It's just a carpool. Do we need to be married to it?

It’s like one of those math problems that I was never able to solve in seventh grade: If the mother has four errands left on her list during her day off, she has two hours until it’s time to do the high school carpool, and each errand is an average of ten minutes in the opposite direction, will she be able to complete her list before pulling up outside the Bais Yaakov?

The answer is probably no, but I’m going to try anyway.

It’s Wednesday, my day off from the local Urgent Care. But let’s face it, I’m a mother. Wednesday is get-errands-done-cram-everything-in day. So of course that’s my carpool day.

Elisha works from home on Wednesday, so he’s around when the elementary kids come home, giving me that leeway to run out, but right now, I need to pick up more black tights for Shira, drop off an Amazon return, get some corn on the cob because Elisha asked for some and the man never has food preferences, and return a book to the library.

“May the odds be ever in your favor,” I mutter to myself.

I love my amazing community here in Chicago more than anyone, but the lack of high school busing is nisht fir mir. I sat on the bus from pre-1A through 12th grade in Monsey, and waiting with my mother for the bus formed some really great memories. Of course, my sisters tell me I’m making it up: They don’t feel as nostalgic for bus stop memories, considering they’rer now waiting with their own daughters.

I manage to do three out of four of my errands, and pull up outside of the school with two minutes to spare.

I roll down the window as Shira approaches and give a little “cool mom” wave. And wait for the car to fill up.

Shira slides into the front seat, chattering a mile a minute about the “ridiculous” chemistry exam she just sat through.

“I mean, do I want to be a chemist? Nooo. Do I want to be a pharmacist? Noooo. So why, whyyyy do I need to learn chemistry?”

I smile in commiseration.

Sweet Yocheved Feld climbs into the car with a little, “Hi. Mrs. Greenberg.”

Faigy Trenk and Rena Berger are next, Faigy crunching an apple happily. Finally, Miri Sternberg arrives in top form, shirt untucked, hair streaming loose. And she’s not happy, as per usual.

“Omiiiigoooosh, that was the longest day in the history of days,” she moans. “Like, literally, I feel ten years older.”

I smirk, ’cuz, girl, I have days like that at least once a week.

“Everything okay, Miri?” I ask mildly, waiting for the door to slam shut. It’s the polite thing to say, but I regret it immediately.

Miri and Shira used to be great friends — the Sternbergs live two houses down from us, and I’ve known Miri since she was a two-year-old with an unfortunate mushroom haircut — but the girls haven’t been close for several years already. And in the past couple of years, since they started high school, they’ve drifted even further apart. Miri never comes over on Shabbos anymore, even when it seems like half the class is gathered in our living room. Thankfully, this has done nothing to impact my relationship with her mother. Devora is this tiny, cheerful sprite of a woman, and we have a great borrow-sugar-discuss-laundry thing going.

I signal and merge into traffic as Miri launches into a blow-by-blow of her day. The rest of the girls gradually fall quiet.

“... and do you think I’ll get to rest when I get home?” she asks bitingly. “Oh no no no. Miri-ella needs to clean the kitchen and playroom because her evil stepsister is going on yet another shidduch date with what’s-his-face.”

I feel like I need to cut in then, even if it’s at my own risk.

“I’m not sure Tehillah would appreciate us knowing about what’s-his-face,” I say lightly. “Or being called evil. Or stepsister.”

Tehillah is very much Miri’s full-on sister. They look exactly alike. They even both used to have that terrible haircut. Something to share with what’s-his-face….

“Whatever,” she says, leaning forward. “Can you drop me off next? I have sooo much to do.”

I determinedly don’t roll my eyes. “Sorry, Miri, we only pass you at the end.”

“Ucccccccccch,” she plops back in her seat, eyes closed.

Okay then. Excuse me while I get stressed out over a tenth grader’s attitude.

At long last, everyone is in their designated homes, and I’m free to be Mom-ella. Hahaha, just kidding. But yeah, Miri’s in for surprise if she thinks life is set up so she can rest every day.

I sauté onions for burgers and finagle Shira into slicing salad, and the little kids set the patio for dinner while the corn on the cob boils.

Later, as the evening grows chilly, I ask Shira if Miri is okay.

“Honestly, Ma, I have no idea. We’re totally not friends.”

Miri is no longer Shira’s type, which I think is fine, especially given the attitude. Shira is generally a positive kid, and Miri is not. But still, I’m sad for the days when Shira used to be friends with everyone, as long as they could play jump rope or had a cool trampoline.

I put the whole thing behind me, mainly because my mind is already maxed out to overflow. Elisha is going to Atlanta next week, which of course, I understand, but I still hate. I hate when we’re apart, and I do not like doing everything myself. And this time, it’s going to be a week, which means I have to figure something out for Wednesday carpool, since he won’t be home to watch the little kids. Yehuda has been having night terrors and Shimshy’s morah told me he’s been biting, which makes me upset because, ouch, but also, he’s 13 months — what am I supposed to do? Then there’s Ma, who told me she has a follow up doctor’s appointment, and I can’t help feeling anxious. I just don’t have room for an angsty tenth grader who is not my child.

But then Tzipora Feld voicenotes me.

