Thursday, May 20, 2010
How Did That Slip By..?
It’s so peaceful at 6am in the morning, only the birds are up before me. I truly savour my precious hour before the kids are roused. I wake with a shower, then go down to greet and feed the animals. Cooking breakfast, I tune into the BBC news, to find out what has been going on with the world as I've slept.
It’s a short Oasis before the 7am scramble.
7.30, Abby’s throwing a guilt trip on me.
"Will you test my algebra?"
(She has a maths test today.)
"I tested you last night."
”But can you test me again?"
Obviously the worst mother in the world, I order her to brush her hair up in to a pony-tail, instead. She's only showing off. Unlike her, I don't know a Pythagoras from a pie-chart, and I'm not about to haplessly trip into that embarrassing trap again.
"Do you need me to sign your homework diary?"
"S'alright, I did it for you."
"Good girl. Hey, Matt - you will remember to help Beccy off the coach with her case, won't you?" (She's off on a weekend sleepover straight after school.)
Beccy thrusts my purse under my nose. "I need some money for the cinema and the restaurant."
"Huh? I thought this was meant to be a birthday sleep-over?"
"Ye-ah, but we still have to pay for ourselves."
“What about that twenty I just gave you?”
“Oh Mum! That’s for her present, I put it in the card.”
WHAT?? Bloody cheek. Maybe I should try that one, eh? I have a fish in my purse, and it turns out she's in luck, but only because I was going to pay the milkman this morning.
Sam thunders down the stairs yanking at his tie. Having unfortunately yanked it the wrong way, it's now welded in to an undo-able knot. Apparently I didn't get the right length for him the first time round, and the world is going to explode. Using a chop-stick for leverage I finally (on the third go) tie it to his exact satisfaction. (Why the hell they force him to wear a tie every day to school is beyond me, it hardly encourages independence. He can’t even fasten a zip, how’s he ever going to master a tie on his own?
Glancing the clock, I utter the battle-cry, "Time to go!" and all four children miraculously disappear.
Jake follows me out to the garage.
He slinks back, tail dragging.
I slide the key into the ignition, as Abby throws her books and bum on the back seat. Why is the Tardis maliciously beeping at me?
I know, regardless of what the helpful dashboard is flashing, the left rear door is not open, and turning right will not fling Abby out under the tread of a two-ton Juggernaut.
Or will it? Nah,'course not. Anyway, her seat belt's fastened.
“Abby, just open your door and close it again, will you?”
It works. Kind of. ‘Cept now it’s claiming the tyres are deflated. Useless heap of crap.
Where is everyone? Oh, for goodness sake.. Telling Abby to stay put, I go off to round up the strays.
Beccy, as ever, gets almost to the car before remembering to turn back to fetch her history project/hockey stick/emergency lip-gloss/'phone with no credit, whilst secretly ditching her not-quite-swallowed vitamin pills on route (our aquarium may house the healthiest tank of fish ever to swim this side of Douglas). Girl thinks I was born yesterday.
As usual we are left waiting for Matt - knowing all the clocks are set at least five minutes ahead, he takes this bonus to perfect his hair sculpture, whilst allowing me to scream myself hoarse. In the interim, doing a circuit upstairs, Sam's wisely decided not to have any truck with joining us today; he's a motorbike, and as everyone knows, motorbikes don't fit in to cars.
Ten minutes later, we are loaded up and ready to roll. I chase the coach to the next stop, and park to block it whilst three of my little cherubs leisurely disembark. Sam decides he wants to sit next to me in the passenger seat now, so I continue to hold up three-quarters of the rush hour traffic whilst I endeavour to re seat him. Halfway through, he changes his mind and makes for the back again. (And people say kids like him have no sense of humour, eh?)
Back at the house, I discover Beccy's case still in the boot.
Sam let's out a howl from the hall. Darn, he's had a peek at his cookery ingredients for the day. I wish his teacher would stop baking with eggs, she knows they scare the crap out of him. I promise to tell his escort about them, and we wait for his taxi to arrive.
"No Sam sweetie, you don't have time for another cup of tea. Look - look the taxi's here. No, he doesn't have time for a cup of tea, either."
I wave him off and head back to the beeping Tardus. Guess Jake and the beach can wait, it's only a twenty mile trip to drop Beccy's case off.
It’s not until my return I realise I forgot to wish Matt good luck this morning, for his final exam and with his last ever day at this school. Oh Lord, how on earth could I allow that to slip my mind? His summer has begun. Come October, he’s set to start the next phase of his life, off to read economics at Newcastle University.
Darn. Wish I had remembered this was the last day I’d see him off to school.
It doesn't much seem to bother Matt - in the afternoon, he phones me from the pub, and sounding far too friendly for sober, tells me to expect LOTS of his friends (like um, in virtually his whole school year) in our back garden tonight. Appears he's throwing a BBQ, but it's okay, I've not to worry, everyone is tipping in with the food and beverages, and they have even laid out for some extra disposable Barbie's, too (I sure hope he is referring to those of the cooking appliance variety..).Please, please, please, will I promise to keep his sisters locked up away, indoors?
His friends are here as I type, lighting a huge bonfire of all their revision notes (Think I'll just slide out to stand by with the hose..).
Ah well, looks like I might still manage to grab the odd photo opportunity before the day is through (wink).