I am unable to write at the moment, too filled with dread at the prospect of tomorrow’s calendar entry. I shudder at the thought of the impending 3 hours ahead.
Taking my last deep gulp of fresh air, in I will go, surrendering my phone and lifeline, as I cross the threshold into the no man’s land beyond.
It’s the moment when I see the member of staff turn the lock, trapping me on the wrong side of the door, that my sensory faculties will start to fail me and I will retreat deep inside myself. Whether a survival mechanism, or consequence of a compromised oxygen supply, I will be unable to remember exactly what follows; only that gulping for air amidst the toddler whiffs, I will charge around with the Big One (B1) and her friends like a pack of hounds, the Small One (S1) clinging on for dear life, all the while pretending to be enjoying myself. A bedraggled sort of Ryder and his pups, only with more costume changes*.
Tomorrow is my turn on the Pre School parent rota.
*The risk of soiled clothing applies as much to myself as the incontinent tiddlers. On one hellish occasion, so as not to sully the soft furnishings of reading corner, dropping S1 faster than a hot potato, I surrendered myself to the pyroclastic flow of B1’s spewing strawberry chunder. Good news was I got parole. Throwing the kids into the double buggy, with a speed I haven’t managed again since, out I stumbled into the dazzling light of day. Then shivering with the new sensation of vomit finding its way to my undergarments, I completed the journey home, thenceforth referred to as my ‘walk of shame’.