You know that shouty woman in the road, with the feral kids? That’s me, that is.


I had one of those amazingly organised mornings today. I was so proud. I should have known better really. It didn’t last.

The Littlest Chum had me up hourly last night (I think he has sore gums, he was certainly enjoying using me as a chew-toy) so I gave in and got up at 5.30am. This meant I’d put a load of washing on, emptied the dishwasher, had breakfast and a nice warm half hour bath, fed and dressed the Littlest Chum AND pottered on the pc for ages before the rest of them made a bleary eyed appearance.

By 8.30 (house-leaving time) The Chums were washed, dressed, breakfasted, homeworked, music practised, teeth brushed, bags packed, lunches made. This is about eight steps beyond our usual ham fisted efforts at being ready on time. I was about to tell the Chums how impressed I was with their help.

And then it all went to hell in a Chum sized handbasket.

Letting out a bloodcurdling shriek of rage, The Boy came thundering down the stairs. SHE’S GOT MY BAAAAAADGE! he wailed.

The badge in question is a 20p button from school to denote which house they are in. Both Chums are in the same house, both have a yellow badge. I have no jeffing idea whose is whose. BUT I do know I took The Boy’s off his jumper when I washed it the other day.

I told him his was probably in the kitchen. He screeched at me that she definitely had his. The Pie came down clutching her stomach where he’d punched her. He ran back off upstairs. She chased him. Punches were thrown, hair was pulled. Voices were raised.


I did that horrible shrieking rant thing, you know the one. The one where you can HEAR how awful you sound, and hate yourself for it, but the rage and the bile keep pumping. I told them I didn’t CARE whose badge it was, if he’d been that bothered about his he would have taken it off his jumper before throwing it in the wash, that this was NOT an argument for 8.30 in the morning, and FOR GOD’S SAKE, PIE, WHY ARE YOU STILL WEARING YESTERDAYS’ SOCKS?

She then started stamping and growling at me and hid under her bed. He was by now slamming doors and sulking in his room, railing at the injustice of his little sister STEALING his precious badge that he’d have lost in the washing machine anyway and doesnt’ actually care about, but hey, why let that get in the way of a good froth   and the fact I clearly DON’T CARE ABOUT HIM or I wouldn’t have told him off for punching his sister in the stomach because SHE STARTED IT.

We made it to school by 8.55.

I was shaking and sweating as I drove, but I forced myself to talk calmly to them about how we could have all dealt with that better. We all calmed down. The Pie showed me her swimming certificate from school. The Boy talked about his homework.

We got out of the car and I gave them a big kiss and a cuddle and told them I loved them.

I then asked for an apology for fighting.

The Pie was contrite. The Boy wasn’t. He decided that he wasn’t apologising until I did. ‘I wasn’t fighting’, I said.

‘You were mean to me and SHE STOLE MY BADGE!’


Only eleven hours until bedtime. I am no good at this, today.



3 responses »

  1. You’re wrong though. The shouty woman in the road with the feral kids is me. Almost every day (along with a poor baby being whooshed along in his buggy because we’re late. Again.)

    I know how you feel and you’re not alone. You’ll do a better job tomorrow. Or even this evening maybe.

  2. I so know that feeling – you are definitely not alone – and why does it always happen just when you think you’ve got everything organised? Give yourself a pat on the back for calming down in the car though – I’m normally yelling at full belt right up until the point where we’ve parked and I know the virtuous walk-to-school mums can hear me! – v. impressed with your self-control!

  3. Ach. Poor you.

    You ^know^ you’ve made it on the Fishwife scale when your vocal cords are damaged for 12 hours after a trialworthy school run.

    At least they were arguing over something significant. 😉

    Keep on stroking.

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