Middle School Drop Off

This morning I drove my son to school. The drop-off line is long, and operates by tacit protocol, or what I like to call stop, drop, and roll. Today I found myself behind some guy who not only stops his car, he gets out, runs to the passenger side, opens the door for his daughter, pops the trunk, takes out one of those backpacks on wheels, places it on the sidewalk, carefully extends the handle, shuts the trunk, rolls the backpack over to his daughter, hands her a bottled water and lunch bag, closes her door, gives her a kiss, waves at her retreating back as she walks away, then, finally, meanders back behind the wheel.
Maybe there’s a happy medium between this and my drop-off method in which I never actually stop the car (though, in my defense, I do slow down). But hey, it’s called a drop-off line, not a protracted public display of slavish devotion line, right? Dad may think that his excessive fawning is in his little darling’s best interest, but she’s in for a shock. Better she should find that out now, before she hits high school. On the way home, I thought about what I’d tell her if I could. I would say, Honey, no matter what your father would have you believe, you are not a princess. You’re a seventh grader with silly pink hat, an overbite, and a moderate to severe case of muffin-top. Now, have a great day, and get the fuck out of the car.