It was one of those work days.

The kind that leaves you depleted physically and mentally.

The second to last turn made, less than five minutes before the end of one portion of the day and home to the next, but there I sat. The school bus and its flashing lights standing in the way of home.

Quickly calculating alternative routes and realizing none, I stewed.

This would set me back. Ten minutes now lost when I could be multitasking-prepping meals, answering work emails, trying hard to maintain eye contact with little girls sharing stories.

It was then that he appeared, the little boy, lunchbox in hand, backpack slung over the shoulders, bounding off the bus and up the drive.

He was home.

A few seconds later another stop, two little girls hopping off, running up the grassy slope.

The front door to the farmhouse opens. A little sister dances out. I didn’t need the car windows down to hear the squeals, the delight as playmates returned home.

Similar scenes repeated several more times.

Watching and waiting, my frustration whittling away to nothing.

I hadn’t realized the working women needed a pause, a moment to transition to Momma.

Someone else had and now the moments sitting behind the bus were preparing me for the moments yet to come.

Car in garage, ignition turned off, I was ready for home.