Mission Impossible
Cue Mission Impossible music: dun, dun, dun-dun-dun-dun dun, dun, dun, dun, dun-dun-dun, dun. Imagine a fuse burning rapidly, fizzing and spitting sparks as it races towards a bomb. Think commando rolls and guns firing…OK, not the last bit, that’s just an exaggeration, but the rest is how it feels getting our six year old ready for school.
The bomb is his teacher waiting at the school gates ready to lock them. The mission is to get him there before the explosion. It’s impossible because he’s six. He whinges about EVERYTHING; his collar is itching him (when he finally gets his uniform on after being asked eighteen times). He doesn’t know what to choose from the vast array of breakfasts on offer (toast or cereal). He’s tired. He doesn’t feel well. Yet he always manages to summon the energy to wind his brother up for at least an hour, so it’s n wonder we’re always on the last minute. He would happily walk out of the door with smelly breath, unkempt hair and no socks or shoes on if we didn’t intervene.
He chooses to wait until eight thirty (we set off at eight forty) to tell us he needs to take something into school, be it cereal boxes, books by a certain author, copper coins or a book with both a glossary AND an index (not as easy to find as you would imagine). Apparently his life depends upon arriving with this item and if he doesn’t take it in it will get him into trouble, impact negatively on his social status and generally ruin his education.
Even though he’s been zipping his own coat since the age of three, it seems he’s now forgotten how to do it, along with doing things the first time he’s asked and smiling.
We manage to get out of the door but he’s going to trip and fall at least once on the way, so this must also be taken into account. Sometimes sympathy time is scheduled, sometimes it’s not, he must take his chance like everyone else in our house.
We start walking. He asks if we’re late and I tell him, fairly truthfully, that we’re ‘just on time’. We walk some more, I check my watch and realise I’ve exceeded my quota of talking to my children, kissing injured knees better, letting them ask questions about their environment and all that other unimportant stuff, so now we must speed up.
We start a ‘brisk’ walk and our three year old is encouraged to hold onto the pram so I can drag him (sorry, I mean, encourage him to walk faster). We get onto the last stretch and there’s no more pretending, it’s turned into a full on sprint, especially when we’re trying to catch the lollypop lady before she lets the traffic go again.
We reach the gates just as the teacher is about to close them. I get a strained smile and a ‘Good Morning’ but it’s all she can do not to roll her eyes. I don’t care, I’m euphoric. The fuse has been distinguished, the bomb is disarmed and the mission has been completed for another day…just.