Dad on Duty #122 – Bus Driver Saves the Day

There is no theme or unifying thread to today’s story.  It is just random stuff that really happened, more or less in real time.  Like paintballs shot at the wall.  Presented in this format….like a Nat Geo special…. it’s weird and funny and a little disconcerting.  And that is what school is like, pretty much every day. 

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First thing, early in the am, I am escorting a Pre-K-er from car line to his classroom (because he’s a few minutes late, and we generally don’t let the littles walk themselves to class.  It’s a long way, and easy to get distracted).  As we approach the Pre-K hall, I find this:

On of our para’s, Ms. Ferguson, is kneeling in the hallway, greeting each one of her kids.  She physically connects with them, asks how they’re doing and sets her expectations for today, all the while encouraging them.  Each kid, in turn.

She does it while kneeling on the hard, unforgiving floor.  She gets all the way down there so that she is at eye level with them, which matters a lot to the kids. 

She does it without being asked, or coached.  This is not a school procedure.  This is just….her. 

She does it without fanfare, or even any recognition.

She does it because she believes that connecting with them like this is important.

She does it because she loves them.

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For our fundraiser, we are selling chocolate.  Now the fact that schools even need to have fundraisers is a whole other discussion.  But for the purposes of our story today, let’s just recognize that they do.

Lots of kids, and parents, are pouring into the office to turn in money and/or get more chocolate to sell.

These things bring an entirely new level of complexity and chaos to the school day.  Who’s money is that?  Did you get your chocolate?  I think you just ate one of the chocolate bars you told me you sold.  What am I supposed to do with this ziplock full of pennies?  You told your mom you sold $60 worth, but there’s only $47 in here….where’s the rest? 

The kids get prizes, which are essentially these trinkets on a lanyard. 

Especially for the little kids, these things become the focus of their day.  They fight over them, they covet those held by others, they throw them at each other…..

The teachers are not fans.  As you can imagine.

I take a handful of the “prizes” to one teacher to give to her kids.  She comments “oh…goodie…”.  And, all the while looking right at me, she opens a desk drawer and quietly dumps them in, and closes the trinkets in the drawer, with conviction.  Probably never to be seen again.  I just nod and walk out.

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Lunchboxes and jackets left on the playground are my personal, private hell.

I start my mid-morning door check outside the school and as I turn the corner to the blacktop, I see this.

I mutter a few very bad words.  I literally feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.

It shouldn’t bother me that much (and clearly, it doesn’t bother anyone else, at all), but it does. 

I gather them up and, if they have names, I track the kid down and get it to them.  For a few kids, it’s my 3rd or 4th lunchbox rescue run for them already this year. 

I am always sure to point that out to the kid.

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I usually try to help outside with Pre-K and Kindergarten recess.  Recess for the very littles is challenging, to say the least.

As I’m attempting to keep track of these small people running amok, as well as adjudicate arguments over who’s acorn collection this is (“I helped him find them!”) and dissuade the use of sharp sticks as a part of our game of tag, a little boy walks up to me with a dollar in his outstretched hand.

“You can have this” he tells me.  I think he means he needs me to hold it.  See, Fridays (today) are ice cream day, and you need to bring actual cash money to get your ice cream.  Many kids struggle with storing their ice cream money before lunch.  So I often act as their personal bank, holding their money until they’re ready for it.

“Is that your ice cream money?” I ask him.  “Yuh huh” he replies.  “I can hold it for you if you need.  Just remember to get it from me before lunch, because I might forget.” 

He replies “no.  I want you to have it.  You can have it.  I’m giving it to you.”

It takes me a few seconds to figure that out. 

I hug him.  “Thank you.  That’s very sweet.  But I’ve got lunch money.  I’m fine.  I would like you to use it for ice cream.”

“OK” he says, and sticks it back in his pocket and goes to play.

I stand there for a moment and reflect.  What just happened?  A five year old tried to give me his ice cream money?  Why?

Then another five year old ran by chasing a classmate with a sharp stick, and it was back to work.

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When I work over at Cooper, I take lunch to my kid at the middle school across the street.  She always wants Whataburger. 

