The Bus Gods Smiled

Today after taking Hutton to the bus, Harrison and I headed to his new art class. It's a nice way to get all the crafty stuff done without having to make a big mess in my own house. He gets to paint, cut things out, and use glitter, and I don't have to worry about the glitter everywhere until we bring the finished project home next week. Win-win!

After art class, we headed to BFF's house for lunch and companionship (I get some adult conversation, Harrison gets to play with her four-year-old daughter). As I was announcing, "Harrison, we need to leave to go get Hutton!" he was in the process of pooping. OK, quick diaper change. Then we got out to the car, and I realized we were going to be late. Crap. We had 10 minutes to get home -- a drive that takes at least 15. D'oh!

I drove as quickly as I could, without endangering the life of my child and myself. I managed to hit every red light. My stomach was dancing around, telling me, "You suck! You are going to miss the bus, and I bet the driver doesn't have your cell phone number and it will take an hour to track her down and get Hutton. Yep, you suck, all right!"

"Shut up, Stomach!" (This wasn't necessary to say out loud, as my stomach and I can communicate without speech. Stomach also tells me when it needs chocolate.)

I was growing more anxious by the second, as I was at least 5 minutes later than the regular bus arrival time, but when I turned onto the next to last street before our house, I noticed a short bus a few streets up driving in our direction. Hmm. It didn't look like Hutton's bus, but just maybe....

I turned onto our street and pulled to the side of the road. I got out of the car just as the bus pulled up. It was a substitute bus -- smaller and older than the regular one, which was why I hadn't recognized it. Hallelujah! I commented on the "new bus" to the driver, and she said, "Yeah, it's small, old, and SLOW! The regular bus is getting an oil change." I smiled and thought, thank you, Slow Bus! I made no comment about how I had been late and just pulled in moments before. No reason to let the driver know how irresponsible I am, right?

Based on a True Story*

It is Halloween. My son holds my hand as we walk to the bus stop to wait for the school bus. He has his Halloween costume stuffed in his backpack; toward the end of the school day, he'll change into his costume for the class party. He is excited to be a pirate, and has been practicing his "argghs!" all morning.

The bus is few minutes late this morning, and I jog in place to keep warm. It's colder today than it's been all month. Finally I see the bus rounding the bend and coming to a halt.

The STOP sign flips out, and the door creaks open. I walk my son up to the steps, and look up to the bus driver, Heather. She is unrecognizable this morning, wearing a clown costume with a big red nose and wig. I remark about her perfect disguise, and lead my son back to his seat. I am about to put him in his carseat, when I call up to Heather, asking where the other passengers are. Normally there are three other boys on the bus by the time it gets to our stop. Heather grunts from the front. As my mind slowly realizes that the grunt from the front was way too low and guttural to have been from Heather, I notice the blood on the seats in the back, and then it is too late.



*The true part: Hutton's bus driver, Heather, did wear a clown costume on Halloween, and she was unrecognizable. But she wasn't an evil clown. Phew!

For Your Reading Pleasure, a Bad Mommy Story

Today started relatively well. I slept in until 9, the boys got up and entertained themselves without destroying anything for an hour or so, the cat only meowed loudly enough to wake me 2 or 3 times...Good morning.

Hutton ate his lunch with plenty of time for us to go catch the bus, and Harrison said he wanted to walk to the bus stop with us, so as I was getting him dressed, I thought Hutton was ready to go. We walked out of the front door, and were starting up the street when Hutton announced he needed to use the bathroom.

"Are you sure? We don't really have enough time."

Hutton, now screaming and crying, "Use the potty!"

OK. Number one, we're not going to be able to get him back inside, have him use the potty, and get back to the bus stop before the bus arrives.

Number two, in his newsletter from Kindergarten last Friday, the teacher announced that they no longer refer to it as "using the potty". Now that they're big Kindergartners, they say, "using the bathroom."

So, I quickly tell Hutton to say, "Use the bathroom," as I'm dragging him through the driveway. He falls down on the gravel and his screaming increases, as I try to herd him and his brother into the house and towards the potty bathroom. As Hutton pees and cries, I notice his dirty, scraped up palm from falling in the driveway, and feel bad, but continue to be the Bitchy Mom that I am, and tell him angrily that next time he needs to use the potty bathroom BEFORE we leave the house to catch the bus. I hurry him through pulling up his pants and washing his hands, still bitching about the fact that we're going to be late, and run up the street, carrying Harrison and half-dragging Hutton behind me. Hutton is crying that he wants me to hold him, because his hand probably hurts, but that isn't part of the Bitchy Mom's plan.

The bus arrives as we're still 50 yards away. When we finally reach the bus and I strap Hutton into his carseat, he is still upset about falling down, and probably about being dragged into the house, dragged down the street, etc. The bus driver cheerily tells me we don't need to run next time. Plenty of time. I give her my best fake smile and hustle Harrison off the bus, so we can walk home with me all sweaty and frazzled and Harrison happily pointing out the cars and horses we pass.

Did I mention I have a very short fuse?

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So, after Harrison and I have eaten lunch and I have returned to Stable Mom mode, I call to get myself an appointment for a haircut. Hubby watches Harrison, or rather, lets "Curious George" babysit him, and I drive off to enjoy an hour's peace, and try to return to a look that doesn't say, "Cousin It with purple hair". As I'm enjoying my peace in the hair salon, I notice a little bag in the hairstylist's drawer with the words, "For Your Pleasure" written on it. It's in a drawer with a bunch of shavers and curling irons, but for some reason, I don't associate hand-held appliances and the words "For Your Pleasure" with getting my hair cut.