Late

So this week the kids are at school and I’m not which gives me the pleasure of dropping them off and picking them up while my partner crams in more work – a fuller day than usually allows. 

You might think that I’m being sarcastic when I say ‘pleasure’ especially after what I’m about to tell you but no, dear reader, I am not.

Ok, I might, just perhaps, maybe, imagine the joy of being a ‘proper’ mum, (that is not a full time working mum) a little differently than it actually is, but it is a treat to drop them at school, be part of that most normal of routines and kiss them gently on their heads for protection against the busy school day ahead.

This morning, after 45 minutes of the youngest toilet time and a very late breakfast we flew out of the house with me, well let’s not say screaming, rather urging them to:

“Run, run, RUN, we are late!”

No time to even watch their normal ‘Ace of Cakes’ on the morning cookery channel,

“Look Mum, it’s shaped like a hot dog, coke bottle, dying Marie Antoinette!”

We got to school, me smiling and saying a cheery, ‘Good morning!’ to all the parents walking back to the cars, pushing prams back home or rushing to work themselves, whilst simultaneously trying a power walk down the ‘toddler on scooter’ ridden pavement.

It was no surprise then that the doors were shut when we arrived. The dreaded late mark.

But, no!

As the office staff buzzed in a casual supply, I (again let’s say) urged the eldest to run through the electronic doors. Which he did with a style and grace only matched by Indiana Jones in the Temple of Doom. All the kid needed was a hat to grab and it would have been a perfect re-enactment.

At that split second a range of thoughts buzzed through my head... Surely in a school there will be a safety device, the doors would not crush him, surely if they touch the precious flesh of my first born they will jerk open again, yes? Surely!

YES!

One down, one to go.

We ran around to the year 1 block – little one in the lead and me power sprinting behind.

“The doors are shut” he said in a resigned tone.

“Aha!” I said “Check the door!”

I had noticed that on occasion the doors appear shut but that the teaching assistant sometimes forgets to locks them, an instant Ofsted fail but could it work in our favour...

No. Locked shut.

“Can you see the teacher?” surely that cute face peering in the window, would not need a late mark?

I waved at his lovely, heavily pregnant teacher – she has a toddler too, she knows, she must know that the morning drama is not punishable but normal.

She smiles and lets us in,

“They’re struggling to get up this week.” I offer.

“Don’t worry.” She says.

I see all those mutual eye-rolling about government policy and bottles of wine at Christmas have not been in vain, I have an ally!

Winning!

I return home to find the front door left wide open...