The Countdown to Meltdown

A short story about the first day of school

After precisely 62.75 days of chaos, excitement, boredom, late nights, smart remarks, arguments, outings, road rage (with those INSIDE the car), scoldings, cuddles, tears (mine) and laughter, the day I have been longing for is finally upon us. Here we are...we are ready! Uniforms are ironed and hanging neatly on hangers, lunches are prepared and chilling in the fridge, shoes are polished and lined up by the door, backpacks and pencil cases are restocked; I retire to bed exhausted, but in a zen-like frame of mind, organised to the point of perfection...

 

6.00 am

I am awoken by the dog whining and yelping urgently at my side, dancing his little “frantic four-step”, desperate to be let outside. It is a scrambling race against time as I pull back the bedclothes and we both surge down the hallway and towards the back door. I wrestle clumsily with the key and the door chain and then, thankfully, there is sweet relief for the both of us. The first disaster of the day is averted.

 

He trots coolly back into the kitchen, giving me a bored look as he passes, the picture of nonchalance, as if to say, “Well, what are YOU looking so stressed about?” He steps onto his bed, gives his favourite rubber squeaky toy a familiar nudge with his nose, chases his tail in five or six rotations, as if executing the canine version of perfect “pirouettes” and then collapses contentedly into softness.

 

I put the kettle on and check the clock. Desperate for a five minute solitary window to bond lovingly, thankfully, with my coffee, I am overcome with an attack of selflessness and sense and decide it is time to wake the kids. We need at least an extra half hour this morning if we are to get to school on time, so out of practice we are.

 

Taking on my role as “Drill-Instructor”, I march down the hallway, bellowing instructions, banging on a line of three doors in quick succession, two of which open almost immediately. The third remains resolutely shut. I’ll give her an extra five minutes, I think to myself. I head back towards the kitchen and the whistling kettle, followed by two little “mini-mes", hair standing on end, rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

 

As I sip my triple-strength espresso, I hear my husband in the shower and thank my lucky stars that I don’t have to rouse him from his slumber, as I often think that winning a Nobel Prize would prove easier.

 

I assess my current mental state. Not bad, not bad, we have another 45 minutes until we need to be pulling out from the driveway. I am outwardly calm, a little part of me denying the rising levels of anxiety I feel within.

 

The first coffee of the day a distant memory, I extract packed lunches from the fridge and distribute them amongst the array of bags placed by the front door. 

 

Fifteen minutes later, having administered breakfast to the “mini-mes” and Grumpy Husband (the shower apparently ineffective at improving his mood), I reluctantly return to the closed door, feeling a sense of dread. Entering as quickly and as breezily as possible, I awaken my precious little cherub with a sing-song greeting and open the “Star Wars” curtains to streaming sunlight, with the deftness and flourish of a magician pulling a dove from his sleeve.

 

I scan the tangle of bedclothes, to find one half-open eye peering back through tousled peroxide, sizing me up. I decide not to anger the beast by making further eye-contact, but merely offer a quick reminder of the time, before continuing on to my duties. Time to check on the younger siblings’ progress; they should be dressed by now.

 

I am faintly surprised and gladdened to see my husband sitting on the sofa, watching the news with one of the two said children, who is looking uncharacteristically neat and tidy, resplendent in school uniform, socks and impossibly shiny shoes. I feel a warm glow spread through me.

 

One out of three fed, watered, dressed and “gift-wrapped” and we still have 30 minutes on the clock. OK, so the somewhat-panicky feeling is still there, but thankfully is not threatening to take me over. Yet.

 

Number Two is proving more difficult, having misplaced a shoe. We all search high and low, the time ticking away. Even the dog is woken from his oblivion to the surrounding chaos by my husband, who is getting even grumpier by the minute, and is desperately trying to search in and around the dog’s bed. Did I mention that our dog has a fondness for shoes?

 

The shoe mysteriously appears in the bathroom a few minutes later, and yes, covered in saliva (euw!) and we are all permitted to continue with the various jobs that had been interrupted. My husband is doing surprisingly well, having prompted and cajoled Number Two’s rise to the dizzy heights of “fully dressed and raring to go”.

 

Door number 3 has thankfully remained open and I hear the joyous sound of the shower once more. Give her credit where credit is due, I think to myself, perhaps unknowingly placing myself into a precarious state of false-security.

