There's a crossing guard that directs traffic in front of Lydia's school each morning who we've affectionately named the Angry Pixie (Lydia came up with that). She reminds me a little of what Tinker Bell would look like after years of hard partying and beachgoing in Malibu.
I approach her in the dark morning mist with trepidation trying to remember what all her hand motions mean. I stop and go, stop and go, stop and go in order to guage her reaction to each move. If I start to go and she shouts at me I assume I'm supposed to wait. If I keep moving and her motions don't become more emphatic I figure it's safe to go. Erring on the side of caution I usually stop until I hear her livid cattle call burst out of the darkness. I remember the first time I heard that dreaded sound I jumped and spilled my coffee. Sometimes, if I've ticked her off enough, I can make out her huge frown as I pass by, but I sincerely try not to make eye contact because somehow I feel that's not ok with her. Poor Angry Pixie.