We have a complicated schedule of pick ups and drop offs for all three children during the week. We created a chart and posted it on the refrigerator to keep everything straight, and we still make paranoid phone calls to each other during the day to make sure someone doesn't get left behind. I recall the story of the man who left his baby in the car all day in his work parking lot and think, "There but for the grace of God go I."
Within all the insanity, two or three days a week, I have the pleasure of waiting for the bus with Ellis. On those mornings, we walk up one block to his bus stop and I listen to him chatter on about whatever is on his mind at the moment. I hold his hand as he climbs up onto the retaining wall on the side of our across-the-street neighbor's house and balances on the stones all the way to the end until he jumps off with a feeling of great satisfaction. At the stop, he spins around in a circle holding out his backpack - a "magic trick" he learned from one of the other boys. We play games, I observe the other children, sometimes, I talk to the pastor of the church located on the same corner. Then the bus comes and I say, "Here comes the bus. Remember to get off at your stop. I love you. Have a good day!"
Perhaps, once winter comes and the dewy mild fall mornings end, I won't always leave the house earlier than we need to. For now, though, I appreciate the way this act of waiting makes me feel as if I have somehow stepped out of time. Waiting for the schoolbus gives me the freedom to linger, to be completely in a moment with my sweet kindergartner, before we both get swept up into the busy flow of the day.