De bus! De bus!

Reminiscent of Mr. Rourke from Fantasy Island, I greet the summer school bus upon arrival every morning. With a fake grin plastered to my face, I stand by as each student descends those steep steps, complimenting outfits, sharing weather-related observations and attempting to coax reluctant smiles from despondent children. Then I wait to receive the daily bus-behavior update. Who spit on who. Who lashed out vindictively at another with a hairbrush or, my favorite, a tiny clip-on tie. The bus is a mobile microcosm of deviancy. Cherubs transform into terrorists during the twenty minute ride. To shield Savannah from the driving debauchery residing on the bus, our teen neighbors told my then-first grader that the middle finger meant "be quiet."

While I'm not quite ready to give up a percentage of my own paycheck just yet, I firmly believe that bus drivers DO NOT receive a compensatory salary reflective of their enormous responsibilities. Etiquette upholder, discipline enforcer, nanny, homework helper, advice-giver, relationship mediator, referee...all while keeping two capable hands on the wheel and careful eyes on the road, occasionally looking into that long rear-view mirror to yell, "Sit down back there! Do you want me to pull this bus over?" Outnumbered thirty to one, bus drivers must rely on their wits to manage their monstrous loads. An intuitive driver can read a sudden silence with ease and assigns seats mercilessly. Because of the marked lack of necessary direct adult supervision, bus drivers find it difficult to extend disciplinary action beyond the bi-fold doors. So frustrating, yet they still dole out stickers and candy. They can recite the names of pets. They won't let a young child off the bus if they notice the reliable parent's car is not in the driveway. They still smile.

Today, I was waved to the bus. I proceeded over eagerly, certain that I was about to receive a long-overdue award. One passenger remained on the recently-vacated vehicle, clinging to her seat like a baby-monkey. I approached the situation with sensitivity and care. "Yo, let's go there, sweetness. Time's a'wasting." Her small hands gripped the plastic-coated seat-bench with renewed vigor. "What's the problem," I asked. "I don't want to go to school," came the time-honored response. "Join the club," I smiled, "but it's a little late for that. We're already here. Now the choice is being cooped up on this empty bus or head into the school where I can offer you an assortment of tasty beverages, all from the comfort of a padded chair in the air-conditioned office." She insisted on holding my hand as we exited the bus. My waiting fourth graders giggled maniacally as we made our way successfully into the school. "Mrs. Mosiman, you can't talk to little kids like that," I was told. "What?" I replied, "I got her off the bus, didn't I?" "You're suppose to be nicer," my eight-year-old student explained. I'm not a cruise director, for pete's sake. There are only two ports of call for the school bus and neither one of them is Puerto Vallarta so I can relate to the reluctance to leave the promenade deck. But thanks to some carefully-worded encouragement on my part, my passenger successfully disembarked and was now ready to set sail on the sea of education. "Smiles, everyone, smiles."