The Wheels on the Bus

School is in session now and three of my four children are attending the local elementary school. Every day. For 8 hours a day.

Uh, yeah. Can I get a "Wa Hoo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"?

So you'd think with the sudden abundance of free time, I'd be blogging daily. After all, I have a 3-page list of stories to share with you 11 followers, and I hate the thought of my faithful few checking this site every day for something new, only to find the same, stale, August edition.

Unfortunately, despite the glorious freedom of the 5-day school week, it takes me about 7 of my 8 daily hours to recover from the trauma of the bus stop. I spend the final hour alternating between washing the breakfast dishes and curling up in the corner whispering, "They're coming... they're coming... they're coming..."

Maybe we didn't get the whole bus thing started off on the right foot. If you read this post, you know that my kids are notorious for making bad first impressions. The countywide "Bus Round-Up" - a practice ride for the kindergartners and their parents - was no exception. For starters, I made the mistake of giving the girls' driver, Ms. Janice, a jar of attempted homemade preserves.... and our names.

"Hi! This is Emily, this is Evie, and I'm their mom."

We were about half-way through the ride when Evie told me that her tummy hurt. I tried to ignore her greenish complexion and told her she'd feel better in a few minutes.

Which she did, right after she stepped off the bus and puked on the sidewalk.

"Oh, is Emily alright? Or is that Evie?" Ms. Janice asked.

I muttered a response, wiped down my child as best I could, and bee-lined for the door as Ms. Janice surveyed the mess we'd left behind. It must have triggered something in her mind, because she suddenly hollered, "Oh by the way, thanks for the jam!"

Lovely.

Not that I needed that delightful first impression to make my children memorable. During these first several weeks of school, Emily and Evie have alternated with what I've come to think of as "terror tantrums." There is no rhyme or reason to a terror tantrum. Maybe Emily accidentally packed her pink pony instead of her purple one. Maybe Evie ran out of time to finish her third round of breakfast . Whatever the cause, the result is always the same: me chasing a shrieking child down the street, dragging her back to the bus, and allowing Ms. Janice to peel her off of me while the flailing child cries hysterically, "I DON'T WANT TO RIDE ON THE BUS!!!"

At this point, I have to mention that we have several lovely Indian women in our neighborhood, and that while the other parents simply watch their child load and then walk away, these particular mothers wait until the bus actually pulls out to leave. Which means that they have witnessed every one of the terror tantrums - usually with their jaws hanging somewhere down around their knees.

I'm dying to know the parenting secrets of India...

Not that my children are the only ones giving the family a bad rap. I'm more than capable of accomplishing that on my own. Just yesterday, I was late getting to the bus stop and Ms. Janice was forced to relinquish care of my children to one of several kind neighbors. My neighbor was a little surprised, my children were more than traumatized, and I was totally embarrassed.

So today, when I nearly missed the bus again, I was forced to kick off my shoes and sprint down the street screaming, "I'm here! I'm here! Don't leave yet, I'm here!!!"

You know that song about the wheels on the bus going 'round and 'round? There should probably be a verse in there somewhere about the crazy lady chasing it down the street.