I admit it: the bus arrived at our stop yesterday morning before we did.
This is absolutely antithetical to how the first day of school is supposed to go, according to my personal code of conduct. I’m appalled that Holly and I were late to the bus on the first day of school. The third grader next door was already boarding as I drove up, and Holly was not ready to hop spryly out of the car and run to the steps of the bus. She was still trying to get her little hands around the three bags of school supplies she needed to bring in for the first day of school.
Speaking of school supplies, let me just state that there is not a single white two-pocket folder with three prongs for sale in any office supply store in Massachusetts. In fact, there appears to not be a single white folder of any number of pockets and prongs for sale in Massachusetts. I know this because I’ve checked them all; it was the only item on Holly’s list of back-to-school requirements that I couldn’t find. I found the black two-pocket three-prong folder, the green one, the orange one, the red one, the purple one, and the jewel-toned paisley one. Okay, I’m making that last item up, but it would not surprise me one bit if that description were to appear on next year’s school supplies list. I’m absolutely fine with the number of binders, reams of paper, boxes of Kleenex and size of ruler on the list, but is it really necessary to have six different colors of folders specified? Wouldn’t it be sufficient to just by six folders?
But all of that happened over the weekend. Yesterday morning, up to about 8:10, I thought we were in fine shape. Tim ate a hearty breakfast and left for the middle school bus on time. Holly ate a smaller breakfast, took a long shower, carefully dressed herself in the outfit she’d selected the night before, combed her hair, brushed her teeth….and then somehow the minutes started to elude us. She felt the need to re-do her pigtails. I wanted to take a photo, and Holly wouldn’t stop making hand gestures that I didn’t want in the picture. (Nothing obscene, just annoying hip-hop gestures that have no place in a first-day-of-school scrapbook.) She had all her school supplies together but had left her summer journal on the kitchen table. The sandals she’d planned to wear wouldn’t do in the unanticipated rain.
All of this cost us only about five minutes, but those five minutes were the difference between waiting for the bus and having the bus wait for us.
This was particularly frustrating since just yesterday, I challenged myself anew to make punctuality a priority in the nascent school year. It’s not that I make this resolution over and over again with futility; every year I improve a little. But over the weekend, two consecutive events caused me to want to redouble my efforts.
On Saturday, I drove up to our friends’ beach house at 1:24, after I told them we’d be there between 1 and 1:30. And on Monday, I sauntered through the door of another friend’s house at exactly 10:00 in the morning, having agreed to meet her for a walk at ten. These are both events I would more typically arrive to a little bit late, but the sense of vindication my timeliness gave me was intoxicating, and I resolved to make this my year of punctuality. (Again.)
If I can maintain a daily running streak successfully for over four years now, I thought to myself, maybe I can do a punctuality streak as well. This weekend makes it two for two; maybe I should see how long I can go without arriving anywhere late.
My neighbor, Carol, who had clearly arrived with her grade-schooler at our bus stop well before the bus was so much as a glimmer on the horizon, could see how embarrassed I was yesterday morning. “Don’t feel bad!” she reassured me. “It’s only the first day of school!”
Yes, I thought to myself, but the first day is the day you should do everything right. The first day is supposed to be the flawless one.
Well, I replied to myself, now you know which area to target for improvement. Carol’s attitude is right: Not “It’s the first day of school!” but “It’s only the first day of school!” You have 179 more just like it to get to the bus on time.
Here’s hoping for a 179-day streak, starting tomorrow.
Showing posts with label school bus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label school bus. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Bus stop
Normally, I have a problem with chronic lateness. I never leave quite enough time to get where I’m going; I’m never quite done preparing dinner before the dinner guests arrive; I even get to bed later than I intend to every night. Running a few minutes behind schedule seems to be part of my DNA.
But there’s one significant exception: I’m never late to meet the school bus in the afternoon. In part, this is because parents learn quickly that to miss the bus drop-off is to submit oneself to a big bureaucratic hassle involving a call from the school office and a hurried trip up to school, where the parent has to enter the inner sanctum of the main office to reclaim the seemingly abandoned child, while the office administrators throw accusing glances at the arriving parent, making it clear that they’d be on their way home by now if it wasn’t for your custodial negligence.
I’ve only made that mistake once or twice, though, and that was in my kids’ earliest years of school. Now I actually look forward to waiting at the bus stop. Truth be told, I sometimes leave a little earlier than I need to for the privilege, and for me to leave to go anywhere before I need to is a rare event.
Except to the bus stop, because somehow it’s just such a tranquil interlude in my day. Especially this winter. Our driveway is nearly a half-mile long; in temperate weather I insist on walking to and from the bus stop, for the kids’ sake and also my own, but this winter has been cold and icy enough that I’ve caved on my fresh-air-and-exercise priorities and driven out every day since the first snowfall.
And then once I’m there, I experience a disproportionate sense of serenity. It feels like one of the few times of day when nothing is expected of me. I can’t do housework; I can’t write; and I can’t get on line, since I’m still not a Smartphone user and my computer is conveniently back at the house. I read the paper, savoring each section as the midafternoon traffic passes by.
