I Did Not Vote. But Before You Judge Me, Read This First

I did not vote in the primary election. Please put your pitchforks down, figurative or not. 

I tried. I really, really tried. 

Between herding two little kids, ages 8 and 4, running our household, and all the other endless little tasks that make being a stay-at-home mom the most unrecognized superhero of all time, I failed my civic duty. 

“It was poor planning,” I texted my husband, then to help express my feelings, I added a sad face emoji. But really the feeling behind the little yellow face with the upside-down smile was a feeling of being an abject failure. 

Of all the tasks on my to-do list on Super Tuesday, voting was probably third, behind feeding and connecting with my family. I carried my sample ballot with me in my giant mom purse. It was nestled between the 40 bandages for boo-boos, the emergency granola bars to calm hangry meltdowns, and the book I have been reading for the last year. I am on page 10. 

I crammed for the primary election like it was finals week in college. I quickly read the candidates’ statements and the ballot initiatives. Then I looked up endorsement articles like they were Spark Notes telling me how to think. Lastly, when still undecided—I’m just going to put it all out there—I looked at the political party as a tie-breaker. 

I did this between school drop-offs, pick-ups, endless errands, appointments, and extracurricular activities. I really wanted to check that box on Super Tuesday. 

And I wanted to involve my kids. 

My first-born son has been coming to vote with me since he could toddle alongside the little corral in the basketball gymnasium. At our first election experience as a family of three, our little guy was knee-high, shaking the leg of the table while my husband tried to fill out the right dot, then he was waist-high peering over the table while I voted with one hand and held his baby sister in the other. 

For the longest time, the “I voted” stickers was the piéce de résistance for my kids, worn like badges of honor while they played in the park after enduring the silence and stillness of the polling place. Now 8 years old, my son passes his sticker to sister’s eager hands. He is more interested in learning about the candidates, the issues, and which way I voted.

So on Super Tuesday, I waited until after I picked them both up from school to go vote.  

Our voting center is within walking distance from our house in the suburbs of Los Angeles. It is located in a basketball gymnasium where my son first learned to make a jump shot. Usually, we walk right in and get swallowed up by the 10 poll workers looking for anything to do. 

This Super Tuesday, the line of people snaked around the entire perimeter of the gym and out the door. 

“Wow,” my 8-year-old exhaled. “This is like Disneyland.” 

Except at the end of the line, there is no promise of a thrilling ride. Just a sticker.

The lines symbolized something bigger, right? Voters were galvanized to make their voices heard. Go, democracy!

This is all great unless you have young kids, who ate the emergency granola bars in the first 10 minutes in line. My 4-year-old sang and danced all the songs from “Frozen 2” then we all played “I Spy” until I am sure we ran out of things to spy. 

“I don’t know how much longer we can wait here,” I texted my husband, who was stuck at work. “Maybe someone will roll out a TV with cartoons.” 

No such luck. 

Ahead of me were moms in similar duress. Little kids, whose little bodies were not built to stand in long lines, were falling apart. Threats were hurled. Then slowly, moms started dropping like flies. 

One little boy stood on a bench and jumped down on top of his little brother like a professional wrestler. Their mom connected eyes with me as if to say, “That’s it!” And they left. 

And after 45 minutes of pretending to be the mysterious voice from the enchanted forest in “Frozen 2,” my daughter said she was hungry and she didn’t care about voting anymore.

We were only halfway to the front of the line, so I called it, too. The voting center was open until 8 pm. We will walk home, have dinner and come back. Surely, the line would be shorter, right?

No such luck. 

The line was out the door and down the sidewalk by the time we came back. People were standing with the slumped shoulders posture of defeat. As we walked up, my daughter slapped her brother in the back, yelled, “You’re it!” and ran off full speed until she slipped and fell. 

She howled in a way that told me even 40 bandages wouldn’t do. That’s when I knew voting was not going to happen.

“Why is voting so hard?” my 8-year-old asked. 

It’s a good question. News stories from the “LA Times” continue to come in about long lines, and glitches in the new voting system. I was not the only one. 

Watching the poll results come in without my vote was surreal. It made me wonder if the other mothers who were forced to leave because of the long wait were able to cast their ballots.

I could have voted earlier. I should not have forced the issue of making it an experience with my kids, but in the end, it was not my fault. A voting system that doesn’t make it easy for mothers with young children to vote is a broken system. 

The presidential election is eight months away. That’s plenty of time to fix it.

So the next time a mom says she did not vote, spare your judgment. Just give her a hug. Her kid might have body-slammed his little brother in line while she tried her hardest to perform her civic duty.