The Finger On The Bus Goes Up & Down.

Good luck, moms. Very soon we will be off to the races. And don't kid yourself — it is a fucking race.  From August until May, you better have your wits about you or you will either lose your damn mind, start beating your children or become an alcoholic.

Here it comes. The permission slips, the homework, the lunches, the special projects, the class parties, the school programs. With joy and fear in my heart, I humbly approach the school year and pray to God that I make it until Fall Break, before I start forgetting to pack lunches, losing backpacks and killing class pets. 

This year, though, I’ve decided to make it a little easier on myself.  

Last school year, I would get off work around 2:45 pm and race to pick up my kids by 3. I was always late and when I finally arrived, they weren't exactly happy to see me but rather riled up and ready to go at me for my tardiness. 

"You're always the last one to pick us up!"

"Why are you so late?"

"Why do we have to wait so long?"

What they were really saying is…..

"Why do you suck so bad? A better mom would be on time to pick up her kids."

I've heard it said (maybe on Grey's Anatomy or some other equally compelling prime time drama) that "If you don't like what's being said, change the conversation."  Well, Amen. 

I'm sick of listening to it. I know I'm late, but I've heard that the school bus is always on time. So I'm making good on my threat. I'm throwing those girls on the bus. Dun. Dun. Dun.

Once upon a time, back before I knew better, I vowed that I'd never put my children on a school bus. Why? Because on Southwest Dubois County School Corporation's Bus Number 2, I didn’t just get a ride home, I got an “education.”

“Hey Kid!”

That kid, yeah, that would be me —  6 years old, carrying a Pound Puppy backpack complete with matching lunch box.

“Kid! Do you know which finger is the bad finger?”  Do you know how to use it?”

I didn’t know there was a bad finger. If there was a bad finger, was there also a good finger? This was thoroughly confusing. Was this a “This little piggy went to market type thing?”  Did I also have a finger that ate roast beef and went "wee wee wee" all the way home?

“Hey Kid!"

Yeah, again, that kid was me.  

“Kid! You don’t believe in Santa do you? HA! Kid — You. Are. An. Idiot!"

Idiot? Huh? I wasn’t even sure I’d heard that word before - so you can imagine my surprise when F-bombs started flying around the bus come spring.

Santa? My parent’s couldn’t be Santa, how could they fit the presents down the chimney?

I was six, confused and just flat freaked out by the bus and its giant acne-ridden teenage riders.

Seeing that the girls are now 6 and 8, I've deemed them old enough to learn about F-bombs, and Santa. It's time they grew up. They can learn the down and dirty facts of life on the school bus just like their good old mom did back in the day while they go riding "wee wee wee" all the way home.

And if they don't like it, well, when they get home...I'm sure they'll give me the finger.