The school carpool: Are we there yet?

HIGH GAS PRICES are a burden on everyone, right? Parents have got it bad. It's the new school year, and gas prices mean one thing: There's no way out of carpooling. You will be thought un-green, like that time you brought Styrofoam cups to the second-grade Earth Day breakfast. You may as well hang a "No Playdates" sign on your kids.

Well, there's a bright side. You probably think carpooling is just a way to get your kids around, but no. It's actually a divine plan. It contains medicine for the days when the kids make an indoor hopscotch field with house paint. When they introduce the dog to the neighborhood skunk. See, after just one day of carpooling, you will love your children way, way more than you do now.

How does it work? Every carpool is assigned the same kind of children. Your first stop is Shotgun Kid, who screams for the front seat even though he is too small for the air bag. When you put him in the back seat, he morphs into SeatBack Kicker.

Then you pick up Little No Hanky, who has a constant cold or allergy but no tissues, ever. Little Typhoid Mary has had lice since kindergarten and you can almost hear your children catching them. Her mother believes in homeopathic lice treatment, which is where we get the term Nitwit.

You've got Marvin the Martian, the kid who never hears anything without being told three times, like, "Stop unlocking the car door." There's Rainman Junior, the kid who has one interest in life - like bugs or salamanders - and won't shut up about it. You made the mistake of showing a kindly interest in salamanders on day one. The other kids call her "Newt," which makes her hopping mad because it is scientifically incorrect. Next is Spit Boy, the child who chews on the seat belt and throws chewed gum out the window. Last is everybody's least favorite, Wet Willy.

The days you're off are even worse. You hand your child over to a tiny woman who talks on her cellphone in a Hummer aircraft carrier. She takes off before the seat belts are clicked. She is way too busy, and way too important, for this job. Whatever you do, get her out of your carpool. Slash her tires or something.

Your first day of carpooling feels eternal, but the end finally comes. You drop off each little darling, crossing them off like names on a hit list. You drop the last one, little Big Devil Spawn, and now it's time for your spirits to lift. This is God's genius: You look at your own children and realize that they are just the best kids in the whole world.

Your kids wear their seat belts. They don't scream in the driver's ear. They have never, ever tried to grab the parking brake. You will smile at them, hug them, and take them out for ice cream. They don't know why Mom has smiley tears in her eyes. They just know to get that cone before this dream ends and Real Mom comes back.

Over time, you will learn carpool strategy. You will seek out people you like whose kids you like. Of course, you have some dues to pay to join a really good carpool. The newcomer must always take the worst assignments. Is it science project day, with the lima-bean-and-dirt Dixie cups? Your turn. But it won't be long before you are a veteran, choosing the plum assignments and skipping Cubby Clean-Out Day.

In the meantime, this divine plan keeps you from heading for the DSS drive-thru window. So hop in, fasten your seat belt, and wallow in this wonderful feeling. And try to remember this precious gift when your friend says that your daughter seems to know a whole lot about newts.

Monique Doyle Spencer is author of "The Courage Muscle: A Chicken's Guide to Living With Breast Cancer."