 

I check the clock once more; T minus 15 minutes.

 

The Tousled One saunters into the kitchen and plonks herself down at the table looking impossibly beautiful and sulky; smelling of “Tommy-Girl” and newly ironed denim (her school offers a more relaxed approach to the term “uniform”). I run through the breakfast menu to her, again avoiding eye-contact at all costs.

 

Needlessly weight-watching, she declines all choices outlined to her. I take a deep breath and I am about to open my mouth, when I catch my husband’s eye. He looks at me pleadingly and mouths the word, “No!”

 

I remember our discussion the previous evening about “choosing our battles” with her and remind myself of the extra healthy, super-sized lunch I prepared for her, which now sits in her backpack, waiting for the lunch-bell.

 

Surprised at my inability to “bite” at the deliberate and provoking near-confrontation dangled irresistibly before me, she rises from the table, disappointed, and goes in search of her killer heels. No doubt the “energy points” saved by dodging this particular episode will be accumulated and invested in our next “head-to-head” meeting, most likely scheduled for later that day. Note to self; some kind of protective headgear may be in order.

 

5 minutes to go. Numbers One, Two AND Three (yes!) are sitting with Grumpy Husband in front of the news, bags in hand, shoes on. Ready! I cannot describe how I feel in this moment. It has been far too easy.

 

I give them all a kiss and cuddle goodbye, being very careful to only pat Number Three’s shoulder with the lightest of touches (she doesn’t DO touching; it is SO last year). I bestow them with good luck wishes for their first day back, as they shuffle out of the door, my husband taking up the rear.

 

Suddenly, Number Three swivels round from “pole position” and looks at me accusingly.

 

“You didn’t give us the letters”, she says in monotone.   

 

Feelings of panic surge through me. My heart starts to thump, threatening to explode out of my chest. Letters, what letters?!

 

“We are supposed to take in signed letters from our parents, to say that you accept the changes to the new school-day schedule. Remember? I TOLD you! School now starts at 8.45 am and finishes at 3.30 pm. Something to do with increases to subjects in the curriculum, I think. Come on, Mother!!”

 

A wave of nausea hits me as I look to the clock. School starts in 5 minutes! My “window” of extra time allowed on this first day has been swallowed whole by this newly-divulged information, that she swears blind is “old news”.

 

The next ten minutes is a blur of scribbling consent on an old piece of crumpled paper, fished out from the wastepaper basket (I must remember to buy some “All Purpose” from the computer supplies store later). I simultaneously scream at my husband who has also completely lost it by now, I “shush” the dog who is once again whining to go outside, and Numbers One and Two, finding themselves unattended, remove shoes and settle down in front of “Cartoon Time”. Total unadulterated chaos.

 

Ten minutes later still, I am once again propelling bodies out of the front door, as sweat trickles from my armpits and my pulse is at an all-time high.

 

My husband, again at the end of the line (in, oh, so many ways...) pulls me towards him for a kiss. His beautiful, grumpy face lightens for just a split-second, immediately knocking ten years off us both, as he winks at me, kisses me and simultaneously slaps my behind. I laugh out loud as the tension breaks.

 

The door closes and I am left alone.

 

I check the close a final time; 15 minutes late! I sink onto the sofa, feeling like I have failed miserably; not entirely sure of how it could all go so horribly wrong.

 

8 hours later...

 

The afternoon and evening play out like a video-tape of the morning, only in reverse, as school uniforms are hung up again, shirts and underwear thrown into the laundry, shoes re-aligned by the door, lunch boxes washed and reassembled with new, healthy fare and the inevitable arguments take place. Once again, I forget to wear the protective headgear; when will I ever learn?

 

My husband and I collapse into bed at just past 11 pm.

 

And as I drift into blissful unconsciousness, I am aware of my last coherent thought.

 

There are only another 34 school days until the next holidays...

Reviews

[Tim H]

A well paced funny story that engages the reader's sympathies and keeps the reader interested from start to finish. I'm sure every parent can identify with some part of the story, (my youngest son lost one shoe each morning right up to and through high school).

[Katelyn]

This is amazing. The language really flows and it kept me amused, especially the moments with 'the beast', really well done!