reminded myself, he’s probably trying to take your mind off that car.

All the while I felt a little ridiculous. But what if the bus pulled up to an empty parking lot?

Last year when her book Louder Than Words appeared, Jenny Mother Warrior-now-on-a-mission-from-God-once-a-Playboy-Playmate McCarthy spoke frequently about how her “mommy instinct” guided her in healing her son Evan from autism. Some kind of instinct was operating in me in full force Thursday afternoon, though it was something a bit different than that internal voice telling McCarthy what to do. My instinct was saying, you’d better get that other car out of the way or it’s gonna be not so good. I went outside and started to see if there was just enough space to go between the cement planter and the other car over the sidewalk, provided I managed to turn my car (it’s not huge but it’s not small) around.

At that point Security appeared and a student who I’ve known for a while. We noticed a photo album in the back of the car—-my student recognized someone she (and I, and the Security guard) all knew, and soon someone appeared and moved their car.

Phrew. And I even had time to finish grading more quizzes and to speak in a non-harried manner to my co-director.

And to find a UPS truck parked behind my car when I went to back out.

Its engine was still running so I knew the driver had to be nearby but, nerves rising again (and kicking myself for not just leaving a few minutes ago), I started to back out and back in and turn this way and that until my car was turned 180 degrees around (all while students were walking by and saying, “What is she doing?”). The drive appeared and apologized just as I had turned the car around and bounced it onto the sidewalk. I drove away feeling more than a bit sheepish, extremely relieved, and reminding myself to keep calmer and carry on, next time.

I made it back to greet an on-edge boy: Charlie told me “Mom, I’m tired” (after prompting from a Language Master card) and it hadn’t helped that he seemed to be feeling extra-sensitive to sound and ended the day on a rough note when the noise level rose in the classroom and Charlie had had it. His teacher emailed me and I emailed back and Charlie had a big snack, sprawled in his chair become a couch, and watched videos on my laptop while I did some reading for Friday’s class and cleaned the kitchen. Charlie practiced cello—he’s starting to learn how to press a finger on the strings for different notes—-and we went for an easygoing walk. Charlie needed no urging to hop into the car and pick up Jim.

Sure, a mother’s got to do what she’s got to do but a little patience (rather than rage and a fighting attitude) can go a long way.

And being able to back a stationwagon out of a tight space.