bus stop hooligans

Oh, the sweet sounds of children after the first big snow of winter!

"Look at the snowballs I can make!"

"Let's follow the tracks!  They're amazing!"

"I'm making snow angels!"

"It's like skating in my boots!"

"I was trying to build a fort but then the gay bus came and ruined it!  That f#@*ing bus always ruins everything!  G#dd#*n bus!"

The dreaded bus stop.  The girl with crossed arms is the only non-hooligan.

Oh from the mouths of babes!  That last little gem issued forth from the cherubic face of an eight-year-old at the Dictator's bus stop.  And did I mention that the snow angels and the skating were occurring in the middle of the icy street?

I wish I could say that this was unusual, that these were generally sweet little children who happened to be seized by a momentary seasonal fervor and, say, Turrets.  But alas, we are beset by bus stop hooligans and no efforts of mine seems to be able to thwart their insanity.

Now, unlike the Dictator, or even the Bureaucrat, I lack the ability to be truly assertive, even amongst the tinier set.  But as the only adult present, I've had to try (and, I think, fail).  For example, I don't say anything when the 3rd grader, the 4th grader and the tag-along 1st and 2nd graders--all orphans, apparently--play tackle tag in the neighbors' yards, shrieking maniacally all the while.  The neighbors can do that, should they feel so compelled.  Nor do I say a word when they cross the street to "play with" another neighbor's dog through the fence.  But when one 2nd grader goes after another one with a tree branch, I feel it necessary to step in.  And they look at me like I'm the first adult that's ever told them that it might not be a fantastic idea to go all Lord of the Flies on each other.  And when I told my own little darlings that they weren't allowed to follow the hooligans into the street for a game of "Throw Yourself Face First into a Puddle of Water in the Midst of Oncoming Traffic," I was bestowed the (mumbled) title of "B#tch" by a smug 3rd grader-going-on-sixteen-year-old. 

The Anarchist weeps at the bus stop, as even she realizes that the world is going to hell in a handbasket.

Maybe we live in a particularly rough neighborhood.  It seems, from my inquiries into the matter, that at other bus stops on the fancier side of town, where children are blessed with such luxuries as parents, things are different.  Adults don't let six-year-olds run amok, out of sight, out of mind.  But we don't live in such ostentatious places. We live in a place where, as of right now, I am the only parent willing to show my face in elementary school society.  And show it I will, right up until the time they graduate (okay, maybe not...I don't want to breed social outcasts).



The fact of the matter is--and this may be elitist, but so be it--I don't want them picking up the habits/and attitudes of their uncivilized (and often mean-spirited) peers.  The Dictator is already learning a slew of new vocabulary (none of which will be appearing on spelling tests any time in the future).  And while the Anarchist delights in the anarchy, I think that her tendency to run blindly into the street might be something that calls for constant adult supervision.  So I'll be the (apparently, only) protective mom.  And I'll try to be okay with it.  Or maybe I'll just home school instead.  After all, if they learn any obscenity, I want it to be from me.

The Dictator emerges from the bus unscathed...for now.