A Morning Lesson

Leo’s bus has been late every day this week. And not just by a few minutes. I’m talking 20-30 minutes late. Optimist that I am (hush it Erin, I am an optimist! I am, I am!), I held out on calling the transportation people at the Board of Ed to complain. I chalked it up to some construction way down at the end of our block, or to (perhaps?) working out the kinks of the new school year.

So each morning, I’ve stubbornly rounded up the kids with the hope that TODAY will be the day the bus comes on time. Leo turns off Noggin (I mean, Nick Jr-they just switched the name), I turn off all the lights, we gather jackets and backpacks and lunchboxes, and we assemble in the mud room, the funny little space between the front porch and the living room. It’s where we keep coats and shoes and paper towels and Pull-ups and dog food. It’s the place I daydreamed of when we lived in Brooklyn.

I open the front door but leave the storm door firmly closed. It’s all glass, so we can see the precise moment the little yellow bus arrives. On cold days, Leo and I write words in the fogged-up glass. He points to objects around the room: “coat,” “seltzer,” “shoes” and is giddy as I write the letters on the milky pane.

Leo is in love with words.

He is reading sentences now. “I see yellow horse.”

OK, he pronounces “horse” as “whore.”

But we’ll get there.

Today the bus was a full thirty minutes late. I finally caved and called the Board of Ed. They informed me that Leo was put on a new route and didn’t I know? Didn't I get the letter? No, I actually didn’t know, and no, I didn't get the letter, but thanks.

Fuming, I hung up the phone, pretty sure I could actually feel the temperature in my blood rising. At my feet, Ellie squealed “my phone! My phone!” (She loves to play with my cell phone.)

“It’s broken,” I snapped at her, stuffing it in my pocket. I know, so mature, right?

The kids aren’t bad at first, with the waiting. They cuddle with their respective “comforts,” Leo with his dog and Ellie with her baby. They instruct me to sing songs. For a while, Leo is amused by the writing of words on the door. But it’s not cold every morning, so we can’t always write on the door. After fifteen minutes, they get restless. Ellie announces she wants to “go bye-bye.” Leo puts Ellie’s hood up, which infuriates her. The sibling feuding begins.

This morning, determined not to lose my patience and let the bickering/whining spiral out of control (it happens quickly), I sat down next to Leo, who was perched on the step between the mudroom and the French doors that lead to the rest of the house. He flashed me his killer, guaranteed-to-turn-any-bad-mood-around-grin and said, arms outstretched, “Baby, Baby,” (code for Hold me).

I scooped him up and buried my head in his neck and gave him at least fifteen kisses, one, after the next. He squirmed and giggled and threw his head back in hysterical, blissful laughter. And then he gave me one of his epic hugs. Most people who've had the pleasure agree: Leo gives the best hugs. He hugs with his whole body, with his whole being.

I've never met anyone who could laugh like Leo. Or hug like Leo. And don't even get me started on those smiles of his. Sometimes I try really hard not to let him, but he never fails to put me in a good mood.

And sometimes, it’s OK to be late.