On Wednesdays We...

Keep It Moving

On Wednesdays, we wear pink. Right?

Actually, I try to. Because in my world, pink on Wednesday means something specific — it's how a lot of us bus drivers quietly show up for the ones in our ranks who have fought cancer. It's a small thing. It matters anyway.

But there's a lot more that goes into my Wednesday than a color choice.

My alarm goes off at 4:30.

Then 4:50. Then 5:00. Then 5:10. By 5:30 I've hit snooze more times than I can count, and I'm in the bathroom taking a shower that is always, without exception, too long, because it is the only uninterrupted quiet I will have for the next several hours and my body knows this even when my schedule doesn't.

Skin care, makeup, teeth, hair, clothes, jewelry. Fill the Stanley. Put my meds on the lid so I remember to take them once my stomach wakes up, which takes longer than the rest of me. Pack the bag — small purse, theoretically, though I'm fairly certain it weighs exactly as much as the diaper bags I carried for years. Different contents, same gravitational pull.

Somewhere in this same window I am also getting Everett ready.

Everett, who hates getting up early, (unless it's a Saturday). Who hates being rushed. Who hates having choices made for him. Who treats sock selection like a negotiation requiring a mediator and brushing his teeth like a philosophical debate he intends to win. We should be out the door when the 5:50 alarm rings.

We leave after 6:00. Every time. Without fail.

There's a solid chance Everett hasn't eaten, because he was dragging his feet all morning and there wasn't time. So I'm ordering McDonald's or Sonic on the app while racing out of the neighborhood. We stop, we collect whatever was ordered, we race the rest of the way to the high school where my bus is parked.

I can make that drive in 8 minutes alone. With my tagalong: 20 minutes, minimum.

It is now 6:23. I take corners faster than I should. My bus aide is already there and has been for a while, though he will not admit this because he is too kind to call me on my constant tardiness. I leave Everett in the car with his kindle and his food — spoiler: by the time he needs to come to the bus he has had approximately three bites and I will spend the rest of the morning saying "Everett, eat" at regular intervals like a very tired metronome.

I drive a SpEd bus. I know what people sometimes picture when they hear that, and I want to be clear: my kids are not a horror story. They are eleven small humans with big situations and specific routines and parents who are doing their best. I have learned their stories, their medical histories, their siblings' names, their parents' jobs. Some of those parents have become genuine friends.

I have special routines with some of the kids. Things that must be said, in order, every single day, or the day starts wrong.

"All right guys, you know the rule — backpacks on before you leave your seat, and have a great day!" - That's the start of my goodbyes when we get to the elementary school.

I flip the doors open to the horde of teachers waiting to shepherd the kids inside: teachers, aides, helpers, the whole army that shows up every single day giving these kids everything they've got.

Then the parade begins.

Everett gets "bye bubb, I love you." S gives me a hug and assures me she will make good choices. B makes it to the front of the bus and stops, blocking everyone, every day. J rushes down the steps so fast it makes my heart stop every single morning. I is my little minion — wanders without direction until I give him one. N insists on checking his own name off the drop-off roster. And H greets us every morning with Happy Wednesday! with the full conviction of someone announcing something important.

She is not wrong. It is important. They are important and I make sure they know it. Plus, *these* kids are always excited to see me, (the ones at home, not so much), so I give them a lot of big energy every day, no matter what is going on for me off of the bus. The bus is its own world and I thrive there.

It's now 7:24 and I think to myself "I love these kids.", and off we go again.

I see Everett in a lot of them. I see my other kids, too. Which means sometimes I'm holding the secret key one of them needs that day, or the hug or the understanding. I also understand their parents in a specific way. So I give unsolicited advice. Probably too much of it. Things I wish someone had said to me ten years ago, hoping something lands.

I am more generous with wisdom on the bus route than I am in my own kitchen. Make of that what you will.

We finish about 8:45, after running the high school route — tier 3, for those keeping track. It has been less than two and a half hours. It feels like it's been a full day.

I lock up the bus and head home, where there are dishes. Laundry. The business to manage. Errands. Meals. Dogs. Grocery shopping. Getting a few minutes of kid-free time with Jason. The Amazon returns that have been sitting by the door for an amount of time I will not admit publicly.

It is not yet noon.

And here's the Wednesday thing: you look at all of it and make a quiet, practical decision.

• Not today.
• Not this one.
• This can wait.

You stay functional. You keep it surface level. Nothing that requires the kind of energy you already spent before 9am.

It's not avoidance exactly. Let's call it: resource management.

At least that's what I tell myself, again, next Wednesday.

— Holly | Life Behind the Screens