Maternal Crises by Foucault

Desmond Jones loves taking the bus to school. Zoe and I walk down with him every school morning and goof off until the bus comes. I always shout good morning to the driver and advise Desmond to go easy during the morning and afternoon bus bartering sessions – the toy trade is quite vigorous and I worry about what the little kindergartners are being coaxed into giving up in exchange for Desmond’s broken castoffs.

One morning this fall, the bus pulled up and the front right tire was on FIRE. I processed the information with some alarm and called out to the driver that there was fire. He looked at me and nodded. I was puzzled. He just sat there calmly, seeming to imply that all was OK. I responded, “Yeah?” and then let my son approach the bus to get on.

{Shall I pause here so you can shake your finger at me? I know, I know you would NEVER do such a thing!}

Before the bus approached, Nathan had come down the drive to take his morning run. We had teasingly pulled him into a family group hug before we let him depart – one of Nathan’s funny charms is that he embarrasses easily about public displays of affection (though he would have acted the same inside the house, come to think of it.) Anyway, he had just walked on before the bus pulled up and happened to glance back as Des was heading toward it . . .

{All embarrassment of affection shattered}

Nathan’s arms flew into the air and he began to jump and shout madlymadlymadly, “Desmond!!! DON’T get on the bus!! Get away from the BUS!”

{I just stood there}

The driver was sufficiently alarmed and got up to take a look. He saw the fire and returned in a lumbering fashion to retrieve the fire extinguisher. We watched. My arms around mybabes.

This was all seriously troubling.

I realized the bus driver hadn’t heard me and thought I was giving him my regular greeting from the road. Nathan philosophically tried to placate me by classifying the experience as a typical Foucault case: I had perceived the bus driver in a position of authority and even though I knew that FIRE was usually BAD, I conceded judgment to him as he knew more about vehicles than I did.

{Little comfort, little comfort.}



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