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Waiting for the Bus

 It's a prolonged battle to get outside each morning. My son sleeps late; he is worn out from school, and he isn't thrilled when I pluck him from the crib.


Each "act" in the dressing process is something like an operatic tragedy. Removing yesterday's tee shirt is an invitation to a first tantrum. The new tee shirt is also an antagonist. Socks and shoes are sore spots; the wrestling of arms into jacket sleeves is like a D-Day tactical nightmare.

On certain days, Josh draws on immense inner strength and looks on the bright side; he is happy to spend time with his George and Martha stories, and he soothes himself with milk. On other days, the clothing war is just the beginning; Josh's face says, "I'm not doing any of this," and he plants himself on the floor, as if attempting his own "die-in," as if in protest against opioids and the Sackler family.

Sometimes--twice, actually!--the nurse calls at 8:45 and says, "I'm overriding your choice to have your child educated today. He is under the weather. Pick him up." It's embarrassing when this happens once; the second time, you want to commit homicide.

Also, the bus is erratic; sometimes, the driver forgets. There seems to be no consequence for this; it's hard to find bus drivers, in this era of quiet quitting.

As I type, I just keep thinking, it's sort of insane that every day involves this little dance. And the nighttime routine is just as strange; there is (literal) kicking and screaming.

This is all that they omit from "Daniel Tiger" and "Cocomelon."
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