Three Buses and a Prayer

On my way down the block yesterday morning, a neighbor stopped me. “Every morning, I see you coming back from the bus stop, and it just makes me so grateful that I’m retired now,” he said.

“I’m just grateful I have a bus stop,” I retorted. New York City only offers school busing through sixth grade, so one of my kids has already graduated to the endless rotation of daily carpool. But my other three are spaced apart by gender and age, so that’s three busses, 10–20 minutes apart, each on the corner of our little cul-de-sac.

I can’t complain. You could set a watch to my son’s bus; 8:03 sharp, it’s pulling up at the stop before ours. My older daughter’s bus is a vaguer range of 7:40–8:00, but there’s one heroic mother who generously monitors the bus situation and updates everyone once it’s in the neighborhood. (Me. It’s me.)

My youngest daughter is on the preschool bus, which is a bit more complex. The stop is further down the block, around the corner, and she’s the only one there. Another mother updates us each morning, but it’s a few minutes just to walk to the bus stop at a six-year-old pace, with a child known to disappear midway through to climb railings or jump on trampolines.