|Walking to the bus|
There's a Dar Williams song that says:
"The first part of every day for me is good
I've got the bus stop in my neighborhood
Everything's on purpose, everywhere they go
Hiding in my car and running in the snow
Running with the friends they'll know for years
I've seen it all from here, from here
It happens every day, before they go to school
They play until the bus drives up beside my lawn
And there's always been a mother who waits till they are gone
Then she turns away, Happens every day"
It's strange to be the mother at the bus stop. I love the bus, and I hate the bus. It is so convenient and easy. And it is so cruel...in a cliched way. She climbs the steps that are so big for her now. She looks at me from the window. I wave. It's a yellow school bus! Years from now, just seeing one will make me pine for these days. Or maybe not, but now, every time I watch it drive away it's a little bit awful. And it's also so convenient and easy and I walk back home with the soon to be middle child, and it's fine. But "the bus" is a symbol, bigger than my family or my Kindergartner It's everybody's Kindergartner headed off to school, every child heading out alone, away from the home fire, each stop adding more to their number until they're a bus-full, buzzing and churning to get out and do all the big things they're going to do.
I've learned I can only handle all this 3 or 4 times a week, and one day, usually a Friday, I drive her to school just to avoid it all.