neither am i a maypole. kindly stop spinning about me.

I thought I was out of Nanny material. It truly made me sad because I take my role as an aspiring MP [Mary Poppins] very seriously (I’ve even searched eBay for a carpetbag and an umbrella with a parrot head: I’m waiting to purchase until that magical moment when the right one speaks to me). However, I may have thought wrong.

Over the weekend, C1 and C2 moved to a beautiful house in a different neighborhood. Though the distance is not more than five miles from the other residence, it’s caused some major changes. For example, C2 rode home on his new bus yesterday. I was warned in advance that he was worried, so I grabbed flashcards to memorize and plopped down in the sunshine with plenty of time to spare and without any chance of missing his arrival. Right on schedule, his bus slowed to a whiny stop at the end of the street, and two little boys hopped off. Neither were mine. The bus seemed to hug the curb for an extra long time before it pulled away again. Not surprising. If anyone could stop a full bus, it would be my child.

The set of brothers were greeted by their mom, and all three waved to me as they walked in the house a patch of grass away from my own. A flash of yellow distracted me as it danced around the corner. Now I’m not an expert in the least on public school transportation, but something seemed to have gone very wrong in that moment. What happens to those who stay on the bus? Is it like a ski lift where you have the possibility to circle around and around forever unless someone grabs your hand, yanks you off, and shoves you into the snow?

In between fighting tears and running barefoot after the bus, I called my mom (who, since the last time I lost a kid, has still not misplaced one of her own). As we worked through my rescue plan, the bus came back. MY bus. I had memorized the number painted on the back and had been chanting it subconsciously since it disappeared the first time.

It parked in front of my house. The bus, that is. The bus filled to the brim with hyperactive third-graders. The driver rolled down the window and waved at me and yelled, “Are you C2’s sister?” I had two options: deny everything and run inside, or face whatever was to come. No... no, I’m his babysitter. “Oh, I dropped C2 off one street over. I wasn’t sure what to do , but he said it was okay and got off with….” She proceeded to write down the friend’s first and last name, his address, his phone number. God bless her. She smiled apologetically as if it were her fault, and said she was new to the route. She reassured me that C1 was on his way. He could still go missing, but he hadn't yet. Great.

All the while, her own charges had rolled down the windows, impatient and sweaty. The bus rolled on down the street, and after taking off in the direction of my kid, I spotted him bouncing along toward home, picking up lizards, throwing acorns back at the squirrels, chatting happily to his new best friend.

New house, new life happenings, but some things never change.