"She'll be home soon." I tell him and he grunts without even looking at me.
Each day I can see him through the bus windows, smiling to himself as he makes his way down the aisle. He rounds the corner, grabs onto the handrail, and then looks up, searching for Mom's face in a sea of exhausted, disheveled, and short-fused parents. He scans the crowd with his little smile. Glances from face to face, barely noticing mine before moving on. Then suddenly his eyes dart back to mine and that smile drops into a firm arch of disgust. He stomps down the bus stairs, marches to my car, and without acknowledging me, climbs into the back, slinging his book-bag across the seats and settling into his chair with a thud.
"Bad day?" I ask him, knowing full well this tantrum was brought on entirely by my lone presence. Sometimes he responds with silence. Sometimes he ignores this question and asks when Mom will be home. And some days he rolls sideways out of his chair and bangs his head on the seat four or five times before falling limp onto the floor. No matter the response I stand silently, patiently waiting for him to buckle himself in. I am pleased to stand here and wait; for every minute we spend here, throwing a tantrum, is a minute I don't have to desperately search for ways to entertain him at home.
Eventually he huffs himself upright, straps in and we carry on with our afternoon. "I'm hungry." he tells me as I slowly pull out of the parking lot. "Well here. I brought you a snack." (as I do everyday because, contrary to what Finn believes, I'm kind of cool)
I hand him a lunch box with a carton of chocolate milk and small Rice Krispy treat. Every kid's dream.
"I don't like those..." he whimpers, with tears only moments away.
"Then don't eat it." I say calmly as I watch the traffic.
"BUT. I'M. HUNGRY!!!" he screams.
"Then eat it." I reply with a tranquil smile.
But he won't and instead he will moan a while and ask for Mom before falling asleep for the long ride home. I intentionally drive the long way home, sometimes stopping for gas or to drop off my paychecks at the bank. He tolerates these pitstops surprisingly well. Perhaps because they remind him of errands he runs with Mom. "You go to this bank?" he asks me every time, "Mom goes to that bank."
And after all this, once we get home and out of our car seat, he snaps into a happy little guy that wants to build a tree fort and show me how to play Ninjas. He tells me all about his friends and new games and while he never objects to my leaving for the day (because Mom is finally home) he'll "aww" a bit that we have to quit playing and go inside. "Tomorrow I'll show you how to play Skylander." he has told me for a week now.
He'll forget this excitement tomorrow though, when he sees me standing at the bus stop.
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