All The World's A Stage...a.k.a. Waiting For The Bus

In “As You Like It,” Shakespeare’s melancholy Jaques ponders, “All the world’s a stage…” I’m quite sure he was referring to my front porch, specifically 15 minutes before the school bus pulls up each morning.
The Bug is a “morning person” through and through. (My husband and I question how this is even genetically possible for our offspring?) The Pea, like AJ, prefers to ease into her morning.
As we wait for what my friend MHR terms, “that yellow bus of mercy,” the Pea and I are treated to a vast array of performances. I sit on the top step holding my hot tea. The little one snuggles beside me, backpack already slung over one shoulder.
The Bug takes center stage. (A note to my children's teachers: I promise the kids are semi-presentable in clean clothes and brushed hair at one point. However, I’m reticent to make any promises once they pass the threshold commonly known as my front door.)
The Bug is a whirligig of activity. Sometimes confined to the porch, but most often not. First on her “to-do” list is a look at the empty nest within the Bradford Pear tree. Of course, the nest is buried within the top branches, so even a glimpse involves a climb. High climbs are usually reserved for the days the Bug has donned a dress or skirt. (Apparently pants are too binding for a good climb…)
Next she checks on Mr. Hoppy (a.k.a. any cricket unlucky enough to cross her path.) She likes to think Mr. Hoppy is most comfortable in his own nest of soil and grass. A nest she fashions as Mr. Hoppy bounces up her arm, into her hair – and one time into my tea cup.
Yesterday, she demonstrated side to side, shuffle, back pedal, and blitz across our driveway. “What dance are we learning?” I asked.
“MOM! It’s not a dance! It’s football!” replied the Bug. Good to know.
Often there is a morning harvest. One day the Bug delivered 62 cherry tomatoes to my step on the porch. I know because she counted them. Out loud. Twice.
Sometimes performance art segues to visual art. She’ll drop to her knees on the asphalt, sidewalk chalk in hand. (This task is particularly suited for days when white or cream colored tights are worn in lieu of socks.) She scoots around creating a masterpiece. Sometimes using her fingers to smudge a solid line into an image.
Often the Pea and I are treated to a gymnastics extravaganza. Cartwheels, handstands, head first dives into a somersault race across our muddy front yard. Sometimes I pick grass and twigs out of her hair, mulch out of her socks, dirt off her knees.
And when the bus rolls by, the two girls scamper aboard. (This week the Pea got to sit in the very back because of her “good behavior.” God love our bus driver!) And I head inside, until it’s time to cross the threshold once more in anticipation of the afternoon bus.
At which point, all bets are off, as they say. And the entire residence…front yard and back, porch and patio, garden and swing set, guest room and den, transform into the World’s Most Glorious Stage.
At least until the sun sets and the kids trudge their (cute but muddy) selves upstairs for a bubble bath…