The way it often happens…

So I worked from home today.

The plan: a calm, motherly morning where I pack lunches, make breakfast, kiss foreheads and drive Bookworm (8.5 years) and Picasso (7 years) to school before heading home with Little Miss (4) to “watch” her draw as I work.

The reality: let me give you a rundown of the crucial hour-and-a-bit between waking and 8am (when we have to leave the house to avoid the hell that is being late for school, which involves explanatory yellow slips of paper and slugging up an enormous hill to the school office which is at the other end of where the classrooms are).

  • Wake up. Realise we’ve all overslept a little. But that’s okay, because it’s my work-from-home day.
  • Have shower.
  • Kiss everyone good morning and decide porridge for breakfast would be nice.
  • Before starting on the porridge, check emails. See there has been big crisis overnight.
  • Start to get worried. Get dressed.
  • Colleague calls re: having been up all night with the crisis.
  • Ask Souljourneyboy to get kids breakfast.
  • Go back and frantically read all the emails that have come in over the night, while simultaneously making lunches.
  • Picasso asks why I have given him ham and not cheese on his roll. I explain it is because he has told me many times that he likes ham and hates cheese. He is in disbelief  – apparently he LOVES cheese and of course he wants it on his roll!
  • Surge of frustration at the Orwellian, 1984-esq word children inhabit, where something is absolutely true one day and then its opposite absolutely true the next.
  • Crankily tell kids to hurry up and get dressed.
  • Souljourneyboy leaves for his early start.
  • Call different colleague re: crisis.
  • Kids are not dressed. Take deep breath and calmly tell kids they need to stop watching iView and make sure they are dressed and their bags are packed.
  • Powers-That-Be call re: a separate and potentially worse crisis.
  • Start to get dismayed.
  • Call Boss re: both crises and can’t get through.
  • Call colleague back about both crises.
  • Realise the time and firmly remind everyone to turn off iView, finish getting dressed and pack their bags.
  • Colleague calls while I suddenly remember Crunch and Sip and start to frantically peel and chop carrots for lunchboxes while on phone.
  • Picasso is without his hat. Loudly demand why this is so. He tells me it’s missing. I tell him to look in the car.
  • Realise no-one’s bags are packed and Little Miss won’t put on her socks.
  • Powers-That-Be call again.
  • Yell at everyone to GET OFF IVIEW NOW AND PACK BAGS AND PUT SOCKS ON OR ELSE I AM TAKING EVERYONE’S POCKET MONEY AWAY!!!!!
  • Boss calls again. Utterly relieved children are quietly watching iView and won’t interrupt the call.
  • Picasso wandering around as though his hat will materialise in the air in front of his face. Tell him AGAIN to look in the car.
  • Send a text message to colleague.
  • Picasso adamant his hat is not in the car and the cleaners have hidden it.
  • Send highly urgent email with one hand while upturning entire house looking for hat with the other.
  • Tell everyone we’re leaving NOW, with or without the hat.
  • Picasso becomes highly distressed.
  • Ring Boss using my “everything is completely under control” voice.
  • As we’re heading for the front door, Bookworm suddenly recalls his Jump Rope for Heart money MUST be in today and he can’t find it.
  • I would take a moment to scream in disbelief at his complete lack of organisation only that would take too long.
  • Frantic call to Souljourneyboy yields Jump Rope for Heart money buried under papers on the bench.
  • Keys now missing.
  • Second frantic call to Souljourneyboy yields keys under papers as well.
  • Yelling intensifies as Picasso still without hat, Bookworm’s money doesn’t add and Little Miss doesn’t like her socks.
  • Shove half of what’s in my wallet in Bookworm’s bag, run down to the car and FIND PICASSO’S HAT, get Little Miss new socks and corral everyone into the car.

Finally, unbelievably, we’re on our way. The drive is 15 minutes, which gives us all a chance to calm down and apologise to each other. Don’t you love mornings like that? I love my kids, and I love my job (most of the time) but balancing them is hard. I only went back to full-time work a year ago and I can honestly say it has taken nearly 12 months to get past the mother-guilt.  I am fortunate that I have hugely-supportive Souljourneyboy in my life and that mostly it works. But when it doesn’t…wow, it can be a killer.  I feel like the kids get the raw end of the deal because my work stress leaches into parental stress – you know how it is.

But you know what? It was a beautiful morning, the sun was shining, and I got the kids to school on time. So it wasn’t all bad. And there I was, standing in the playground, watching them kiss their sister goodbye and run off with their friends… thinking actually we did all right today, considering – when suddenly, Picasso runs back up to me and yells,

“Mum, I forgot my library bag!”

For the second week in a row. 🙂

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4 thoughts on “The way it often happens…

  1. Asta

    This morning (someone, who shall remain anonymous, but is a new driver) somehow reversed one car and rolled back down and got the front of it stuck under the tow ball of the other car. So I had to rush in and throw clothes on to take him to work. Then later in the day I had to pick up my husband so that we could fix this problem. Which we did. It was quite a puzzle and was good for warding off dementia, and we did quite a work out too – moving bricks, pumping up the jack etc. Then we took the car to the auto electric shop because… yesterday ‘new driver’ went to work and left the car lights on and flattened a brand new battery. (So we had to put a temporary battery in there.) Ahhh family life. Ain’t it grand Emma? (Oh did you think it would get easier when they are teens???) – Asta x

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