Time Management for Cheater Moms

2 Sep

With all deference to published authors, to whom writing milestones are no big deal, I must make an announcement:

I’ve finished the first chapter of Joe’s book!

Oh, please, please tell me it will always feel like this. For me, this is big. Baby’s first step big. Underdog team makes State Finals big. Lost ten pounds on a bread and chocolate diet big.

I know what you’re thinking. Wow, just a few weeks ago she was complaining about taking on Hebrew classes and now this, and only a month behind schedule! She’s a working mom with a clean house and folded laundry, AND she writes a weekly blog! However does she do it all?

Well, from my lofty perch atop this Mile Marker One sign, I do, indeed, feel qualified to tell you my time management secrets. But first, you must glance furtively from side-to-side, shoo all family and friends from the room, and pinky swear that this will stay between us.

OK?

OK.

So, here goes…

I cheat.

Sorry, Chika, that’s all I’ve got.

But hey, if it were possible to do it all, we’d take on even more, right? So be glad there’s no way to win. However, if you want some cheater tips, I’ve got the inside scoop. The following are five tips on what I call Faking Your Way to Finished. Feel free to pilfer as needed.

Faking Your Way to Finished

Dirty Subaru

The Perfect Car!


1. Shop to mop. You’ve got to be willing to jettison the high fashion. Gray is a perfectly acceptable, all-purpose color. Find the right shade, and you can quickly wipe down a bookcase or table on your way out of a room, leaving it looking freshly dusted! Walk close to the walls. I sometimes wear my duster inside out until I get to the front door, giving it a quick snap to remove the big fluffy parts as I flip it around. Most days you can hardly tell. Additionally, there are many cleaning products you can spray on your socks that won’t harm your skin. Dance like there’s no money for a maid.

2. Multitask. By this, I mean, eat while you drive. I have enough syrup on my steering wheel to hold up to seven Hebrew flash cards in place so I can study vocabulary on my way to work. Oh, and in case it’s not obvious, I drive a Subaru because washing it is a chastise-able offense.

3. Treat numbers like the mythological creatures they were meant to be. Establish early on in your relationships with everyone that you are not a math person. When someone points out that it’s been eight days since you posted on your weekly blog, hold up 12 fingers, shrug coyly, and say, “Yep! Almost time, isn’t it?”

4. Define your boundaries and resist temptation to cross them. Ensure every family member understands that socks and underwear are not laundry. Ergo, they do not get folded. As soon as a child is tall enough to reach the laundry basket, he can fish out his own socks. Store the basket on the floor.

5. Embrace the eccentric, particularly if it saves you a trip to the store. Cereal is the new dinner. Red stripes and green plaid create contrasting but amicable artistic statements. And, it’s perfectly acceptable to bring mushroom soup to a potluck lunch, assuming you also bring a can opener—no need to be cruel. Although I’ve yet to convince my teenager that ice has nutritional value, we do keep plenty of peanut butter and canned cheese on hand as filler when there’s need for creativity. I’ve been known to produce some amazing peanut-cheesy goodness with a base dish of nothing more than old raisins and a stick of margarine—oh, and a coupon for Papa John’s.

6. When you get to the end of the day, tie a knot, and move on. If I’ve learned anything from NASCAR it’s that there’s always room at the end of the longest line. Tomorrow is another day. In a future blog, we will discuss five ways to convince your brain of this at 2 in the morning.

So those are my secrets. I hope they help. And yes, I realize there are six items here. I refer you back to item number three for a refresher.

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Back Yard Bonanza

27 Aug

My family lives in Northern Virginia by chance. We moved here courtesy of the U.S. Military for our last tour of duty 17 years ago, and just haven’t gotten around to moving home. Truth be told, we don’t exactly know where home is.  I’m a native Rhode Islander, and I pine for the water and sand. My husband grew up in Montana and Colorado, where it’s all about the mountains and snow. So we sit here in the suburbs while the years tick away; we’re like sloths trying to choose our next tree. For years our only certainty has been that we won’t be staying in Virginia. The traffic, the hurried pace, the shopping malls—not for us.

Falling Spring, Covington, VA

Falling Spring, Covington, VA

However, a new family hobby may be bringing our future more clearly into focus. We’ve been geocaching for more than a year now. That’s a different story for a different time, but for the purposes of this article, I’ll describe it as an international pastime involving more than two million containers logged according to their longitude and latitude. Or, as one popular slogan explains, we use billion-dollar satellites to find Tupperware in the woods.

