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Posts Tagged ‘late for school’

I was almost disappointed when we made it to school on time the other day and I didn’t get to write down ‘Tiddles McGee’s Arse Explosion’ as our excuse for being late. Yes, a last minute trip to the toilet by my youngest child put our (so far) perfect punctuality record for 2010 in jeopardy for a few minutes there. And for the record, ‘Tiddles McGee’s Arse Explosion’ a just like ‘Jon Spencer’s Blues Explosion‘, except it’s brown instead of blue.

Anyway, it turned out I had another explosion to deal with – of the yellow variety. Having had to run through the school grounds to deliver assorted children to their classrooms on time, I arrived triumphantly at The Pixie’s classroom only to feel what can only be described as a ‘Tena Lady Moment’.

Of course, there had to be a large group of attractive, well-dressed mothers milling about just outside said classroom. And of course, I had to be wearing jeans at the time and we all know how blue denim showcases wet patches as beautifully as if I’d taken a photo of my sodden crotch and posted it on twitter.

“Running late is so stressful,” one of the mums said to me sympathetically, misreading the look of horror on my face.

It was so tempting to reply “So is pissing your own pants!” in front of everyone. Except I’ve learnt to hold my tongue a little better since the time one of the school dads told me to “have fun” with my (newly fixed) washing machine and I found myself exclaiming “What kind of a fun are you suggesting, exactly??” while crowds of fellow parents stood and stared.

So instead, I just smiled and nodded and, sensing my wet patch might be growing at a similar rate to the population of New Mexico, slunk off as quickly as possible out of the school grounds and back to the car. And it was then that I found I was still holding The Pixie’s school bag in my hand.

I was wondering what I should do when another mum came up to me and started chatting and, before either of us knew it, I suddenly blurted out: “We were late for school and I had to run and I kind of lost control of my bladder and now I have to walk all the way back to The Pixie’s classroom because I still have her bag in my hand and everyone’s still standing around in the playground and they will all see my piss pants!”

Had I known her a little better, I might have then been able to ask her to assess the damage. But the moment my confession was made, it was like an invisible line was drawn at shoulder level and neither my eyes nor hers were able to wander below it for even a second.

She quickly made her excuses and I headed back into the school to drop The Pixie’s bag off, adopting the awkward gait of someone who is trying to walk without their thighs separating.

Of course, the same group of mums were still standing around, still looking attractive and well-dressed.

“I forgot Pixie’s bag!” I called out cheerfully to them, explaining my reappearance, but perhaps not the strange way I was walking. Thankfully, they quickly returned to chatting amongst themselves and I, blushing from head to soon-to-be waterlogged toe, delivered the bag to the classroom and scurried back to the car.

Once I got home, I rushed straight to the toilet so I could finally inspect the full extent of my shame. And was surprised to discover that the seemingly ginormous wet patch was actually the size of a ten cent coin and would only have been visible to someone attempting to do the limbo under my crotch.

I mean, sheesh! No wonder they call it stress incontinence.

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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.

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Now we all know that sliding doors on vans are meant to be slammed. Previous neighbours of ours proved this with their habit of apparently retrieving each item from the back of their van one by one, taking special care to slam the door in between each retrieval while I lay in my house whale-like at 36 weeks’ pregnancy trying to get some “fucking sleep, you fucking fuckers”. Yes, I really was delightful company during the equally delightful third trimester. You would have enjoyed knowing me. No, really. 

Anyway, the sliding door of The Love Bus is an exception. For one thing, The Love Bus isn’t so much a “van” or even a “people mover”: it is a “Way Of Life”.  For another thing, the door has a history of coming off its hinges.

And so it is little surprise that my husband recently issued firm instructions for me to handle the sliding door “gently”.

Now, between you and me, I suspect we have different concepts of “gentle” – his would be to close it carefully, with your right hand pressed firmly against the back of the door as it shuts. Mine would be to refrain from kicking it violently in a fit of rage or lateness or even lateness-induced rage. 

Still, in my defence, the other morning was a slamming doors kind of day. You see, we were all piling into the Love Bus for the school run when Tiddles McGee had a sudden change of heart and ran back inside the house. So I quickly slammed the Love Bus door to contain the older two kids and ran inside to find McGee in one of his Poo Corners. I then had to wait ten minutes for him to finish (these things can’t be rushed, no matter how much you shout) and then finally changed him – pit-stop style – in the hallway, rushed out of the house (slamming the front door), strapped him into the back of the car and then slammed the Love Bus Door most firmly indeed. Then I discovered I didn’t have my keys on me. Had to sprint around the back of the house to go through the back door (slamming it) to find the keys on the hallway floor next to the unpackaged nappy (no doubt lying in wait for a “slip on the banana-peel”-style slapstick moment for my return home) allowing me to finally leave the house (slamming the front door), jump in the car and DRIVE LIKE HELL TO THE SCHOOL (while keeping within the 50km/hour speed limit).  

Of course Principal Brett had chosen that morning to stand outside the school gates to personally castigate latecomers. And of course there were no parking spots in sight. Luckily my friend Lady Ren was sprinting by and offered to take Mr Justice into the school which instantly turned me into one of Those Parents who dangerously double-park in front of the school (and the Principal) and will probably mean I will be personally named and shamed in the next newsletter. But at least my son was in the school before the bell, eh Brett? Anyway that sliding door was opened and slammed shut in no time at all, leaving me to delivery my daughter to kindergarten 15 minutes late, amidst more slamming of doors and then finally arrive at my morning tea engagement – where I still managed one last slam of that Love Bus door because, you know, I was “in the zone”.

After an hour or so of coffee, cake and pleasant chit-chat, I emerged a much more relaxed person. And it was then that I finally remembered to handle the door gently and it was then – and only then – that the door suddenly came away in my hand and I found myself holding up 25kg of metal in a quiet suburban street. 

But listen up, folks. I’ve decided to apply the same logic that saw my husband’s slipped disc in his lower back blamed on patting a Baby Mr Justice to sleep and not from trying single-handedly to lift and carry his motorbike around a tight corner.

That door broke not because of all that slamming but because I didn’t slam it hard enough. You see, that door was my bitch, and it needed a firm hand, someone to show it who was boss. You can’t go mollycoddling that kind of a door with your trendy-lefty-pinko-macrobiotic-gently-gently idealogy. When all is said and done, it’s a van door and it’s meant to be slammed. 

I rest my case.

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