Graying on the Blacktop by Andrea Santo Felcone

I had been looking forward to my triumphant return to the elementary school blacktop. It had been a bit of time since I had set foot on that chalk-covered stretch of asphalt. I was 35 years old when I had my first son, what they lovingly refer to as a “geriatric pregnancy” or “advanced maternal age” in the medical community—or a “gerrie,” I suppose if they are being cute. I’m not sure what they say (behind closed doors) when you have your second son at the ripe old age of 42, probably; “good luck with that.” I’m not going to lie, it is challenging. But I am so grateful to have this second “go” at motherhood; that the return to the blacktop seemed like cause for celebration. However, much like childbirth, I had only remembered the rosy glow and had forgotten the pitfalls involved in the mere act of dropping-off and picking-up one’s child. I’d forgotten what the blacktop really is: an emotional minefield.

When my firstborn was in elementary school, I had coined a term for the odd behavior that I started to see fairly regularly, as “Blacktop Crazy”. There’s normal crazy, the garden variety kind, and then there’s “Blacktop Crazy”.  I’m not talking about the moms who pad onto the blacktop in their pajamas and slippers. Nor am I referring to the gentleman that used to preach his own homily around the school’s flagpole. “Blacktop Crazy” is that mama bear/papa bear crazy that comes unleashed when you are simultaneously watching your child experience something painful in real time AND reliving a painful experience from your own childhood. Don’t be fooled by those playful chalk drawings, the blacktop can draw this crazy out of the most mild-mannered individual under enough duress.

The irony is that there are rules of polite decorum inside the school, but the expanse of land immediately outside the school is fair game. Inevitably, “cliques” form. There will be gossip, eye-rolls, ugly confrontations—and yes, all squeezed in before the 8:35 a.m. bell. No one is immune to the feelings that bubble to the surface, when “Blacktop Crazy” rears its ugly head. You may desire peace, but the blacktop may dictate otherwise.

Luckily, I had found my silver lining. Even though I was (mentally) designing the logo for my “Blacktop Crazy” clothing line–I had found “my people”. I was living a drama-free life on the blacktop. I had made friends, one in particular: a stay-at-home Dad. Like that rare Pokémon card, he was also a retired police officer. The universe knows what it’s doing when it pairs a nervous mom with a retired cop. Oh sure, he pretended he wasn’t using his “cop voice” when talking me down from my ledge, but I didn’t mind. We were close enough in age that I understood his “Barney Miller” and “Baretta” jokes. It was nice to have blacktop buddies.

But now my older son was off to middle school, and all of “my people” were gone. I was making my return to the blacktop—alone. My inherited superpower: I look younger than I am. People like to play the “I bet I’m older than you game” with me, and, much to their surprise, I always “win”. This time around, with my gray hairs and deeply-circled eyes, I’m sure I wasn’t fooling anyone. But, with wisdom on my side, I would be prepared. I was practicing mnemonic devices to remember names. I was planning witty “small talk” topics. This would be my year to–own this blacktop. Or … maybe not …

Early on, I was forced to acknowledge that “my people” were gone and those around me were younger, stronger, faster—and more beautifully able to wear spandex. Many of these women were still in the strained food, diapers, infant phase. I’m onto Xbox, acne creams, and “The Birds and The Bees: talks 11 through 16.” I was guessing by our conversations that many of them were 10 -15 years younger than I was.

I had already made one major mistake when I had admitted that typos on the school’s giant calendar sign annoyed me. This was met with a chorus of “What sign?” (Trust me, this sign is ENORMOUS.) As these young moms stood staring into their Smartphones, I realized my world was physical; theirs digital. This earned me the endearing nickname “Analog Annie” that afternoon.

The next day, the blacktop tripped me up again. I was admiring this cute toddler carrying his chewed up, dirty teddy bear. You can probably already picture the way he was swinging the bear by one arm and acting so cavalier with this bear–yet, you know that this bear is his life. I commented to his young, beautiful, mother how sweet he was with his deep connection to this stuffed animal. She said, “Yes, he must take “Radar” with him at all times.” “Radar”? “That’s a funny name, where did he get that name?” “Oh, he watches “Sesame Street” and there’s a character that has a bear named Radar–and it’s some kind of reference to an old show that used to be on. I’ve never seen the old show, but we watch “Sesame Street”, so that’s where he got it.”

It’s moments like these when I’d love to see my face. My chin had clearly hit the blacktop, but I was trying hard not to show it. Of course it was a nod to Radar from “M*A*S*H,” I should have guessed that initially. Millions of viewers had tuned in to the final episode of “M*A*S*H”–but the year was 1983. She hadn’t seen it–and it wasn’t her fault— because she was probably 2 years old at the time. The worst part, there was no one in my immediate vicinity who would have seen “M*A*S*H” either. My soul closed up a little bit as I realized, I’m the oldest human being on this blacktop.

Thankfully, I have started to find “my people” again. I’ve seen very few instances of “Blacktop Crazy”. Maybe I’m better at ignoring that stuff now, or maybe my vision is starting to go. Either way, I’m good. One of my favorite new blacktop friends is a kind man–a grandfather. We’ve had some interesting conversations about beachfront property, education, and homemade winemaking. And, he doesn’t begrudge me my gray hairs, dark circles, or analog tendencies (and I bet he sees the giant sign in front of the school, too).

Andrea Santo Felcone resides in New Jersey with her husband and two sons. (One son has just entered “teenager-world”–the other thinks he has, but is actually 6 years old). She is founder and creator of Fearless Dragon Writers, LLC. www.facebook.com/fearlessdragonwriters an enrichment business that teaches children the many joys of writing.