The School Run

Louise Potter - 10 Feb 16

It’s the morning of the school run, and everything is serene.
Everyone’s had breakfast and the dishes are now clean.
I’m feeling very smug, I’ve even got the next meal underway.
A load of washing is in; I’m well in charge of this day.

“One more episode of Paw Patrol?” I say, and my son grins in glee.
My baby girl chucks mega bloks around, and laughs happily.
I smile as I fold some washing, it’s safe to say I rock,
But I haven’t been paying attention to the time on the clock.

I catch the time on the cooker, 8.34 – what the ****?
I race into the lounge, and nearly trip over a toy truck.
“Right, it’s nearly time to go; son you need to get dressed!”
I try to keep my voice calm, and not get immediately stressed.

I run around in circles, checking bags and coats and stuff.
I’m red and sweating and flustered, completely out of puff.
“’ksake!” I mutter to myself – and to my son, “PUT ON YOUR CLOTHES!”
He looks at me completely blankly, whilst having a good pick of his nose.

“I’m turning off Paw Patrol, and if you don’t get dressed I’ll explode!”
He throws himself on the floor, like his world is going to implode.
I dash upstairs to brush my teeth then back again I race.
I find him naked apart from one sock, staring into space.

Then stifling a range of profanities, I help him put on his other sock.
And his shirt and trousers and jumper, all the time looking at the clock.
“Now put on your shoes and get your coat, I’ll load up the car.”
We haven’t got time to walk now, even though it’s not far.

I come back and find him dithering, I’m seriously going to go potty.
“but Mummy I’ve lost my bears, I want Scotty and Wotty!”
“Shoes! Shoes! SHOOOOOOOOOOES!” I’m actually going to combust.
My husband will find me tonight, just a pile of ashes and dust.

Right, we’re ready, “come on, let’s go,” I take a victorious deep breath.
But I fear this chaos is not over, because something smells like death.
“You’ve pooed?” I say incredulously, to the baby who is smiling with joy.
This is all an evil conspiracy, a deliberate, horrible ploy.

“Right – EVERYONE BACK INTO THE HOUSE!” I say, flying into a rage.
I wrestle with the baby on the floor, and she kicks me in the ribcage.
She twists and turns angrily, as I try to take off her nappy.
I look at her exasperated, “do you think this makes me happy?”

I frantically wipe as she wriggles away, and look at the clock in alarm.
“Oh well that’s just bloody great!” I’ve now got shit on my arm.
I win with the nappy and she lies on the floor, now she’s as still as rock.
We eyeball each other disdainfully, then I sigh and take stock.

“We really have to rush now,” I plead to my son once more.
And look in disbelief, as his shoes are back on the floor.
“Why did you take your shoes off? My chest is starting to contract.
He doesn’t sense the urgency; he’s whistling calmly in fact.

“Why. Are. You. Wearing. That?” an Easter bonnet sits in his head.
I swipe it off and point to his shoes, now I’m really seeing red.
The cat comes miaowing round my feet, “You can get lost right now!”
We leave the house and I wonder how Supermum has turned into Supercow.

I’m frazzled and stressed and harassed, and I’ve unravelled to look like Mrs Twit
My kids are completely oblivious, they care not one little bit.
As I watch my son dawdling to the car, as slow as a caterpillar,
I attempt to strap my daughter in while she acts like I’m trying to kill her.

It’s 8.52, we’re all in, we screech round the corner and park.
As I lift the cumbersome pram out, I curse at this morning lark.
We speed-walk to the gate; I chirp “Morning!” and plaster on a grin.
“How are you?” someone asks politely. “Fine! Anyone got some gin?”

Louise Potter

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