Here's a fun story from spring of this year that I didn't publish because I felt bad that I tried to traumatize a child and then failed and looked stupid. Fortunately, I'm over that embarrassment now. I'm not sure if it's because I got a sense of perspective on just how annoying bus children are, or if I no longer care that I tried to traumatize a child. Hm. Questions, questions.
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Ever read William Golding's Lord of the Flies? Riding a school bus is like that. Sure, there's the bus driver up front, but what power do they really have? They're watching the road and preventing us from crashing. They may look back in their mirror and shout something, but on a scale of effective discipline, that rates about a 3/10. (10 is jail; 1 is cake.) So, really, for all intents and purposes, the bus is the realm of the island, where children run wild, and where human nature's true savagery is exposed. They climb over and under seats, sing songs, pick their noses, shout psychologically damaging things at each other... It's terrifying.
The older kids are even worse. Without restraints, there's nothing stopping them from...being complete jerks, mostly. And really annoying.
"C", a sixth grader, is always asking me to be his best friend (insincerely, and with the hope to tick me off enough to be entertaining). This resulted because once or twice I fed the troll and snapped at the little demon. Now he's like a dog with a bone - a very obnoxious, mocking dog with a penchant for being relentlessly annoying. Yeah, not a great metaphor. Moving on.
I definitely fed the troll in this encounter. The trouble was that I had been forced to listen to squabbling, asinine underclassmen for 30 minutes and my patience was wearing very, very thin, and with it, my good judgment and restraint.
C: Hey, Maddie, best friend, do you have a tic tac? [No, his remarks are never made in any context.]
Me: No. I do not have a tic tac. Even if I had one, I would not give you a tic tac, because you are annoying, and we are not friends.
C: Hey, guys, did you hear? Maddie and I are best friends. Maddie, aren't we best friends?
Me: No. We are not friends.
C: Guys, Maddie and I are best friends. Can't we best friends, Maddie?
Me: No. We are not friends.
C: So, we're best friends, right?
Me: No. Friends, and not-friends are two different categories. Best friends is a subset of friends. We are in the not-friends column.
C: We're totally best friends. We're even more than just best friends, right, Maddie?
Me: [patience wearing very thin] [in as sinister a voice as I could manage] Sure, C. We're beyond best friends, in that very special category of friends where I gouge out your eyes, throw you down a deep, dark well, and seal it off so no one can hear you scream.
C: [completely unfazed] So, we're totally best friends. Guys, did you hear? Maddie and I are best friends.
Me: You have a very sick and twisted definition of best friend.
C: Come on, we're best friends. Just say we're best friends, then I'll leave you alone.
Later:
Me: [to the bus driver] The best thing about graduating is going to be not riding the bus.
This. Close. To. Strangling. A. Child.
UPDATED:
Every day since I made the above remark to the bus driver, she's said, "Just 8 more weeks, hon." I'm really glad we've established a rapport over hating children.
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