To expedite things, I usually use the Whataburger app to pre-order, so I can just walk in, grab it, and go.

I decide to take this playground time to get the order turned in, as sometimes Tori’s lunch time sneaks up on me and I end up in a panic.

So I sit down on one of the benches out on the play area, and get my phone out.

Then two things happen.

First, I get swarmed by kids.  I’m now closer to their level, and more accessible, so a bunch of kids run over and hug me, many of them sitting down beside me or climbing on me while I try to operate the app.

Second, I get a lot of Whataburger orders.  They ask what I’m doing, and I tell them.  Now I’ve got half a dozen kids crawling over me to see my phone, and pointing out on the app menu what they would like for lunch, thank you.  And being very specific.  “No pickles” one points out, with authority. 

And cue surprisingly passionate debates regarding the virtues and failings of mustard on your burger.

Sadly, I must inform them all that they aint getting Whataburger today.

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As I’m walking back in to the cafeteria to help with lunch time for another group, I see a couple of guys in a branded air conditioner repair service truck pull up on the side of the school and park.  I wait for a moment, and as they head to the kitchen door, I ask them “you know where you’re going?”  “Yes, got it” they reply.  I notice they are neither District staff nor do they have “visitor” stickers.  As I am pondering this, they let themselves in the kitchen door and disappear. 

I’m sure it’s perfectly legit, but as I think about it more, I realize I need to tell somebody they’re here.

I go find the A/P and tell her about the situation.  “I’m sure it’s fine” I comment.  “No, it’s not.  They can’t be in here without clearance” she replies.

She dispatches Valerie to find them and bring them to justice. 

When Valerie locates them, they have disappeared up into the ceiling to work on an a/c unit.  She radios back “they are up in the ceiling.  Want me to go up there and get them?”

Yes.  Yes we do.  But wait till we get there to watch.  Also, give us an extra few seconds to get some popcorn. 

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After returning to school from Tori lunch delivery, I go outside to help with another recess session. I am met by second-grade classes heading back into school. The first two teachers both tell me “we’ve got a bunch of crying kids. Balls are stuck up in trees”.  Sure enough, right behind the teachers, are crying boys.  “OK, I’ll see what I can do.”  I go out to the big tree and voila, we’ve got two dodge balls hung up about 20 feet In the air.

A ladder, a broom & a bunch of swinging, and the balls are free.

I deliver them to their owners, much to their surprise. 

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Walking back down the hallway, I merge with a 3rd grade class on their way to music. One kid is sniffing his arm.  “You ok?” I ask him. “My arm smells like rootbeer!”  

O…..K…….  Could be worse. 

A little girl a little farther back in the line sees me talking with root beer-arm-boy and, determined not to be outdone, comes up to me and declares “our cat ate a lizard this morning”.  Excellent.  I bet the lizard was a jerk and deserved it. 

I hastily retreat from the 3rd grade hall experience before this gets any weirder.

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It is now dismissal time for Pre-K.  One little princess is crying as she comes out of the classroom door to line up for the march to the busses.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.  Her teacher interjects; “she really misses her mommy” and proceeds to remind the little girl that she is headed, right now, to go see mom.  The girl is consoled for a moment, then starts sobbing again.  Another teacher tries as well, and again it works for a few seconds.  Finally, I hug her and hold her hand, walking down the hall.  That helps for a little longer, but by the time we get to the end of the hall, she’s crying again.

As we help her up into the bus (by the way, when you’re that little, the bus steps are HUGE), the bus driver calls her by name and also asks “what’s wrong?”.  She tells him about missing mommy.

The driver, who is quite a bit older than all of us (even me…hard to believe, I know….) bends way down to get close to her, and embraces her.  He talks to her for a long time, telling her that he is taking her straight to mommy and not to worry.  He promises it will be just fine in a few minutes. 

We all wait, patiently, during this exchange.  And I realize…..I believe him.  It will be fine. 

The princess sniffles and wipes her nose.

And, finally, is consoled.

She smiles back at the driver, and takes her seat. 

We, silently, load the rest of the kids. 

The bus driver….the bus driver.…had the connection and the words to make her feel better, when none of the rest of us did.

I walk back into school, humbled.

And amazed.