This hobby has taken us to places we’d never have seen otherwise.  We’re half-way through our quest to find a cache in every county and independent city in Virginia. That’s 95 counties and 39 cities. In the process, we’re discovering Virginia.

This past weekend, we drove along the West Virginia border, through the George Washington National Forest, stopping in counties with names like Bath, Bedford, and Botetourt. We spent a night in Harrisonburg and a night in Roanoke. Between the two stops, we found a breathtaking waterfall in Covington, we snaked alongside the James River through the Appalachian Mountains, and we stumbled across the gravesite of the WWII U.S. Marine Corps general whose artillerymen may have kept Uncle Frank alive at Iwo Jima (yet another story, coming soon to a Portrait site near you).

Pirates guarding the pier

Couple of beach bums guarding the pier at Colonial Beach

Our recent trip has left me reflecting on the many historical, peaceful, and bizarre sights we’ve seen in the past year or so—and how our opinion of Virginia is changing. There’s a lot more here than asphalt and tail lights. We’ve watched the Serenity Schooner sail into Yorktown, admired the pirates at Colonial Beach, and waited for the sun to set over the Shenandoahs.

We’ve visited so many monuments and grave markers that we’re developing a fascination and appreciation for America’s history while searching among headstones at Arlington for the graves of Iwo Jima flag raisers, standing at Stonewall Jackson grave site statue wondering what he’s looking at for all eternity, or even just hanging out in Middleburg, where Jeb Stewart and his cavalry were skirmishing just before the battle at Gettysburg.

Serenity Schooner

Serenity Schooner sailing to Yorktown..
is our ship coming in?

It’s been a most excellent adventure…and we’re only half-way through our journey. As it turns out, Virginia is a tad larger than we first thought, and much more interesting. In fact, on each trek, we add another site to our growing list of places we want to go back to when we can spend more time. More importantly, in nearly every place we visit, I think, wow, I could live here.

Next trip: Smyth, Grayson, Patrick AND Henry counties. I can hardly wait…

I’m starting to think we might be Virginians after all.

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I yam where I swam

12 Aug

I’ve taken on too much. Again.

It’s a regular thing for me.

A wife, a mother, a friend, a writer, a housekeeper, a supervisor, a wreck.

plates for spinning

How many plates can you spin?

Does my story sound familiar to you? I race everywhere, arrive five minutes late, and spend my time there thinking about where I’m heading next. I have a bag that is brimming with receipts, notes, and forms I accumulated this week that I keep promising myself I’ll sort as soon as I get a free minute. And, as you’ve no doubt noticed, my weekly blog post is two days late. My life has become a circus plate-spinning act. How hectic does life have to get before I start saying no?

So naturally, when the opportunity to learn Hebrew in a free, fast-paced, fire-hose of a daily commitment arose, I jumped at it. Feet first; no floaties.

That’s why today I’m wallowing in a pool of self pity, trying to remember that what sounds like “he” is the Hebrew word for “she” and what sounds like “who” is really “he.”

Me is who.

Dog is Fish.

And a yam is something we swim in.

Whose idea was this? Yes, of course. It was mine.

As such, I come to that all-too familiar scene, again, wherein I must create a list of obligations and responsibilities. Then I scrutinize, categorize, and prioritize the list, asking about each item, “Is THIS the most important thing?”

It’s a rather long list, but when finally sorted and cut back to the priorities, it looks, oh, so familiar: God, then family, then writing. Well, sometimes it’s writing and then family, but don’t let that out, ok?

Out of the blue, I’m reminded of a story I wrote a few months ago about this very topic, intending to post it on my Portrait Page, but instead I lost it in the yam of business that is my life (NOTE: that’s not irony; it’s a pathetic coincidence).

So today the story goes on my page, as a promise to myself that I will start again, focus on what’s important, and, if need be, do the same thing next week.

Its actual title is My Main Event, but perhaps I should post it as “Portrait of a Woman Who does too much.”

I won’t ask you to go read it today. (NOTE: that wouldn’t be irony; it would be pathetic hypocrisy). But, when you get some free time, or when you want to learn the secret to prioritizing, it’ll be there, waiting for you.

Shalom.

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Taking Flight

3 Aug

In my heart he’s still my baby, my youngest, my little man. But watching him stride through the airport to meet seven other Canada-bound Boy Scouts from his troop, I’m momentarily startled by the volume of space his six-foot frame commands. A mother should never have to look up to address her 14-year-old.

Wearing an eyepatch

Eyepatch, eh?

