The Last Ones Walking

I try to make my children walk to the school every morning if I can – not just because the 1km walk is “good for the constitution” but also there are mornings where I just can’t face the bitch-fight over parking if we go in the car, particularly if it’s one of those days when I think I’ll completely lose my reverse-parking mojo in front of a large crowd of onlookers and with no less than seventeen cars up my arse. 

Most of the time when we walk to school, we are part of a thriving walking community. I’m on waving terms with many a fellow parent, and have even recently upgraded some of those to a “How’s it going” or even a “Strange weather we’re having” relationship. Ah, good times. 

But every now and then, we’re walking to school and it’s like we’ve stepped onto the set of “The Quiet Earth”. The streets are completely and utterly deserted and Mr Justice fearfully tugs on my sleeve and says “Mummy, we’re the last ones walking”. And we both know, deep in the pit of our stomaches, that this means we have slipped into late-pass territory.

Late Passes. Ach, don’t get me started. But what’s that? You really want to know? Well, okay. Officially, you don’t have to get a late pass unless the roll has been already called by the class teacher. Now I like Mr Justice’s teacher very much but does she have to call the roll before the bell has even stopped ringing? Many a time, we’ve run the last 200 metres to the school (with me pushing the Valco Mobile Home and Mr Justice carrying a bag roughly double his body weight) and we’ve poked our heads in the door at 9:02am only to get the thumbs down and have to do the Walk of Shame back to the school office. 

And then, when the “time of arrival” is noted on your late pass, it’s the time it was issued and not of the time you actually arrived at school. Which pisses me off no end. Because we weren’t actually 15 minutes late, we were 2 minutes late and it’s not my bloody fault it took me an extra five minutes to herd everyone back to the School Office and then had to queue “patiently” for another eight. It’s all I can do to stop myself from yelling “My child is missing out on an education here, people!”

The final insult is that you have to give a reason for being 2 minutes late. I mean, I’ve got three children 6 and under. What other reason do I have to give? They’re lucky we’ve turned up at all, really. And not one of us still in our sleepwear. Not a single one. Hell, they should be giving me a freakin’ Mother of the Year Award rather than a green slip of paper. But noooooo, it’s apparently Education Department Policy that I have to cite a reason more specific than “Life”.

Usually, I end up writing “Slept in late” on the slip. Hah! As if *that’s* ever happened in this household. Why do I lie, you ask? For one thing, there isn’t enough space for me to write the whole reason – not without compromising my One True Vanity (see “What’s in a Name“). And in any case, if they were ever to call my bluff, I’d end up snarling something like “You want the truth? You can’t HANDLE the truth!”.

If the truth really must be told (*sigh*), here are a few of the real reasons behind our frequent tardiness:

Tiddles’ nappy exploded shortly before we were due to leave the house. 

Someone somewhere declared today to be International Slow Walking Day and all three of my children chose to observe it. Closely. 

Thieves broke into the house overnight and either hid or stole all the car keys, hats, shoes and/or drinky pots.

The Pixie needed to finish her princess-fairy-song-dance in the loungeroom before we could leave.

I’m shit.

My children hate me. 

And if you manage to slip your child into class after the roll is called but without getting a late pass, you get an officious yellow note sent home, demanding you provide a reason (and a signature) for their records. Because you were five-frigging-minutes late. Aw, come on! By the time all the paper work has been issued and filled in at my end and returned and then filed away with their records, it’s taken up far more of their precious minutes than we were actually late in the first place. 

One of my friends, Nat-T got handed a yellow note by her daughter in the middle of writing a eulogy for her grandmother.  No doubt fueled by grief and a substantial quantity of wine, she scribbled a message to the principal on it along the lines of “Is this officious bullshit truly necessary, Brett?” His response was that apparently it *is* necessary. Perhaps I should just dump one of Tiddles’ fresh steaming nappies on the office counter or, better still, just leave my three kids with Brett and friends for half an hour. Something tells me they’d never ask me why we were the Last Ones Walking again.