First of all, you are an outcast on the bus. Your friends are not on the bus with you, and the last place anyone wants to sit is by a mom.
Which is fine by me. I was quite happy to let Mark sit with his friends. That is, until said friends started smacking each other and telling jokes with bad words as the punchline. I very quickly learned his seatmates' names, and spent the next 40 fume-filled minutes of the bus ride calling out, "Nathan, sit down. Nathan, stop saying that word. Mark, stop laughing when Nathan says that word. Josh, stop smacking the kids behind you. Nathan, didn't I tell you to stop saying that word??"
Lucky for us, the morning traffic was light, and we got to the Discovery Center a full 30 minutes before the IMAX movie started. Which gave us 2 minutes to unload the kids, 2 minutes to usher them against a wall, and 26 minutes to tell them to sit still and stop hitting each other. I challenged my group to a jumping jack contest (they had to get the wiggles out somehow), but Mr. R made them sit down again.
Somebody passed out 3-D glasses, and I wondered how many pairs would break before we got in to the theatre. But they entertained the kids for a long time. The boys put them on and made silly faces, which I photographed. Then they put them on backwards, which I photographed. The boys clamored around me to view the pictures and then plot new poses. I was certainly glad I'd brought the camera.
Finally it was time for the movie. We crossed through the lobby, which smelled of freshly buttered popcorn, and I was instantly hit with 33 requests for a bag. "No popcorn allowed in the theatre," I told them, and was proven a liar when the row of girls behind us came inside, crunching popcorn.
The kids loved the movie. It was a program about the sea, and as the first 3-D dolphins jumped toward them, the kids squealed with delight and reached out to grab them.
After the movie, it was on to the Natural History Museum. There were four chaperones total, including Mr. R, me, and two class moms. Mr. R. sent the seven girls with the two moms, then split the boys between me and himself. He had eight, and gave me four, saying, "I think Ms. Dinsdale can handle the boys, right?"
"No problem!" I said, grinning.
If you really want to see the difference between boys and girls, a museum is a fine place to go. Even though the girl group was larger than mine, they walked very nicely toward the nearest staircase. My four boys bolted for the giant T. Rex, racing all around it, and then toward the staircase, running upstairs against the crowd. They shoved their way through, shouting, "The T. Rex is this way!" and I wondered how quickly they would ditch me.
We examined the T. Rex exhibit, and then the bird exhibit. We ran (literally) through the rain forest exhibit, then into the Mexican Indian exhibit. We did so much running, in fact, that I worried Mark might go low. I repeatedly asked how he felt, and he answered me with a dismissive "FINE!" each time.
Until he went low. "I feel really shaky," he told me, and so I commandeered the boys toward a priceless work of art out in the hallway. "PLEASE DON'T TOUCH," read the sign on it, but young boys are quite literal, so they climbed on it instead. ("It doesn't say 'DON'T CLIMB,'" Nathan observed.)
I fed Mark, which prompted three more cries of "I'm hungry!" I fished out some granola bars, which they split. Then it was downstairs again, to a giant room filled with stuffed animal exhibits.
The room was gigantic, empty, and before we got there, quiet. I did a quick survey, and determined there was only one way out of the room.
"You're free, boys, but no running," I told them, and they sprinted off before I finished my sentence.
I saw another small group in the corner, and realized it was the girls and the other two moms. Before I could catch them, the boys flew past them, all loud yelling and flailing arms. I smiled at the appalled moms, then hissed "NO RUNNING!" at my group of wild banshees.
They stopped momentarily in front of a display, and immediately the giggling started. "What's so funny?" I asked.
Nathan (he of the potty mouth) pointed at a giant stuffed beaver. He smiled sweetly at me, and said, "We're looking at the DAM."
The other boys erupted into giggles. "Did you hear me?" he asked. "A DAM!"
"Yes, I know, it sounds like a bad word," I said. I shuffled them along before the girls came by.
Soon enough, it was time for lunch. I herded my boys outside, where the rest of the boys were climbing on the railing. The girls weren't there yet, so Mr. R sent me and the boys ahead to get the lunches. We made our way through a giant crowd of other classes, and by some miracle, I arrived on the other side of it with all my boys accounted for.
The kids chowed down their lunches, and loaded back onto the bus. Mark weaseled his way two rows behind me, so I couldn't quite see him. The boys in the row across from me were nice kids, but by this time I was worn down.
"Let's have a sleeping contest!" I told them. "Whoever sleeps the longest, wins."
And so they did. The three of them curled up, and though they occasionally giggled and tickled each other, they "slept" the whole way home. I am proud to say that Devin, Josh and Damian were my favorite kids of the day.
Back at the school, I disembarked, and watched the stream of screaming kids run back to the classroom.
"Thanks for your help!" Mr. R, said, and I nodded.
"Thanks for letting me tag along," I said.
And as I walked home, the screams fading with each footstep forward, I gave a silent prayer of thanks to every teacher out there. I don't know the patron saint of teachers, but I'm guessing it's someone who had a LOT of patience.
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