He’s been to Canada before. We went to Niagara Falls when he was seven. Back then he had to wear an eye patch to strengthen a weak eye; we would draw picture on each day’s patch to at least keep the process interesting.  Of course the patches that week sported Canadian Flags and waterfalls. He was adorable. And small.

He greets his friends with handshakes. (When did that start?) In mere seconds he’s absorbed into the line of khaki uniforms and overstuffed backpacks heading to the check-in counter, but I can pick out his size-13 hiking boots in the assembly of feet.

I’m struggling to identify an overwhelming weight pressing down on my heart, making it somewhat hard to breathe.

It’s not fear, of that I’m certain. I will say, though, in the months leading up to this 10-day canoe trip in the Canadian wilderness, I experienced a range of emotions, from envious elation at the incredible opportunity before him to brown-bag-deep-breathing-exercise-inducing moments of dread over what COULD happen. I conjured images of giant snarling bears, stampeding moose, and head-splitting falls against the rocks.

But this isn’t fear. I know he’s a responsible young man who is well trained, and I trust his leaders implicitly. I’m confident that the number of his days has been ordained by The One who knows how many hairs are on his head. I’m very much aware that every day we have to share with loved ones is a gift, and that I’ve received 5,323 undeserved one-more-day gifts with this boy thus far (and twice that for his older brother). I pray I have many more, knowing that our days on Earth are no less guaranteed in the wilderness than on the interstate beside a drunk driver if God decides it’s time to come home.

So, what is this pain?

The boys finish checking their bags and stop at the parent pool for a last round of good-bye hugs. I fight the urge to remind him not to spend all his money on the trip out, and stand on tip-toes to whisper in his ear that I love him. He surprises me by NOT rolling his eyes.

They head to the gate, walking away from us as one body. But my boy is the tallest in the group, and not at all hard to follow. He’s deeply engrossed in conversation with his pals, oblivious to the emotional wreck of a mom watching him leave. Then I see him turn and look back.

Ready for Takeoff

Ready for Takeoff

I suddenly know what’s going on in my heart. It has finally realized that my little man is about to walk through that gate and disappear, and that I won’t recognize the person who comes back. In ten days when I see him again, his face will be tan, his arms muscled from days of pulling the oars, and he no doubt will be even taller, but he will also be more confident, capable, and independent. This is the beginning of adulthood, and I’m just not ready for it.

Saying good-bye to my little eye-patch boy is breaking me.

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I am not a-mused

23 Jul

I’m waging a valiant, but losing battle Spoon on the keyboardagainst the demons of distraction—those self-centered brain sprites who care not a whit that I have a writing deadline to meet today. I will NOT go online, I say to them, I’m writing! At least, I would be if you’d just hush.

But they dance noisily through my brain, screaming like late-night infomercial salesmen…

“Why so serious? Writer’s what? Well that sounds boring. Hey, you know what was fun? That movie…the one with that guy in it? You know, the dopey one with the girl who did that thing? Who WAS that? Perhaps you should look it up!”

No, I say firmly. No online. None. It’s just me, my muse, and my Word doc—hey, how did that screen open? Well, as long as it’s here I’ll just type it in. Yes, Richard Gere. I thought so. Now if you would just—

I look across the room and notice the sprites have lured my muse away with a quart of jamoca fudge ice cream. Useless ditz. Usually I keep her close with a box of chocolate chip cookies. I couldn’t get her attention now if I piped in chocolate direct from Pennsylvania. . .but that makes me think of—oh, what’s that place we used to go to for that incredible chocolate Easter candy? I’ll just search it really quick. Criminy! Who knew there were so many chocolatiers in Pennsylvania? Oh, my, that one has tours; and this one is right across the border. How far is that from Woodbridge?

Stop it, stop it, STOP IT!

My muse is now in a jamoca fudge stupor, dancing around the room like a wood nymph while the sprites clap with delight. She’s oblivious to the cascade of ideas trailing behind her, tumbling across the floor like dry leaves in the breeze and disappearing behind the furniture.

Hey, those were MY ideas, I shout. Pull yourself together! I race to save a precious few but they seem to disintegrate the moment they’re out of sight.

Speaking of leaves, did anyone from the north east notice that the ends of nearly all the trees are blighted with dead leaves? I did, and yep, I looked it up. See here, it says that’s called flagging. Those are the last traces of our recent cicada visit. The trees will be fine next spring.

Dash it! That was a 30-minute detour. And while we’re at it, I absolutely abhor the sound of sprite giggle.

