The Pajama Lady Who Waves

I have become a regular feature of the morning school bus route.

Not because I drive the bus. Or because I work for the school.

Because I stand in my driveway, sometimes wearing pajamas, waving at children who may or may not want anything to do with me.

My son has already established some boundaries around this arrangement.

Specifically, once the school bus is in sight, we are no longer participating in public displays of affection.

No hugs.

Apparently, being seen hugging your mother is a social risk that second grade simply cannot accommodate.

Fair enough.

We negotiated a wave.

I can work with a wave.

But here's where things have gotten interesting.

There's a little boy who sits near the front of the bus. Every morning, as the bus pulls up, he looks out the window and waves at me.

Not my son.

Me.

And he doesn't just casually lift a hand. He makes a point of it.

Now, I have considered two possibilities.

Possibility one: This little boy is genuinely friendly. He sees a mom standing in her driveway, waving goodbye to her kid, and thinks, Hey, I'll wave, too.

Possibility two: He thinks I'm ridiculous.

There's a grown woman standing outside in her pajamas, enthusiastically waving at a school bus, and he's discovered a reliable source of morning entertainment.

Honestly, both seem plausible.

But here's the thing.

I've decided to believe he's being genuine.

Not because I have proof. I don't know this kid. I don't know what he's thinking. I don't even know his name. I just like the idea that there's a little person out there who sees another human being and thinks it's worth saying hello.

And if he's being a smartass?

Well, I'm happy to be part of the joke.

Humor is everything.

Frankly, I appreciate the boldness required to sit in the front seat of a school bus and repeatedly wave at some random lady in her driveway.

Respect, little dude.

I'll wave to that, too.

The funny thing is, my own child is becoming increasingly selective about how we acknowledge each other in public.

And this other child, who has absolutely no obligation to interact with me, has apparently decided we're going to have a thing.

A morning thing.

A wave thing.

And I love it.

Because I think we spend a remarkable amount of time trying to figure out what other people mean by their behavior.

Was that sincere?

Were they making fun of me?

Was that awkward?

Did I look ridiculous?

And sometimes, we make decisions about how we're going to feel before we have nearly enough information to justify them.

We assume the worst. Or we protect ourselves from looking foolish by pretending we didn't notice.

But what if we just chose the interpretation that gave the moment a little more goodness?

Not blindly. Not in situations where someone's behavior is genuinely harmful.

Just in those ordinary, ambiguous little interactions where we have a choice about the story we tell ourselves.

Maybe the kid is being kind.

Maybe he's being funny.

Maybe he's doing both.

I don't particularly need to know.

What I know is that every morning, a school bus pulls up, my son climbs aboard, and somewhere near the front there's a kid who looks out the window and waves.

And I wave back.

In my pajamas, if necessary.

Because my son may have outgrown the public hugs.

But apparently, I've picked up a new fan.

Move Like It Matters.