The School Run by Felicity Fox

There were more tears and tantrums from the parents at the gates; that was until my four year old tugged on my hand and my heart and said, ‘mummy, I love you’, followed by a squeeze so tight. If I’d asked for it, I’d never have got it, and the tears sprang to my eyes. I joined those I’d just being mocking seconds earlier. This is love. He’ll probably never remember this, but I’ll never forget.

Rocco on the other hand had to be pried from my arms wailing as he’s carried off, mummy’s boy was not impressed. Letting go is hard. It’s a stark reminder that they’re not going to be mine forever, and even worse the realisation that I’m getting older. Following the tears of one of the mums as she walked away blowing into her hankie, I did wonder whether she’d come to the same realisation. Was she worrying about the crows feet she’d developed too? Probably not.

I wouldn’t want a mammy’s boy as I’m married to one. There’s nothing worse than a near thirty-year old going weak at the knees over his mammy’s meatballs, his mammy’s everything. The difference is mine are only two and four, so it’s acceptable for now. But perhaps there’s no difference at all.

There’s nothing worse than feeling guilty for not being at the school gates, there’s nothing worse than being there. Overcrowding, irrate parents, hundreds of weans and four-by-fours. My new pet hate are these beasts; monstrosities. If they could drive through the gates, knocking a few children on the way I think they would. Maybe it’s because my little car is a mere shadow of these, and a shadow of the price. And if that wasn’t bad enough, their owners are worse. Descending from their elevated position, before going to the gym, lunch or whatever these people do, I can’t help noting that there’s nothing worse than a woman in this town with a little disposable income to spend.

Glowing from a distance head to toe in fake bake, one too many diamonds, VB jeans, which I have to say are a little noughties, and finishing off the look complete with their mini me’s, the school run has its politics. Harris, Algernon, Pearl, and Primrose, their names are all so twee. Their lives as rip off dentists and lawyers carved out for them at such a tender age.


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