I decide I’ve got to do something about that low-wattage nitwit before she loses everything, so I quickly start typing: “It was a dark and stormy, um, um…”

She can’t help herself; she twirls by to see where I’m going with it. Quick as a wink, I lasso her with a noun string and tie her to the chair beside me. She rolls her eyes, or perhaps she’s trying to focus. She starts patting her now-empty pockets and looks up all wide-eyed and innocent, but I have no sympathy for her fudge-faced self. I hold my hand out, palm up, and give her my sternest no-nonsense look.

She pulls out a crumpled, cocoa-stained, barely legible morsel of thought—the last measly scrap of idea she has left. I snatch at it and read it hungrily, but it contains only two disappointing words:

“Writer’s Block.”

I can’t write about writer’s block, I sputter. What kind of idea is that?

But my question goes unanswered; my muse is now slumped over and snoring with abandon. It’s pointless to wake her. She’s going to hate herself in the morning.

So now it’s just me. Even the sprites have gone to bed. I look back down at the paper and then return to my keyboard, because I have to post something…

And so I do. Take THAT, my muse-less salad spinner.

. . .And because I just know you’re wondering, the search engine brought up 11,600,000 results for “Writer’s Block.”

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Well, Someone’s Guilty, but it’s not Zimmerman

14 Jul

So, the verdict is out. George Zimmerman has guiltybeen deemed “Not Guilty” of second-degree murder or manslaughter. This is not to say he is innocent of any wrongdoing. However, the nation will never know the entire story of what happened to Trayvon Martin. More importantly, his family will never really know, because the real victim in this trial was the truth. This entire saga has been railroaded by media and political interference.

You don’t think you were fooled? How many of you heard a transcript of Zimmerman’s 911-call on the news, in which he is quoted as saying he saw a suspicious individual—a black man wearing a hoodie? And, in disbelief, you said, “Why, that’s profiling!”

Would it have made a difference if you knew the 911 operator had asked him to describe the individual’s skin color, and then asked what he was wearing? Of course it would have. But those questions were edited out of the transcripts. (“Never let facts get in the way of a good story” seems to be the media mantra). In fact, many media outlets did everything possible to make Zimmerman look guilty. To add drama, they even called him a “White Hispanic man”…has the media ever called our president a White Black man?

Fortunately for Mr. Zimmerman, he had a fair trial in light of the available evidence. Had the media or politics not intervened, he might have been tried on different charges—charges that could have been proven.

So, now there are three families that will never get true closure: the Martins, the Zimmermans, and the Lees (the family of the former police chief fired by a city that was not interested in investigation, but wanted only a speedy arrest.)

If any good can come of this, it would be that we can learn from it, and hopefully, next time allow the law officials to do their jobs. This can also serve as a wake-up call for those of us who could do a little more thinking for ourselves and stop swallowing everything the media tries to force down our throats.  I’ve long believed we as a nation are only too eager to accept what we hear on the news as truth, and that it’s damaging our country and our relationships. Stop listening to hate-mongers and start doing your homework! You and I have the power to share peace and light with the world, regardless of the anger and darkness around us, just by choosing to do so.

Which brings me to another reason this case hits home for me. It offers a perfect segue for announcing the book I’m working on right now that is of surprising coincidence, only it isn’t. It is a true story about a man named Joe, who, in the ‘70s, was tried and actually convicted of a crime he did not commit.  His case was also affected by media and personal ambitions. But that’s where the similarities end.

The real story is not about the case against Joe as much as it is about the way he handled it—not with hate and bitterness, but with peace and light. As a result, lives were made better, for both family members and fellow inmates, and now he says it was the best thing that ever happened to him. If you want to follow our progress, watch “Joe’s Story” on my website.

In the meantime, wake up, America!

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I’ll say it…God Bless America!

4 Jul

declaration_independenceI’m celebrating everything that made us the nation we are today…warts and all. We are still the greatest nation, and we are still under God, though I fear we’re rapidly turning from Him as a teenager rebels from his parents. I implore you all to take out your copy of the Declaration of Independence (or search the internet for a copy if you don’t have it framed and on the dining room wall where it belongs). Read it. Cut through the flowery language—get an interpreter if you have to. Consider where we’d be today if it weren’t for a few incredibly brave, insightful, godly men who understood what it would take for this nation to prosper, and who knew that it wasn’t a king we needed, but a government that protected our rights instead of usurped them. Think of what went into creating this Declaration, and the Constitution that followed. No other nation’s founding documents can compare. Americans have fought and died for those words since the day they were written. This is, indeed, a day for celebration. I still believe we can turn this nation around again, through prayer and integrity, because I believe in the goodness of the American people and in the merciful hand of a loving God who is patiently waiting for us to grow out of our teenage years and return to Him. So I toast (imaginary clinking goes here) to our freedom, the courage of our forefathers, and the opportunities that lie ahead for this nation. May God bless America!