Occasionally someone honks and waves; sometimes neighbors with tougher constitutions than mine even pass by on a walk. Meanwhile I sit inside my little automotive island, just relishing the silence and the vague sense of self-righteousness. I’m ahead of schedule, I’m right where I’m supposed to be and I have no other obligations until the flash of yellow school bus appears around the bend to the east. In that setting, as in almost no other, I’m early – and enjoying every second of it.
But there’s one significant exception: I’m never late to meet the school bus in the afternoon. In part, this is because parents learn quickly that to miss the bus drop-off is to submit oneself to a big bureaucratic hassle involving a call from the school office and a hurried trip up to school, where the parent has to enter the inner sanctum of the main office to reclaim the seemingly abandoned child, while the office administrators throw accusing glances at the arriving parent, making it clear that they’d be on their way home by now if it wasn’t for your custodial negligence.
I’ve only made that mistake once or twice, though, and that was in my kids’ earliest years of school. Now I actually look forward to waiting at the bus stop. Truth be told, I sometimes leave a little earlier than I need to for the privilege, and for me to leave to go anywhere before I need to is a rare event.
Except to the bus stop, because somehow it’s just such a tranquil interlude in my day. Especially this winter. Our driveway is nearly a half-mile long; in temperate weather I insist on walking to and from the bus stop, for the kids’ sake and also my own, but this winter has been cold and icy enough that I’ve caved on my fresh-air-and-exercise priorities and driven out every day since the first snowfall.
And then once I’m there, I experience a disproportionate sense of serenity. It feels like one of the few times of day when nothing is expected of me. I can’t do housework; I can’t write; and I can’t get on line, since I’m still not a Smartphone user and my computer is conveniently back at the house. I read the paper, savoring each section as the midafternoon traffic passes by.
Occasionally someone honks and waves; sometimes neighbors with tougher constitutions than mine even pass by on a walk. Meanwhile I sit inside my little automotive island, just relishing the silence and the vague sense of self-righteousness. I’m ahead of schedule, I’m right where I’m supposed to be and I have no other obligations until the flash of yellow school bus appears around the bend to the east. In that setting, as in almost no other, I’m early – and enjoying every second of it.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
In praise of schoolbus drivers
My relief was almost palpable, a sensation as restorative as a deep cleansing breath or a nap. Holly’s bus, 25 minutes late, was pulling up to the end of the driveway. All I needed to do was get her into the car and get the car four-tenths of a mile down the driveway and back into the garage and both kids would be safely home from school. I scraped the half-inch of new snow that had fallen in the time I’d been waiting off the windshield and told Holly to buckle her seatbelt even though we were on our own driveway because it was so slippery and I didn’t want to take any chances.
During the seconds-long interval that the bus idled on the road while Holly clambered down the steps, I tried to express to the driver how much I appreciated what she had done on that particular day. The snow was teeming down and had been since her second morning shift. With Holly as her last stop, she was on the final leg of the second of two successful round trips on one of the snowiest days I could remember in years. Turning the car around to head home, I couldn’t get over the relief of knowing both kids were safe at home.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about the amazing service the bus drivers perform on days like this. Yes, it’s what they’re trained to do; yes, it’s the job they’ve chosen for themselves. But still. I’m not sure I could operate a school bus in the most ideal weather conditions possible; I can’t imagine having to drive one along Carlisle’s narrow, winding, half-plowed streets on a day like this. The fact that we’ve had so many consecutive storms in the past couple of weeks make it even worse: the snowbanks are so high that visibility is reduced significantly on every turn and curve of the road.
Our bus driver, Cheryl, is new to our school this year. The kids like her. She always greets them when they climb onto the bus in the morning, and she always waves at me when she opens the door in the afternoon to let Holly out. We gave her a tin of homemade candy for Christmas; she’s the first bus driver we’ve ever had who wrote me a thankyou note and sent it to our home during the vacation week.
So I’m impressed with Cheryl even on the best of days, but never more so than on a day like this. I can do a lot of things for my kids, but I can’t drive them safely home on a school bus in the snow. She can, and has proven that several times this winter. I don’t know her at all, but I imagine there must be elements within her that are courageous, calm and physically strong. She has a tough job to do on a day like yesterday. Having to wait an extra 25 minutes for Holly to get home – 25 minutes that Cheryl spent negotiating the backroads of Carlisle in the most treacherous of conditions – only deepened my admiration for her abilities and those of all the other school bus drivers responsible for kids’ safety on a day like today. It’s not something I could do, but I will be forever grateful and impressed that they can.
During the seconds-long interval that the bus idled on the road while Holly clambered down the steps, I tried to express to the driver how much I appreciated what she had done on that particular day. The snow was teeming down and had been since her second morning shift. With Holly as her last stop, she was on the final leg of the second of two successful round trips on one of the snowiest days I could remember in years. Turning the car around to head home, I couldn’t get over the relief of knowing both kids were safe at home.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about the amazing service the bus drivers perform on days like this. Yes, it’s what they’re trained to do; yes, it’s the job they’ve chosen for themselves. But still. I’m not sure I could operate a school bus in the most ideal weather conditions possible; I can’t imagine having to drive one along Carlisle’s narrow, winding, half-plowed streets on a day like this. The fact that we’ve had so many consecutive storms in the past couple of weeks make it even worse: the snowbanks are so high that visibility is reduced significantly on every turn and curve of the road.
