Bus Confusion

Mazie is a good kindergartener. She stays on green. She does her homework. Each month her skills improve. Kindergarten has gone very smoothly so far.

The bus has gone...mostly well.

This morning, Mazie, Vivian and I did our morning trek out to the bus stop. We took our wet weather route that involves less slogging than the fastest way. We got to the bus stop and stood there for a few minutes while I lectured Mazie on the importance of keeping her backpack closed and taking out the hand lens I sent her to school with ONLY when the teacher asked her to share. Mazie's class is learning about the five senses and so had to bring one thing today that relates to one sense. She had already planned to take the hand lens and I agreed because it is small, not a toy, and a great fit for the assignment.

One moment I was lecturing and the next Mazie was saying emphatically, "We can't stay here; we have to go to the other bus stop!" She was pulling my hand in yonder direction and her voice had that rising quality that accompanies imminent distress. My brain lit up with confusion. Surely not. Surely the transportation system or the bus driver (that's Miss Lois with whom I exchange a kind greeting twice a day) would have told me if there was a bus stop change. The bus stops are sanctified, democratically arranged locations of meeting. No way is there a change without the parents being notified.

But Mazie was DISTRAUGHT. I thought: Okay, there's no harm in going up to the other bus stop which we can sort of almost see from here; it would be a four-minute walk for a three-year-old. I can just ask Miss Lois as Mazie boards. Plus, there's a slight chance Mazie's right; stranger things have happened in the world of school communications. So we started up the street to Mazie's obvious relief. We had barely set out when the bus swung into view, meaning our only option was to just go back to our curb and stay put. Mazie started crying hysterically.

There we were: Vivian, an innocent bystander clad in a fuzzy pink hat with glitter sparkles. Mazie, in the middle of a nervous breakdown sputtering about how she'll get a referral if she gets picked up at her own bus stop (poor thing). Me speaking in tones way too loud to be comforting, saying "Trust Mommy; we'll get it worked out. This is probably a misunderstanding. You will not get a referral! Has Mommy led you wrong in the past?"

To which Mazie answered through her tears, "Yes..."

Now, I'd like to know when. This is the sort of blythe accusation you just sort of plow on through as a parent. So I abandoned reasoning, and not a moment too soon, for the bus had arrived. The bus door squeaked open. Miss Lois, who has been the most awesome bus driver ever, including giving Mazie a note praising her for her bus behavior and giving Mazie and Vivian each a premie-sized Halloween onesie for their premie-sized baby dolls, picked up on Mazie's terror right away.

"What's wrong with Mazie?"
"She's concerned that if she doesn't go to the other bus stop she'll get a referral."
"Oh, Noooooo. I was talking about them (gestures to the kids sitting behind her). Mazie's perfect!" Miss Lois grabbed Mazie in a bear hug, Mazie stopped crying, and all was right with the world again.

It feels good for anybody to call your kid perfect in any context. I remember the pediatrician using "perfect" to describe Mazie when she was an infant. For the next half-hour I was like ET with a visibly glowing heart. I hope all parents feel this way about their kids and I'm not unusually proud about my kids.

Miss Lois saved the day for Mazie. Furthermore, it appears I did not lead Mazie wrong, at least in this instance.