Out of twenty plus kids’ rooms at the hotel, only one oversleeps. Of course, it’s my son’s. After numerous wake-up calls (in their defense, the phones were out) and door pounding, it takes a chaperone a spare key and some dynamite, oh just kidding, and some yelling through the security lock to wake them.
My son comes running downstairs to meet the bus, shirt untucked, hair just as you would imagine, wearing his black Dockers, dress shoes (it’s our “fancy” day) and brand new, bright white athletic socks.
One of the bus drivers is standing next to me. “That’s the future of our country,” he says as my son runs by.
“That’s my son,” I tell him proudly. And I am proud. Because I know he won’t be a bus driver when he grows up. At least not a nasty one, but only a nice one like all the nice bus drivers who may be a fan of acitymom.
Yesterday was jam-packed. Vietnam Veterans, Korean, Lincoln and WWII Memorials, National Archives (where a little kid outside complained, “Why do I have to go? I don’t even know what the Constitution is.” The Ford Theater, souvenir shopping (I got some genuine Washington DC Dolce and Gabbana knock-off sunglasses. Very patriotic.) and the National Portrait Gallery where we saw a painting of great American, LL Cool Jay.
Posting from the bus (under the bus?) today, so please excuse typos, spelling and all other errors of judgement. I’m Tweeting, too, so if you don’t want to miss a minute, you can follow me there, too.
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