Tumble out of bed and stumble to kitchen, pour out cereal and some discipline, “Hurry up or we’ll be late for school.”
Gulp coffee, pull on clothes, open curtains while offering a gentle alarm call, usher to bathroom, brush teeth, assist brushing omeone else’s teeth, throw balled up school uniform in their direction and slick on mascara. Tug clothes over sleepy head and herd downstairs, as call to action grows increasingly frantic.
Make sandwiches, proffer breakfast and socks, plait hair, run comb through own hair, gulp more coffee and carry out mental check list on contents of school bag.
Find keys, swap shoes onto correct feet, urgently yell importance of consuming breakfast before, “We really absolutely are actually late.” Wipe up spilt milk, tug coat onto charge, transfer coffee into portable cup, don own shoes and coat while calls to leave become hysterical.
Bundle out of door and dash down street, swigging coffee and promising to arrive for collection with treasures untold in effort to pick up the pace.
Turn corner and fall into slip stream of other bodies, all dressed in matching colours, all flowing at various speeds towards gate in distance.
Arrive at door and hand over bag, accept kiss good bye, drain dregs of cold coffee, turn towards gate. And breathe.
Such is the organised chaos of the School Run each morning. Returning polite nods of recognition here and there, as we all try to keep our heads down and race to the finish line. The end is just the beginning – work, chores, a lucky leisure break – but whatever it is the clock restarts. Time is your own once more. Until it is pick up time and the mad dash must start all over again.
I must confess I am actually enjoying the School Run for now. Once that door closes and we are on our way, late or punctual, I skip along in the sunshine, just relishing the chance to take part.
Though a galaxy away from the glamour of Big Little Lies, I imagine myself swapping my trainers and greasy bedhead for designer heels and a blow dry and popping for coffee with Reese Witherspoon and Nicole Kidman afterwards.
Once the weather changes and I am battling through wind and rain to drop off my daughter at the classroom door – I expect it is the walking away that I will cherish more.
I say good bye and I don’t look back. I value those hours that are my own. I work, I earn a living, I tackle my to do list and I potter. But entering those gates with that little hand in mine, I take great pleasure in being a School Run mum.
Shabby, I may be. Late – sometimes. But I strut in with my head held high, for I am involved in my daughter’s day, and that makes my own.
Nursery Whines 