School run. I hate you.

The school run is ruining my life. Stopping me from being the mother I could be. One that sings, does homework and is generally a jolly nice person to be around. School run. I hate you.

‘I can’t do this anymore.’

These are the words I say most mornings. As I plead with my kids to get dressed. To eat their breakfast. To do anything.

These words are often followed by FFS, which I mutter under my breath 1,324 times. Because nothing else satisfactorily sums up how frustrating our mornings are.

And how exhausting.

It’s not rocket science, is it?

It doesn’t matter what I say. What I do. How I incentivise (bribe).

It’s like starting from day one EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

I’m not asking them to recite their 6 times table. To work out the square route of 169. Or to spell their names backwards.

But I may as well be.

How not to get everyone ready.

Yesterday, I left them to get dressed whilst I had a quick shower.

Beaver is six. This is NOT a tall order. Not even for Godivy. They manage to get dressed fine on a weekend when they appear by my bedside at 6.45 AM in full party regalia.

Yet, when I came down, they had spread peanut butter EVERYWHERE in a Hanzel and Gretel type trail. The play doh was out. And someone had spilled (and left) a cup of milk.

Oh. And no one was dressed. Obviously.

FFS.

How the other half live?

There was one day in the first week of term where we had a nice morning.

We ate porridge and did some phonics before school.

And then we obviously thought, ‘This is too easy. Let’s go back to being dysfunctional and late.

Emine-mum

Now, our mornings are like a slow form of torture.

I break my daily vow to not shout. And shout, repeating myself constantly. ‘Get dressed!’ ‘Eat your breakfast!’ ‘Get dressed!’ ‘Eat your breakfast!’

It’s like a really bad mum rap.

Like, really bad.

You’re never too late.

We leave the house at the last possible moment. Many, many moments after we should have left.

No one apart from me has any sense of time or lateness. Fair enough, they’re still small. But you’d think the fact that Mummy is now losing it in a BIG way and screaming ‘COME ON! WE ARE LATE!’ would be some sort of hint. No. Clearly, it’s too subtle an approach.

And it doesn’t matter how late we are, there is always time to a) say goodbye to your toy b) nip upstairs to get something that you’re not allowed to take to school anyway and c) have a breakdown because Mummy won’t plait your hair because ‘WE ARE LATE!’

Please send gin.

On a good day only one of us is in tears.

On a bad day, everyone is crying, someone is lying on the floor refusing to get up and I am thinking about drinking gin.

We reach the school gates with seconds to spare. And that’s when I notice that sometime during the morning, presumably when she wasn’t getting dressed, Beaver’s found time to put on bright pink nail varnish.

FFS.

(And don’t get me started on school pick-up…)

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