EPISODE 3 EPISODE 3I get up early in the mornin’, round about six o’clock.
Bleary-eyed and yawnin’, I gather up the flock.
Three chillins in the van, we drive around the block.
At the neighbor’s crib, two are added to my stock.
Coffee cup in hand, I head for open road.
My minivan groans under such a heavy load.
Been doin’ this so long, I fear I might explode.
Can’t blame nobody else for seeds that I have sowed.
So here I sit each morning, radio a-blarin’.
In my rear-view mirror, I see the kids a-starin’.
The high price of gasoline has tempers a-flarin’.
Bite my tongue so kids won’t hear me a-swearin’.
The drive to school each mornin’ is pretty much the same.
Starts out kinda quiet, inadequate sleep to blame.
Getting up so early seems such a crying shame.
Without a break on weekends, I might just go insane.
Where to tune the radio dial, no one can agree.
The girls like the latest hits on Radio Disney.
The boys say pop music is so bourgeoisie.
They prefer the screeching sounds of rock melodies.
My son, he doesn’t speak, because he’s fast asleep.
In five months of car-pooling, he hasn’t uttered a peep.
I’ve often wondered if he might be counting sheep.
Into his open mouth, a bug or two might leap.
After twenty miles or so, and a dozen traffic lights,
We arrive at school on time, the sun now burning bright.
I bid them all adieu, as they scramble from my sight.
And breathe a sigh of relief—we made it there all right.
The Slam! of the van’s door ends child domination.
Reaching for the dashboard, I switch the radio station.
Hoping news will distract me from my degradation.
Sipping dregs of tepid coffee, I grope for relaxation.
In thirty minutes, I am home, and go about my day.
Sweep the floors, walk the dog, what’s for lunch today?
In no time flat, it seems to me, the hours have slipped away.
Must drive back to school again, no time for delay.
Back in the van and on the road, the blues they pervade.
I wonder, am I a lousy chauffeur who works without pay?
At home, have I become a lowly scullery maid?
I realize, there is no use for my bitter tirade.
Like tiny escaped prisoners, the kids burst out of school.
In the van I hear their chatter about who is super-cool.
I ask about their homework, if they’ve learned the Golden Rule.
But they’re soon asleep, open mouths begin to drool.
Pulling in the driveway, they look like the walking dead.
Zombies stumble from my van, toward our humble homestead.
They search for salty snacks, and a place to lay their heads.
After homework, dinner and play, it’s time to go to bed.
Five months down, five more to go, not sure if I can make it.
I worry that I’ll lose my mind, if I am forced to take it.
But these kids are mine, it’s true, and nothing will forsake it.
And so I must continue on, even if I fake it.
I’ll try to avoid the pitfalls, like gambling and booze.
I’ll remember, parenting is something that we choose.
I’ll face the fact that in life, one must pay the dues.
And suffer the trials and tribulations of The Carpool Blues.