The Box and the Bookmarks

2 Jul

I’m flying home from Florida, after a weekend spent talking with a charming man named Joe and his sweet wife Audrey, regarding a book we’re working on together (details soon, I promise).

Across the aisle from me in the plane’s overhead bin, is a large cardboard box filled with folders of notes, letters, and newspaper clippings that Joe entrusted to me. I can’t see it while we’re in flight, but there’s a small strip of tape peeking out from the base of the bin, and I know that’s the box. It is the only evidence I have that I’m not dreaming. I steal occasional glances to make sure it’s really there, and each time my heart skips—is this joy or fear? Perhaps a bit of both.

For some reason, I keep thinking of a day from my childhood when my mother purchased 5-cent bookmarks for me and my siblings (there were seven of us at the time). Each had a different saying and I smiled at their cleverness, as well as how aptly Mom matched them to our personalities. Impish Christopher’s said, “Smile and the whole world will wonder what you’re up to.” Steven, who was a bit on the contemplative side, received one that said, “Even if you are on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.” And even little Josephine had a sweet one that said “If the world gives you lemons, make lemonade.” (This was the 70s, before the phrase became trite.)

So, when she held one out to me I was eager to see how my persona had been captured in a corny maxim. It would no doubt highlight my sense of humor, or incredible imagination. Sadly, I was to be disappointed. Mine was the worst. It made no sense and wasn’t one bit amusing. It said, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” What rubbish! What was she trying to say about me? I snatched it up and disappeared into my room. I’m sure I threw it away, but I never forgot the incident, and those words clattered around in my brain for years.

It makes me giggle to think that now, 35 years later, this has become my mantra. My pastor got me thinking a few weeks ago about asking God each morning what He has in store for me, so I’ve tried to put it into practice. I wake up, thank the Lord for a new day, and ask, “So God, what are we going to do on this, the first day of the rest of my life?”

Box of folders

Where do we start, and where will it take us?

Regrettably, I usually don’t hang around long enough for an answer, which is why I’m often adrift and without purpose. But today, I know without a doubt what we’re going to do. And tomorrow, and just about every day after that for the next few months. We’re going to empty that box. We’re going to read, and learn, and type. We’re going to open doors, capture emotions, and light a fire in the darkness. We’re going to write! Oh, Mom, I wish you were still here so I could thank you. How did you know? Mine was the best bookmark of all!

A Lesson from an Inchworm

23 Jun

I’m contemplating making a major lifestyle change that would mean giving up a perfectly good job for one with no guaranteed income: writing. Thinking about it consumes my every waking moment. I’m worried that if I make the wrong decision, my family will suffer. On the other hand, I’m certain my passion to write is God-inspired, and was intended for more than a hobby.

As I ponder, one particular memory keeps running through my mind of the inchworinch_wormm we saw at the bus stop before school let out for the summer. It was a minor event, but it won’t let me go, because as part of my morning prayer that day, I had asked God to give me eyes to see him.

My son and I were early to the bus stop, for a change. In the morning stillness, we sat in the car chatting and watching the trees sway with the breeze. He saw it first, hovering in front of our car. It took my ancient eyes a bit longer to focus. There was nothing unusual about him—you know—a tiny green critter about an inch long. He was creeping up a gossamer thin strand of silk toward some luscious-looking (to him anyway, I suppose) green leaves.

“He’s doomed,” my son said, with that teenagers-know-everything voice of authority. “Some kid is gonna come flying past and knock him down.”

So we watched. One-by-one, children would arrive and join the group waiting beneath the tree. The young boys, all laid back and cool, would saunter casually onto the scene. The girls, a bit more animated, raced in with a spring in their step, shrieking enthusiastic greetings at friends they hadn’t seen since…well, the day before.

Still he climbed, despite the blustering wind, and oblivious to the increasing activity, which occasionally stirred up gusts so strong they sent the silk strand nearly horizontal. He focused on those leaves above, intent on reaching the goal, and climbed. Inch-by-inch.

