by GEORGIA HAWKINS
This morning at our place it was the typical early weekday routine, physically drag two petulant children from their beds, scramble to find sports uniform and soccer gear while making lunches, coaching nine year old on spelling words and coming up with a creative option for ‘news’ that the seven year old hasn’t already used, and most importantly, actually approves of.
In the fifty shades of chaos that seems to eventuate no matter how much ‘night before’ preparation I do, we couldn’t find my son’s sports cap. And when I say ‘we’, I mean me. As I ran around like a headless chook, searching through cupboards and drawers, said son stood looking with a glazed expression at the inside of his school bag, clearly hoping it would miraculously appear.
Now I guess in the grand scheme of things this would not normally be a huge issue, except that the school he goes to is frustratingly pedantic about uniforms. Oh and then there’s the fact that he was on report, with this the third cap lost in three weeks. He’d exhausted our household of caps belonging to him, his sister plus a spare.
I partially blame my own pedantic nature and tendency towards being a control freak for what followed. Throwing the kids in the car, I made a beeline for the school’s uniform shop where I stopped only just short of crash tackling three other mothers for the only sports cap on the shelf.
I also had to run around the playground to find a mum I could borrow money from and at the lack of anything else appropriate, painted my son’s name in red nail polish (my only other option was lip
stick –mental note, add black marker to kaleidoscope of chaos in handbag) on the inside of the cap.