“You are not getting me out of this bus! I don’t care if you had informed me earlier about this trip. Did I agree to it? What do you mean I signed the consent form? Did I understand what the form was all about? What do you mean it’s a short trip?!”
The above? Me being dragged kicking and screaming from my boy’s bus. It is his first field trip. A notice had been sent about two weeks earlier, and for whatever reason, I had nonchalantly agreed to the trip. Paid for it even! I probably thought the day would not come or I could fake illness that would require him to stay home to feed me and keep me warm. No amount of coughing, sniffing or stuffing the thermometer in my mouth convinced the boy that I needed taking care of and he was not going to miss school and in this case his first field trip. That is why I find myself being half dragged out of his school bus, as they are running half an hour late, on my account. He sits there, not worried, not even noticing my protests. Chatting with his current best friend. I’m not even sure they know they are going on a field trip. His girlfriend (don’t even get me started on this) looks at him with the most content glee as he chatters away with the best friend.
Do not even think of judging me! The thought of him being away in school was scary enough. Now you want me to get used to him going on field trips? What next? I should allow him to go for overnight camping trips without me around? Why don’t you go ahead and cut my middle and index finger while you are at it!
It appears I still have many firsts to go through where he is concerned. Some will be easily accepted, others will be sources of embarrassing moments as with this particular First Field Trip. In the end, when he finally sends me to a nursing home, he will tell his children I gave him a ride of his life. That’s all I’m expected to do. Isn’t it?
P.s. The said First Field Trip was about 8kms from my house. While I did my best not to go all kuku on the poor teachers, I can assure you, inside closed doors I was hyperventilating on paperbags and wore my tiles from pacing up and down. I also have a patch of hair missing from twirling and tagging on it.