So You Get To Chaperone Your Child’s Field Trip

Get to. Have to. Same advice applies.

As the school year whips by us like homework excuses in a tornado, we find ourselves on the cusp of that most cherished of all educational adventuring: the field trip, where learning and relentless searches for bathrooms are disguised as off-site fun.

You, dear parents, have been chosen (read: volunteered, or at least volun-told) to chaperone.

This isn’t a drill. Nor is it a walk in the park — even if your field trip is actually to a park. This is a tactical obstacle course where you and they will run, cry, fall, climb, carry, and “Why did I volunteer for this?” your way through the day.

Here’s a briefing, because sharing is part of the healing:

• Start Young. The smaller the human, the more tolerable the chaos. Wait until they hit middle or high school, and you’re in a psychological thriller you never signed up for.
• Pack your patience and maybe a multi-tool. Prepare to juggle four coats, a clipboard, a map, wipes, cell phones, tissues, and three hands, while performing mini-nostril maintenance and fielding youthful-yet-existential questions. Welcome to Thunderdome.
• Inevitabilities. No, we’re not there yet. Even if we’re almost there.
• Prepare for espionage. Kids have the observational skills of a seasoned CIA agent and the quiet tact of a bullhorn. Smudged makeup? Onion bagel grabbed on the way out the door? Clothes a little too tight? They’ll tell you. They’ll tell everyone.
• Beware the contraband. They will smuggle things. Weird candies or devices capable of launching a small-scale rebellion and/or sharing videos that have been the topic of intense debate and consternation in the parents’ group chat. And just when you think you can join in on the fun to earn some “cool parent” points, they’ll turn on you — and turn you in — faster than you can say “banned from the parents’ group chat.”
• Mastering distraction. The “count the buses” tactic when you’re stuck in slow traffic is a game for amateurs and fools. May I suggest letting them smell your breath and then having them describe it to their neighbor?
• Classification. Your charges will likely consist of The Slow, The Slower, and The Where-the-Hell-Are-You-Going-Stop-Running! Regular head counting will rapidly take on a piquant terror you’ll never fully shake off.
• Embrace the magic of the mundane. For a kid, the only thing better than getting to press an elevator button is when no one else gets to press it. The back of the bus becomes a no-man’s-land that is bumpy enough to break the tenderest of hemorrhoids. Don’t forget Band-Aids. They’re the currency of the realm. Stick them on everything. Knees. Lunch bags. Willing docents.
• Lunchtime logistics. Lunch is not just a meal, it’s a strategic operation, and the campaign for it begins 30–120 minutes before lunchtime. And yes, one of their lunches is a ticking time bomb of gastrointestinal distress. Choose your adjacent seat wisely on the return trip.
• Surrender to the forbidden. On the journey back, embrace the chaos. Vet for allergens and appropriateness, then dive into those Nerds Gummy Clusters or Zesty Zingers or Banshee Bars, whatever the latest sugary treat being traded, eaten, and whipped at one another.
• Still. Take a moment to look around, you may actually spot a bit of wonder. It’s magic.
• (So are elementary students. Moreso from the front of the bus, though.)

Now, if you survive this without petitioning for sainthood or a stiff drink, spare a thought for our teachers. Every. Single. Day. they dive into this without the novelty of “we’re going on a trip” to spice things up. They deserve a raise, a parade, a key to the city, medals, banners, and to be the one who gets to press all the elevator buttons. Every time.