Our bus driver, Cheryl, is new to our school this year. The kids like her. She always greets them when they climb onto the bus in the morning, and she always waves at me when she opens the door in the afternoon to let Holly out. We gave her a tin of homemade candy for Christmas; she’s the first bus driver we’ve ever had who wrote me a thankyou note and sent it to our home during the vacation week.
So I’m impressed with Cheryl even on the best of days, but never more so than on a day like this. I can do a lot of things for my kids, but I can’t drive them safely home on a school bus in the snow. She can, and has proven that several times this winter. I don’t know her at all, but I imagine there must be elements within her that are courageous, calm and physically strong. She has a tough job to do on a day like yesterday. Having to wait an extra 25 minutes for Holly to get home – 25 minutes that Cheryl spent negotiating the backroads of Carlisle in the most treacherous of conditions – only deepened my admiration for her abilities and those of all the other school bus drivers responsible for kids’ safety on a day like today. It’s not something I could do, but I will be forever grateful and impressed that they can.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Brushing Holly's hair
Holly, at the age of 7, does not particularly like to have her hair styled. Nor does she want to do it herself. What she will consent to do most mornings when I tell her to “go-brush-teeth-‘n’-hair” – it seems to be a one-word command in our household – is scrabble at her scalp for a couple of seconds with a brush and then scoop her hair into a pony tail, or use her fingers to separate it into two pieces and call it pigtails, despite a part in the back that looks like a cartoon lightning bolt.
Other times, she isn’t even willing to do that much, just sticks in a barrette or a headband and goes through the day with a partial rolled-out-of-bed look.
Fortunately, her shoulder-length hair is almost straight and smooth enough that she can get away with it. But as her mother, I prefer to see it meticulously combed and pulled off her face to show her sweet little features. All mothers feel that way about their children’s hair and faces, I imagine.
This morning, Holly was in a more compliant mood than usual. While she stood on the bathroom stool brushing her teeth, I picked up her brush and started very gently brushing her hair out with slow, careful strokes, and to my surprise she didn’t object. I love brushing Holly’s hair. It gives me a sense of order and a sense of control, and it’s just so satisfying to see how easy it can be to make a transformation: from a flyaway mass of assorted pieces going in different direction to a soft, shiny cascade, brown with dark red highlights shimmering through. When she lets me brush her hair in the morning, I feel as if I’m sending her off to school prepared for the day: neat, shiny, organized. As if by being groomed, she’s any better equipped to face the world than she is with messy hair.
She really isn’t, I know that. But it gives me the sense that I’ve effected some small change, made some small gesture to make the path ahead of her a little easier to negotiate.
And so with a few extra minutes before we head out for the school bus, I brush Holly’s hair slowly, rhythmically, gently tugging out the tangles at the ends, almost hoping she doesn’t realize I’m doing it or she’ll protest, and then I kiss the top of her head and wish her a good day. I can’t ensure that everything will go smoothly for her once she leaves the house, so instead I do what I can: make sure her hair is tidy and neat, falling around her shoulders like satin, a reflection of the extra time we had together this morning, calm and quiet and harmonious as I brushed and she stood willingly, smiling at me in the mirror.
Other times, she isn’t even willing to do that much, just sticks in a barrette or a headband and goes through the day with a partial rolled-out-of-bed look.
Fortunately, her shoulder-length hair is almost straight and smooth enough that she can get away with it. But as her mother, I prefer to see it meticulously combed and pulled off her face to show her sweet little features. All mothers feel that way about their children’s hair and faces, I imagine.
This morning, Holly was in a more compliant mood than usual. While she stood on the bathroom stool brushing her teeth, I picked up her brush and started very gently brushing her hair out with slow, careful strokes, and to my surprise she didn’t object. I love brushing Holly’s hair. It gives me a sense of order and a sense of control, and it’s just so satisfying to see how easy it can be to make a transformation: from a flyaway mass of assorted pieces going in different direction to a soft, shiny cascade, brown with dark red highlights shimmering through. When she lets me brush her hair in the morning, I feel as if I’m sending her off to school prepared for the day: neat, shiny, organized. As if by being groomed, she’s any better equipped to face the world than she is with messy hair.
She really isn’t, I know that. But it gives me the sense that I’ve effected some small change, made some small gesture to make the path ahead of her a little easier to negotiate.
And so with a few extra minutes before we head out for the school bus, I brush Holly’s hair slowly, rhythmically, gently tugging out the tangles at the ends, almost hoping she doesn’t realize I’m doing it or she’ll protest, and then I kiss the top of her head and wish her a good day. I can’t ensure that everything will go smoothly for her once she leaves the house, so instead I do what I can: make sure her hair is tidy and neat, falling around her shoulders like satin, a reflection of the extra time we had together this morning, calm and quiet and harmonious as I brushed and she stood willingly, smiling at me in the mirror.
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