Orlando

With the exception of my own kids, I’ve never been good with teenagers. In fact, I’m not always that good with my own. It’s brutally obvious to most teens that I am not “cool.” They don’t get my humor and I get the overwhelming impression that they think I’m a dork. Generally, I try to stay of their way and hope that they stay out of mine.

Connie has a theory (which she loves to share with others) that the reason I don’t relate to teenagers is because I was never a “teenager.” She jokes that I’ve been an adult, using adult logic, since I was ten years old. If that were true, it would explain a lot, but I don’t think I was some freaky Kentucky version of Star Trek’s Spock. At least, I hope not.

This past weekend, Connie and I chaperoned forty-six high school choral students on a trip to Orlando, Florida. I’m not exactly sure why I agreed to do this, other than the fact that my middle daughter Ashlyn was going and Connie planned to go whether I did or not. It was many months ago when I was asked and agreed, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

I admit to some apprehension as we neared our Thursday morning departure. I hadn’t been on a bus since High School, and I had never ridden on a charter bus. I didn’t know what to expect. The concept of eleven hours in a confined space with that many teenagers seemed as foreign and uncomfortable to me as spending the night in a cave full of grizzly bears.

I shouldn’t have worried about the kids. We arrived Thursday morning at 6:30am and began loading our bags into the underbelly of the bus. Although there was a current of excitement flowing through the crowd over the prospect of the trip, in general we all still looked half asleep. Once we loaded the bus, pillows and blankets sent the kids into peaceful slumber. For the first several hours of the trip, all I heard was an occasional snore, cough or snort. It should have been a pleasant drive.

I have to stop here for a moment and explain my twisted history with “charter buses.” Although I had never been on one, I had seen a Dateline NBC story about a tragic bus accident in Atlanta in which several college baseball students were killed when they were thrown out of the massive windows of their bus during an accident. I was shocked to learn that seatbelts are not required on buses, and retrofitting them is considered “too expensive.”

The story made a considerable impression on me, and with the knowledge that my kids were soon travelling to the beach for a church youth trip and would be riding in one of these death machines, I vowed to do something. Searching the Internet, I was able to procure two portable seatbelts, capable of slipping over the back of the bus seat and securing the rider in place. Although I was thrilled with my purchase, my kids were not happy…at all.

Using my “parent card” (which I rarely resort to), I told them that they would use them on the trip or they would not be allowed to go on further trips. I also told them I would ask the chaperones to check on them to make sure they were wearing them. Connie tried to reason with me, but I used my “Head of the household card” (which I frankly didn’t know I even had), and she solemnly and begrudgingly took my side.

I didn’t actually ask their youth leaders to check on their seatbelt usage, because I was pretty sure they wouldn’t enforce it anyway. They had a lot of kids to watch out for, and satisfying the psychosis of one over-protective Dad would not be high on their “to-do” list.

That was a few years back, and I still pull out those belts when the kids go on trips. Each and every time they look at me like I’m crazy, and maybe I am. I don’t know if they actually use them, since I can’t be there to make sure, but I feel better knowing that I’ve tried. I hope that they know why I do it, and maybe they understand that although I don’t want them to look weird around the other kids or be uncomfortable; my top priority is to try to keep them safe. That’s what Dad’s do.

Which brings me back to Thursday morning: I’m sure that Ashlyn thought that I had forgotten, but she didn’t look terribly surprised when I pulled out the belts just before we left the house for the school. Connie, on the other hand, did look surprised when I handed her the second belt. She gave me a look that said, “You don’t expect me to wear this, do you?” I gave her a look that said, “Yes, I certainly do.”

It was brought up that there was not a belt for me, and I told them that if I had a third belt, I would wear it, but since I did not, I would bear the risk and leave the belts to them. I was prepared for a longer argument, and had planned to say that I had been too busy to think about the fact that I would need a belt. If pushed, I could also resort to the ugly implication that if they cared for me as much as I cared for them they would have ordered me one in advance. Fortunately, it did not come to that, and I’m sure that if it had, I would have found myself riding with the luggage under the bus.

We left the Oak Ridge High School parking lot a few minutes before 7am. Connie and I had prime seats, right in front, on the side opposite the driver. I had a clear view of the driver, speedometer, gauges and GPS. Before we reached the Interstate, I realized that this was not a good thing.

Our driver, James, was a very nice, soft-spoken older gentleman with a kind spirit and easy-going manner. He also scared me to death for most of the trip. Several times early in our drive he pulled out a small notebook and pen to make notes, apparently about our timing, gas usage or bird species we were passing along the way. Much as I have an issue of texting, putting on make-up or playing Jenga while driving, I am not crazy about people using both hands to write while they precariously guide the steering wheel with their knees.

After pointing this out to Connie, she became aware of my growing tension and grabbed my arm whenever James pulled out his pad and pen in an effort to keep me from yanking him out of the driver’s seat. Finally, somewhere past Chattanooga, I decided that I should simply let the man do his job and go to sleep. This was the first of many attempts over the next few days to let go of my controlling tendencies and try to relax. Sad to say, few of those attempts actually worked.



…to be continued