My son said good-bye and left the car, stationing himself near the inchworm as a buffer against the children dashing past. He hung back, even after the bus came roaring onto the scene. The inchworm was nearly six-feet in the air by then, within about three feet from the branch. My son took one last look around before turning to give me a victorious thumbs-up before bounding aboard.

I waited until long after the bus took off, watching this precious critter and thinking about his lot. Eventually, he made it to the branches, but what if he hadn’t?  I’m relatively certain he would have started over again. And again, if need be. Because that’s what he was made to do. It’s his purpose.

So what’s my point? That we all have a purpose—something that makes us feel exactly right when we’re doing it. A gift, a talent, a unique capability. Some of us employ that gift, and some make it a hobby, while others stuff it away until “some day.”

My purpose is to write. I’ve tried many times to kick start a writing career, but I’ve been buffeted by life’s winds, and occasionally knocked to the ground. Today, however, I can see that branch within reach. I know I’m supposed to inch forward. If that little ol’ caterpillar can do it, so can I.

So, it is with great excitement, and hope, and fear, that I make this announcement: Yesterday I sent my first story to a publisher, and next weekend I’m embarking on a new adventure that I hope will turn into a book. I will get there, inch by inch.

Mr. Bobby: Shepherd on Wheels

15 Jun
Take the bus or stop for sugar? Tough choice.

Take the bus or stop for sugar? Tough choice.

Every school day for three years. Let’s see, that’s more than 540 school days…minus Fridays, of course, because Friday is Donut Day. That’s approximately 400 mornings I’ve just handed my middle schooler over to Mr. Bobby, the bus driver. Don’t know you at all, Sir, but what the hey, here’s my kid. And on more than 500 afternoons Mr. Bobby brought him safely home.

Every day, I watch him from my car as the children climb aboard. He is an older gentleman, with a kind face and a welcoming smile. He’s punctual. And that’s about all I know about him, even after three years. I’ve spoken to him twice, on afterschool occasions when my son forgot he was being picked up. Mr. Bobby knew which boy was mine and was already kicking him off the bus when I got to the door. Always with a smile.

…well, maybe not 400 mornings…I also drive him to school whenever there’s a bulky project to deliver.  I, er.., my son works hard on those things and it’d be a shame to see them get trampled. But that’s it. The rest of the days he rides…

About 25 children board at our stop, which is at a Boys and Girls Club at the far end of a large commuter lot. Some give him “high fives” and fist bumps as they climb up. Most just walk by, chattering about whatever it is teenagers find interesting. Then he closes the doors, drives about 40 feet, and parks at the edge of the lot.

“What does he do that for?” I’ve asked my teenager more than once. And in typical teenager fashion, he replies, “Dunno. I think he just likes to make us wait.”

…although some days, if my son has a major test to take, we’ll drive in so I can quiz him one more time—it’s my last-ditch effort to cram one more answer into that teenage brain…

The kids love him. I know this. There was a period of two or three weeks when he didn’t show, and although a perfectly capable substitute ran his route, it wasn’t the same. My son was so concerned I finally contacted the dispatcher to ask if Mr. Bobby was ok. She assured me he was coming back, and said he’d been ill but was feeling much better. If it had been up to him he’d have returned earlier, but she made him wait until he was completely well. Every morning during that time, the children started speculating the moment the bus pulled into the lot.

“Could be him. I don’t know…”

Then, as the bus rounded that last corner, someone would sigh, “Nope, no hat. It’s another substitute.”  They’d board quietly. Substitute drivers didn’t wait around. As soon as the doors closed, the bus took off.

Mr. Bobby’s return was a joyous occasion. The children clapped and cheered, and EVERY ONE of them gave him a welcome back fist bump.

…Fine, yes, every once in a while I just plain can’t get moving in the morning. Those days we have to drive in.

One morning, when I was following the bus out of the lot, Mr. Bobby swung that thing around and circled the lot again. I asked my son about it that evening and he said someone had missed the bus so they went around to pick him up.

Yesterday, I was signing my son in (bulky project) at the school’s front desk, and there was Mr. Bobby, making a pit-stop between runs. He called my son by name, let out a booming laugh, and said, “Where were you this morning? I waited for you!”

Then it hit me. After three years. With only two days left of the school year. Mr. Bobby pulls up to wait. Just in case. He knows his sheep. He cares for them. All those times I didn’t show up…he waited.

So, Mr. Bobby, today I dedicate my page to you, and I count you as one of the million points of light in this world. A good and faithful servant. Thank you for being such a positive influence in the lives of our children, and for keeping them safe. Next year’s high school driver has big shoes to fill. I think I owe you some donuts.

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