This morning my husband is fulfilling super dad duties by taking the offspring to school.
Three points to him for driving a car.
In all seriousness, I don’t particularly like school run. There’s just so many, ugh, people. Yesterday morning I had a man open his car door and spit on the grass in front of my children and I as we tried to walk to class. Apparently the involuntary “eww” that came out of my mouth was cause for a death stare. It wasn’t me being racist to the man of different cultural background. I wasn’t judging you for parking in the wrong place. On purpose. Again. Ok yes I was, and for good reason. It’s bad manners and it’s dangerous and it’s really extremely annoying. It wasn’t me judging you for spitting on the ground. Although, like, we don’t do that here mate, there’s these things called tissues… . It was just me saying ewww that I happened to see it and had to change the trajectory of the toddler in order to avoid her becoming covered in it.
Then there’s the bombardment of hugs that my toddler endures from the overexcited children who’ve apparently never seen a smaller child before. We follow this with the obligatory goodbye kiss and more hugs before retreating back to the carpark. The carpark is where we pray for our safety as we navigate the late comers, or we unchristlikely curse the lingerers if circumstances dictate we ourselves are the latecomers. Oh, this is unless it’s a reading day. If it’s a reading day I drag my toddler up the stairs and get entertained by medium sized children reading to me. Actually I enjoy this part but it doesn’t fit this narrative. So shh.
Anyway, back to present moment… my husband is doing the school run. In that he’s doing the driving and the parking and the dodging spit and the kissing and hugging.
I can’t help but feel a bit ripped off though. He’s done the school run, yes, and hurrah for him for doing so. However, next time he’s doing the school run I want to give him the full experience. I’m just going to stay in bed and let him feed them and dress them and remind them it’s cold outside and make the lunches and DO THEIR BLASTED HAIR.
Oh my gosh, the hair.
Why are there never any things to do the hair with? Where do they go? We have brushes trained to stay put these days, but the ties? No no no no no no no. That’s not the worst of it though. Our son has decided he is ashamed of his alphalpha sticky up bit in the middle of his head. So the hairdresser sold us sticky mousse to train it to the side. It worked for a week or so but the hair is fighting back. I would spike it all but conservative dress code, so, we persist. Sticky mousse everywhere. I can still feel it on my hands. The smell is overpowering. I can feel it on my chin. Why is it on my chin? Oh yes, the goodbye kiss from the garage door before I left. Well I’m not going to stop doing that. Not just yet. It’s only a matter of time before he won’t want his mummy to kiss him anymore. I can handle the school run crap until then. Let’s just lose the mousse. Where’s your hat son? It’s just gonna mess it up anyway.