On a good morning, our family “walking bus” will set off at a leisurely pace and I will sign my daughter in at the kindergarten at 8:45am and get my son to school in ample time for the 9 o’clock bell, with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.
On a slightly less good morning, I will thrust my daughter into the arms of a unsuspecting parent outside the kindergarten, begging them to take her in, and I will then sprint the rest of the way to the school, my brow furrowed and jaw slightly clenched.
On a bad morning, I will end up driving my son to school first to make that 9 o’clock bell, and then drop my daughter at the kindergarten some 20 minutes after the session started, my fly undone and my hair still wet, and a stream of “Shitty fuckin’ fucks” in my wake.
On a really bad morning, I will probably repeat the MO for a bad morning but with a Late Pass issued by the school office thrown in for good measure. And then I’ll come home from the school run, heart still pounding, adrenaline a-pumping and feeling all vague and woozy through lack of food. I will go to make toast only to discover petrified bread already in the toaster is from the last time I’d tried to make myself breakfast three days ago. I will instead decide to perform my morning ablutions, which I have had to put off all morning because it appears to have been “International Hit Your Siblings With a Rubber Mallet Day”. I will then be interrupted from said ablutions by a small boy who has put both hands in the honey tub and is now crying because his hands are ‘sticky’. While cleaning him up in the bathroom, I will subsequently discover that my seemingly wet hair is actually no longer wet and is just incredibly greasy because I forgot to shampoo it in the 30 second shower I managed to have before one of the kids had started screaming again because they’d been hit on the head with a rubber mallet. I will then discover my favourite bra sopping wet, stuffed with partially-chewed sultanas and My Little Pony accessories and stashed behind the bathroom door. I will briefly contemplate returning to bed, possibly never to rise again, but will see the tell-tale ring of grey cat fur on my pillow as evidence of some vindictive anal grooming. I will then kick something in my rage but it will be with the foot where the big toe has a verruca growing under the toenail, which will just make me angrier because a) it fucking hurts and b) I want to know what kind of a person gets something that sounds like a sexually transmitted disease on their foot anyway, and then, while jumping up and down in pain, I will accidentally land on a piece of carefully concealed Bionicle body part. At which point, I will start screaming and flailing my arms and legs about like Animal from The Muppets or like Peter Garret used to before he was made to put on a suit and assume the position for the Rudd Government. And I will probably do this for quite some time.
And then I will finally remember to breathe and it will all be okay again. Except that I’m still hungry and I still need to do a shit. And my almost-three-year-old is probably just about to hit me on the head with a frickin’ rubber mallet.
Welcome to my world.