On the Bus

When Caleb was about five years old, Jon invented a special father-to-son sign. He’d blow him a kiss and immediately lift the outstretched hand into a “thumbs up.” Caleb would make the sign in return. This affectionate gesture began as part of a goodnight routine and later evolved into an any-time-we-part-ways tradition. I started using it each morning as I sent Caleb off to kindergarten, mostly to soothe my own discomfort.

The school bus has always caused a sort of panic for me. I never rode it in all of my schooling, but imagined it as nothing more than playground bullies and mischief on wheels. Each morning as Caleb boarded the school bus and took his regular seat which overlooked the bus’s folding stop sign, I cringed at the thought of my boy leaving my protective wing. His little round toe head seemed far too innocent to be peering out of that big, bad yellow bus. I knew each day was a challenge for him and my heart would ache a little each morning as I watched his sweet face fade from my view. As we made our special sign through the window, I felt better. It became a sort of superstition for me; as if giving the sign somehow insured he’d be okay.

Those good-byes continued through second grade and they always evoked the same emotions. Then, a new school was built in our neighborhood and getting to school no longer required riding a bus. Somewhere along the line we stopped using our special sign and in fact, I had forgotten about the ritual until one morning when Caleb was in fourth grade. He had just headed out the door to school when Natalie emerged from her bed having just missed the opportunity to say good-bye. We ran to the door step and could see Caleb starting to round the corner, still visible from our front porch.

I called to him. He turned and gave a cheerful wave. He continued waving until that sweet blonde hair was no longer in sight. The gesture was different but the feeling the same.

“There he goes,” I thought to myself just as I did every day when I’d watched the bus disappear. “Gosh, I love that kid.” I offered silent petitions for his safety and success as he ventured off to school, his most difficult environment.

Starting middle school meant a return to riding a school bus. We avoided it on the first day. With so many other anxieties, the bus was one more thing neither one of us wanted to worry about. On the second day, however, he thought he was ready. I wasn’t so sure. The overcrowded bus bursting with adolescents was far more intimidating than the elementary bus had ever been.

On that morning of the second day, I was the only mom standing at the bus stop. Evidently other students this age don’t need or want their mothers at their side for fear it may damage their façade of independence and their fragile peer image. I quietly asked Caleb if he were embarrassed by my presence. He seemed puzzled that I’d even ask such a question and answered that he was glad to have someone to stand with.

The bus arrived and the students filed aboard. He was now much too old for the old thumbs-up sign, even though I still needed its reassurance. In fact, he was even too old for me to linger on the corner and stare as I wanted to. I wanted to watch to make sure he found a seat, to see who sat beside him, and to make sure none of those older punk kids bothered him in any way. Instead, I turned for home with only a quick backward glance to see the tail lights rounding the corner. And I prayed.

The bus drove away and a little piece of my heart went with it.

He says he’ll soon be ready to walk to the bus stop alone. I actually like walking with him but I am weary of my presence placing a stigma on a boy that is already prone to teasing, so I am encouraging him to make the step. It’s been several days now and we’re both getting closer to being able to let go of each other.

Caleb’s adjustment to middle school has been far smoother than I could’ve ever imagined, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to watching that bus drive away with my sweet, naïve boy inside. I still need our special sign even if he doesn’t. But with or without the sign, there will always be prayers. Lots of them.

*I actually wrote this little essay several years ago but recently added the middle school portion after experiencing the old familiar discomfort of watching Caleb ride away on the bus. Then, late last week we had a couple of experiences that justify my school bus anxiety. Stay tuned for those stories and be prepared to laugh and feel very sorry for Caleb--in a funny sort of way.