“Hi Basya, how are you? Okay I feel ugh for reaching out, and please know that this is l’toeles, but how’s the high school carpool? I’ve been finding it hard, and I’m not sure if it’s just me. There’s one girl who—”

The note ended, rather abruptly, as if she wasn’t sure where to go from there.

Oh, yuck. I’m so not down for discussing other people. Obviously, she isn’t either, given how she cut herself off, but she’s sweet Tzipora Feld, Yocheved’s mother. It must’ve been as unsettling for her during carpool lately as it’s been for me.

What to answer, what to answer….

I think about it as I switch a load and decide to go with something vague.

“Hi Tzipora, how are you? To tell you the truth, I’m struggling with the same dilemma. Do you think there’s anything we should do, or just ignore teen drama?”

Tzipora doesn’t answer, and honestly, I forget about the whole thing.

Until carpool the next day. I’m winding down at the Urgent Care — my replacement is here already — when Malka Trenk walks in with her son Yosef, who’s sporting a large gash on his forehead.

“Oh my goodness, what happened?” I exclaim.

“Basya! So glad I caught you, I tried reaching Devora Sternberg, no answer. Can you take my carpool today?”

So once again, I pull up outside Bais Yaakov with two minutes to spare. This time, I’m actually nervous as all my worries about Miri come flooding back. I pull out my phone to check if Tzipora messaged me back and I’d missed it, but she hadn’t.

Oh well, I’m sure it’ll be fine.

Shira sees me first, and she makes my day by giving me a little peck on the cheek. “Hi, Ma, did you switch carpool days? Fun! Thanks for coming on time.”

She gestures to the other girls.

Yocheved waves as she hops in, Faigy Trenk gives a cheery “Hey, Mrs. G!” Rena smiles, and Miri literally groans when she sees me.

I’m not kidding. I’d be insulted, but it’s kind of funny.

“Hi, Miri!” I say exaggeratedly. “How was your day?” Stupid, I know, but it was begging.

“Literally endless. And now I’m going to be dropped off last ah-gaaaaaiiiin.”

I close my eyes then open them again. “Oy, I’m sorry, Miri. It’s the one downside of living on our block.”

I miss it, but I think she mutters something about there being more than one downside.

Joy.

I pull away from school, and Faigy launches into a hilarious story about the impromptu kumzitz the class was having when the halachah rav walked into the room.

We’re all crying with laughter when Miri goes, “Anyway, I need to go shopping, ASAP, especially if what’s-his-face pops the question.”

We all fall into an awkward silence. I drop the girls off one at a time and then finally Miri is out of the car. I chirp out a cheery, “Acharon, acharon, chaviv,” to which she rudely snorts, and then Shira and I are alone at last.

I’ll just say it, out loud, in my head: I do not like that girl.

Tzipora finally answers me on Monday — her carpool day — when Elisha’s down in Atlanta and my eyes are closing while saying Shema with Yehuda.

I tiptoe out of the room once he’s asleep and listen to her voice note.

“Hi Basya, sorry it took me so long, I just really didn’t know what to say. The carpool has been getting awkward and uncomfortable and Yocheved asked me if she could skip it and have me pick her up every day.It’s just a carpool. Do we need to be married to it? Like if it’s not working, why do we have to keep it? Of course, my heart goes out to her, she seems so unsettled, but do we all need to suffer?”

There’s a pause, and I’m about to click out, when I hear Tzipora’s voice again.

“Can we reevaluate and make a new carpool for next year?”

It’s not like we’ve never switched carpools. Girls have come and gone depending on the mothers’ different schedules. There was that big shakeup when Shira was in sixth grade and the Silvers left town, leaving us with two empty seats for morning carpool. But Tzipora and I had always formed the group, and with Miri on my block, she’s always been included.

I lean against the door jamb.

Tzipora’s right. It’s just a carpool. But also, it’s just a carpool —20 minutes a day after a long day at school. Shouldn’t we give the girl some grace? And how would Devora feel? Sweet, kind Devora, who would never hurt a fly. Can we really just kick her out because her daughter has an attitude problem? Yes, she’s busy with her daughter’s shidduchim now and it might fly over her head in the moment, but eventually she’s going to sit up and say, Wait. That doesn’t make any sense. When we arranged the carpool last year, we knew this was a four-year thing.

But then again, if it’s something that is actually stressing us both out, why add a burden to our days? We could make it make sense, and I’m sure Miri would love it, because she wouldn’t be dropped off last anymore.

The question bothers me the whole night, through cleanup and laundry and prepping lunches for the next day. Why haven’t the other mothers said anything? Is Miri nicer on their days? Does she have better days than others? Are her Tuesdays easier?

Are Tzipora and I too sensitive? Not that we’re similar at all, but maybe in that aspect we are: We both, baruch Hashem, have pleasant daughters and don’t appreciate a bad attitude.

Why am I even thinking all of this? This is way too much agonizing for a carpool, no?

I want to message Tzipora back that yes, next year, let’s split the carpool differently, but something stops me.

Miri is just a girl. A girl with a terrible attitude, yes. But just a girl. Can we do this to her? Can we do this to her mother?

But the thought of driving her for another two years adds a weariness to my shoulders I really don’t need.

I decide to give myself a few days to think about it, but I know I’m running out of time: carpool kinks are starting to be ironed out for next year, and if I don’t make a decision, Tzipora might just form something without me.

What to do?

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(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 942)