I like to think of myself as an organised person. I'm not. I just like to think of myself as one. Take this morning. It was Skig's first day at Junior school today so I made sure I got up early. I say early ... any time before 8am I consider early.
The day before, I had fastidiously ironed on a gazillion name tags onto his new uniform so that we were all prepared for this morning. So that nothing ... nothing ... could .... go .... wrong. Somehow, we'd manage to accumulate nine pairs of trousers - quite how, I don't know. They were all the same size - aged 9. Bearing in mind he's 7 years old, I thought we were safe enough. I mean, how much can one kid grow in a summer holiday??
As I ironed away, the notion of actually getting him to try them on to see if they still fit didn't cross my mind. Besides, Deal or No Deal was on and I had a vodka on the go.
So, there I was, merrily ironing away, putting a name tag on anything that moved, confident, (some may say, somewhat smug,) in knowing that when it came to Monday morning, I was all ready to go. No last minute rushing for me - oh no! I was the Labelling Queen! (Similar to Billy Ocean's 'Caribbean Queen.' Except not really.)
Fast forward to Monday morning. I had heard my alarm. Win! I had enough time to prepare a wonderfully healthy, (bar the Jaffa Cakes,) packed lunch. Win! I even remembered his PE kit! WinWinWin!
This was all going far too smoothly.
"Skig, go get ready!" I bellowed downstairs in my inimitable ladylike/fishwife fashion.
"Oh man! Generator Rex is on!" Skig screamed in his dulcet tones.
Thankfully, this scenario didn't degenerate into its usual full scale war and he actually went upstairs to get dressed. (So this is what it feels like when your son does what he's told. I likey!)
"Mum!" Dexter called out.
(I'm sure he senses exactly when I sit down on the loo. Every time.)
(Sweet Jesus - one of these days I'm going to get through a wee in one go.)
As I walked towards his bedroom, I saw what the problem was. Yep ... his trousers were now at an attractive mid-calf length. Neither shorts nor trousers. A cropped trouser if you will. They were just dangling there, hoping for me to put some jam on his ankles so his trousers could come down for tea.
I knew the answer, but still made him try each and every pair of trousers on. All nine of them. All the same. All way too short.
Thankfully, I'd bought a bigger pair in the sales - supposedly to fit him next year.
Seems Skig had grown a bit.
Once he was dressed he thankfully didn't resemble Oliver Twist and we were all ready to go.
I checked my watch ... 8.40am. I'm on fire! I'm on time, I've only had to shout once this morning and I hadn't forgotten anything.
We jumped into the car and headed off to school. We parked up, walked up to school, chatting with my best friend and her son on our way. The sun was shining. This was all going well. Too well.
There was something wrong with this situation. What was it? I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
As we made our way to the new 'big boy' playground, I realised all the other children were already lining up. ("S'ok Kate, keep calm, they've not gone in yet. You're just a little bit late. That's quite normal.")
With a quick peck on the cheek and no time for either of us to get remotely emotional, (OK, for me to get remotely emotional,) he was off.
As I stood with my face peering through the metal fence, like a prisoner on Death Row, it hit me. Where was everyone I knew? Where were Skig's friends? Where were my friends? Why was I the only mother of a Year 3 here?
It was too late to call him back! He was in the middle of a new playground, wondering where the hell his mates were.
I felt awful. Epic mothering fail.
Just as I was about to make a complete twit of myself and run into the playground to collect my poor son, a teacher was obviously on 'stray watch' and collected the few children that had been abandoned by their wicked parents (ie. me.) Dexter's new teacher came out of her classroom, obviously totally stoked that I'd ruined her prep time, collected him and took him under her wing.
It seems school started at 10am today. Woops.
So there you have it. Day One and a complete fail - by me that is, everyone else did brilliantly. Skig wasn't the slightest bit upset. His teacher wasn't cross and when I asked the school secretary to call her to see if she wanted me to take him home for an hour, she said he was with friends and was fine and not to bother.
At least his trousers fit. Eventually.
Is it Gin O'Clock yet?Suggest a correction