Good Grief?!?

My cell phone rang.

“Dad, my bus isn’t here.”

“It’ll be there soon. If it’s not there in 5 minutes, call me back.” I wasn’t really understanding the situation. Five minutes later, the bus still had not arrived.

“Have you told a teacher?” That’s when I realized the high school released students over thirty minutes prior. “Where are you?”

“I’m waiting behind the school.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to make a call and call you back. Are you okay?”

“Yes, Dad. I’m okay. Don’t forget to call me back.”

I have the school district’s bus garage on speed dial for this very reason.

“I’m sorry, Sir. With all the high schools releasing early today, things are a mess. I’m not sure where your son’s bus is. Just a minute…”

My hackles began to rise. My son rides a Special Needs bus which picks him up and drops him off ten paces from our house. I don’t care how much a mess things seem to be; Special Needs busses should NEVER be lost! Noticing my rising anger, I took a deep breath and tried to smile (Amy taught me that).

“Um…Sir, I’m sorry. I can’t find the bus. We’ll get a bus to him as soon as we can find a driver.”

Another deep breath. A third.

“No.” I was calm and measured. The operator was trying to talk over me. “I’m only 10 minutes from the school. I’ll go get him, but I need a promise that he’ll have a bus for the last 2 days of school because I won’t be able to pick him up.”

“Yes…I promise. I’m sorry, Sir.” I severed the line with a swipe of my finger and on the back sweep, dialed my son’s phone.

“I’m on my way to get you,” I said when he answered the phone. “Where are you right now?”

“I’m with my teacher, now, Dad.”

“Can I talk with her, please?” I asked, buckling into the van and starting the engine…still breathing measuredly…still smiling. My son’s teacher is an incredible one. She was unhappy about the situation.

“Thom, I don’t know why my staff just left him out there by himself. This will not happen again. I’m so sorry.” The conversation ended pleasantly. Ten minutes later I pulled into the school; my son and his teacher were waiting next to the curb.

“I’m going to send an email and copy you on it when I get back to my office,” she promised. “I’m sorry this happened.”

“I’m just glad he knew to call Dad.” I grinned and sighed. My son buckled into his seat. His teacher waved goodbye. Still breathing slowly, I pulled away, headed for Slurpee Heaven, hoping to prevent a meltdown.

“I’m sorry your bus didn’t show up,” I began.

“What happened?”

“Transportation dispatch told me they lost your bus and couldn’t find it,” I said calmly.

“That’s preposterous, Dad!” He shook his head, rested his chin on his fist and his elbow on his knee, and stared out the window. I grinned.

“When did you learn that word?” I inquired.

“At school. My teacher explained it to me. Another student said something that wasn’t right and she said, ‘That’s preposterous.'” He returned to staring out the window. That was that. There was no meltdown, but we were still heading to 7Eleven; the Slurpee would now be a reward for having the right attitude.

Three days have gone by since he uttered that word. It still brings a smile to my face. The next time I get all hot and bothered by someone else’s mistake, I’m going to remind myself, “That’s preposterous!” Maybe, just maybe – with God’s help, Amy’s constant encouragement to be calm and smile in a stressful situation, and my son’s honest outlook on life – I’ll find the smile I need to change my outlook.