Overheard on the Bus
Adventures in Chaperoning Field Trips
I’m prone to eavesdropping. So, given the chance, is every mother I know. (Shh . . . don’t tell!). We mothers become expert at blending into the background and listening in when we’re driving carpool or sitting on a school bus full of kids as a field trip chaperone. Being surrounded by our kids and their classmates and friends, staying silent as they tease each other, gripe about coaches and teachers, and whisper about whom they do or do not have a crush on that day provides a rare and clear window into their worlds. (It’s an education.)
You’ve heard about middle school, right? About the regimented social hierarchy? The frightening bullies? The “mean girls”? The teachers who cuss and criticize? In my experience, middle school can include some of those things, but it seems to me that more significant than locker or teacher or boy/girl troubles is the fact that kids this age have one foot firmly planted in childhood while the other strains toward becoming an adolescent.
What an anxiety-laden place to inhabit!
A recent ride I took on a school bus full of middle schoolers reminded me of this, renewed my appreciation for my own children, and resulted in my being exceptionally kind to my tween kids on their arrival home from school that day. I’d gotten a glimpse into their world, and I felt only compassion for them.
I’ll share my Harriet the Spy notes with you here.
I didn’t know the two middle school girls sitting in the seat in front of me on the bus. They looked much like all the other girls to me. Hair pulled back in ponytails. T-shirts and jeans. Fleece jackets. Braces on their teeth. They were definitely caught in that uncomfortable place between childhood and adolescence. They were alternately graceful and then awkward. Mature and silly. Confident and viciously insecure. My own child sat a few seats toward the back of the bus. To spare him embarrassment, I refrained from turning around and looking at him. If I did, I’d have to crane my neck around the side of the seat like the mom across the aisle was doing to see her son.
He ignored her.
“Sweetie, hi!” she called, louder this time.
“Mom,” he said, as though he was responding to his mother having danced an Irish jig or shown his baby pictures to the kids on the bus. She shrugged and sat back down in her seat. I was not a first-time middle school mom. I dutifully remained facing forward, opened a book, and bowed down to the pages, pretending to read.
“That substitute had coffee stains on her teeth,” one of the girls in front of me said.
“And coffee breath,” her friend agreed. “That was gross.”
Coffee breath. I slipped my hand into my purse and felt around at the bottom of the bag for a mint. I silently tore the wrapper and carefully transferred it to my mouth.
“And then did you see? She took a bite out of that chocolate that wasn’t even for her. My friend brought it back from vacation. For the real teacher.”
“She was mean,” the girl said.
“I like that other one.”
“Mrs. Hettinger? She does the lesson and talks about books she likes. Sometimes she plays games with us.”
“Yeah. She’s okay.”
They were quiet for a moment.
I wished I knew this substitute teacher so I could tell her the fond way these girls speak about her. My reverie was broken when one said, “That Ryan farts a lot.”
The other agreed. “He’s kind of fat too.”
“And he sweats.”
“Shh . . .” The girls sat up tall on their seat and peered over the seat past me.
When they turned around again, I glanced to see if Ryan was on the bus. I didn’t remember seeing any enormous, sweaty, gassy boys in the vicinity. I hoped he hadn’t heard these girls.
“Did you do that jump rope thing in gym? We were jumping this cool way—you know, one rope, two people?”
“I’m bad at that.”
“I’m not.”
“I am. It’s hard.”
“I’m kind of harsh on myself. And other people too.”
“I’m mean sometimes, but not as bad as my sister.”
“My sister makes me sound like an ogre. I’m not an ogre. Usually.”
“I don’t like it when people meet my sister before they meet me. I like it when they meet me first. Not like ‘Oh, yeah, I know your sister.’ ”
“I thought you were really scary when I first moved here. I was going through this shy phase. And you were always with that Bethany.”
“I hate her. I don’t know why she hangs around with me.”
A teacher made an announcement from the front of the bus. Whoever was playing music from his cell phone needed to turn it down. All the kids around me looked around and laughed.
“Remember what we talked about at school,” the teacher warned.
The girls sat down and continued their conversation.
“I thought you were friends.”
“What?”
“You and Bethany. You seem like you’re good friends.”
“Yeah. We are. I guess I don’t really hate her.”
“She’s nice.”
“Yeah. She’s really nice.”
“What did you get on that Egypt test?”
“It stinks. She gave me an 80.”
The girls again sat in silence for a few minutes.
“Hm. Who else do I hate?” one of them murmured.
“I don’t hate people, but some people really annoy me.”
“Who else don’t I like?”
“I like your phone.”
“Put your number in so we can text sometime.”
“Okay.”
Listening in, especially on tweens and young teens, fills me with compassion—and even pity!—for the time in life my kids are wading through. On days when I help at the school, I’m more likely to hug them a little longer when we’re home again. To sit and focus on them. Ask them about their days.
“Do you know a kid named Ryan?” I asked my son after school.
“No. Who’s Ryan?” he answered.
“Never mind.”