My daughter entered kindergarten in Bozeman Montana and though adamant that she wasn’t a “little” girl and should have all the rights and responsibilities that come with being an American citizen, she was, however, five and I seriously questioned her ability to make sound decisions based upon her inability to eat anything without depositing it all over her cheeks. However, knowing she’ll eventually be on her own (shudder), I tried to provide her with opportunities for independence; even at great cost to my own mental health.
This is how I became a bus stalker. The little darling had requested she be allowed to ride the bus. Frankly, given the open-enrollment policy of the school district, just getting her settled in a school confused me so much that I had the information lady at the school district screening my calls.
Me: “You mean, she can go to any school in town?”
School District Lady: “Yes. (she said brightly) Well, except that children who live close to the schools have priority (we don't live near any schools) and children who already have siblings in the schools have priority (ours is an only child) and it’s first come first serve…Ooops, you already missed the enrollment event at the schools…(great).”
Me: “Uh… so, uh…”
School District Lady: “Well, there is another enrollment opportunity tomorrow morning at 8 am, but you should probably get there early…some parents camp out all night… (Yikes!)”
Me: “Well, how do I choose a school?”
School District Lady: “Oh, let’s see…one of the best schools is top notch, small, and would be perfect for your little darling.”
Translation: most people pick other schools, so it should be easy to get her in that one since you waited until the last minute to bother with caring about your child’s education, you lazy excuse for a parent.
Once she was settled in the school, I found I needed to have her in an after school program twice a week and that she’d need school transportation to get her there. Now, the idea of coordinating my child with busses terrified me. I mean, when I was a kid, you went to the corner of your street, a bus came along and picked you up, dropped you off at your nearby school and, at the end of the day, the same bus picked you up and dropped you off at your street corner (where your stay-at-home mom stood loyal and true, ready to scoop you up, feed you cookies and hear about your mishaps and triumphs in between vacuuming and preparing the pot roast) Simple.
Bozeman, because of open enrollment, had kids all mixed up throughout the community so the bus system had incorporated a transfer station. A clever thing, really, but I couldn’t wrap my mind around my little, tiny, cupcake, who’s hard pressed to put her shoes on the right feet, managing to (in this order) remember to ride a bus on the designated days, get on the right numbered bus, get off it at the transfer station, get on a different numbered bus, and (probably the most difficult concept for me) remember to actually get off at the after school program bus stop. I had to see it to believe it, so I devised a plan.
Her first bus day began with the following conversation.
Me: “Today, you ride the bus.”
Girl Child: “I’m a big dancing chicken .”
Me: “Cassie, really, this is important, today remember to ride the bus after school. Mommy won’t pick you up, you’ll ride the bus. Do you remember the bus number?”
Girl Child: “Bus, bus, bus….chicken.”
Aside from the poultry fixation, she seemed to absorb the general bus concept. Great. I dropped her off at school and reminded her again, in front of her teacher, to ride the bus and checked that her purple bus instruction tag remained attached to her backpack. Handing her over to the teacher felt like checking airport luggage.
That afternoon, I arrived a half hour before school was out, so that I could park and stake out the bus loading zone. I climbed up a grassy knoll and sat low, staring intently at the group of gathering bus riders until I spotted her, my little purple-coated offspring. At first, she stood in the wrong line and I nearly panicked, my muscles tensing, ready to leap from my hiding spot. Luckily, someone waved a sign, her number, and she obediently righted the situation. Whew!
The bus brigade stacked in, and my girl obediently followed her line onto her bus, #141. Time for my next phase of supervision so I hopped back into my truck. However, at the same time, all the drive-up parents arrived; effectively jamming up the whole block so when the busses began their departure I sat stuck behind somebody’s smoking Volvo. Noooooooooo!
I strained to keep my eye on #141 as I made several attempts to ease around the Volvo. Finally, I squeaked by, and put the pedal to the metal…top speed 25 mph. #141 turned a corner 3 blocks from my location but I knew the area well enough that I thought I could catch it. I turned the same corner and did not see any busses. Oh No!! Then, a glimpse of yellow down a side street and I resumed my chase.
A few blocks later, all the busses stopped at a local middle school; the transfer station. Unfortunately, I could not park anywhere near #141 and had to keep my eyes on its location (nestled among a line of replicas) while I jockeyed for parking and debated with myself whether it was better to park looking straight at the busses or park with the direction of the busses so I could make an easy break to follow her second bus. I tried a variety of parking configurations. An old man on the corner, and his shitzu, stared at me.
Oops, the kids began the transfer process. I could see Cassie’s purple coat plop onto the sidewalk and dissapear behind other busses, tracked her purple shoes make a few confused circles, approach a teacher's loafers and get pointed to the next bus. However, I couldn’t see the number! I left my parking location and made a loop around the block but by the time I got around I could no longer visualize her current location in the queue. I lost her!!
I made another loop and crept by all the busses, desperately staring through the windows for the haircut I knew so well. About then, I became aware of the suspicious expressions on the other parents and teachers who watched me creeping by and knew my behavior mimicked some deranged kidnapper.
Fortunately, I spotted Cassie; bus #96 and 4th in the bus queue. I pulled into a no parking zone, idled for a quick departure, but all the busses departed in unison; baring any other cars from invading the convoy. I had to wait for 17 busses to depart before I could join them and by then I’d completely lost sight of #96. My efforts to track my child had ended in failure and I swear somebody wrote down my license number. Not good.
The busses began to leave the herd but I couldn’t see #96. Implementing my last desperate plan, I headed toward the after-school location hoping I’d see #96 along the way. A wink of yellow down 3rd street gave me hope but when I caught up to it, it was only #82. Crap. A kid in back stuck his tongue out at me and another waved both hands.
In the end, I parked by the child care and waited; trying to calm my respiration and heart rate. Eventually #96 arrived and children spilled out; the last, wearing a purple coat trotted into the gates completely unaware of her mother watching from the shadows. She did it.
After that, I felt confident she could handle this process and didn’t bother to stalk busses again. A few days later, my work phone rang twice. One call, her child care to say she had not arrived with the rest of the children and the other call, her school who’d heard from the child care that she had not arrived with the rest of the children. I advised she should have arrived. We panicked. The school secretary offered to call the bus company to try to locate her. I waited in agony for her return call. It turned out Cassie had been visiting with another child and had forgotten to get off at the child care location. The driver had to circle back at the end of the route to drop her off.
My child had a blast. I had half a bottle of red wine that night. From then on, though, I trusted the system and she seemed to get the hang of it. Apparently, she is more competent then I’d given her credit for and I had my first opportunity to let go and trust the little goofball. How does anyone survive parenting? Where's my wine...
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