Posts Tagged ‘school mums’
I don’t know how your mornings are, but mine are a slick operation, especially if I’m trying to get to my 8.30am yoga class. (I’m slightly bewildered by those with no children who turn up late to this class – how can you be late when all you have to do is get yourself up and out?)
Between getting up at 6am and getting DS to school at 8.15am, I’m a whir of multi-tasking activity, inhaling my own breakfast while whizzing round the kitchen like a six-armed robot, preparing breakfasts, lunches, hairdos and school bags in order that everyone’s day goes as smoothly as possible.
Once DD is out of the house and I’m showered and dressed (itself an exercise in speed), I throw DS into the car and drive smartly to his nursery, where I grab his lunch box, water bottle, swimming bag and him, and jog to the nursery gate.
For the past two hours, every fibre of my being has been concentrated on getting to this point at this point in time. I have three minutes to get DS into class and be back in the car – and then I meet her: Slow Mum.
Slow Mum does not have a slick morning operation going on. The highlight of her day is dropping off snotty little Veronica Verucca at the nursery before she goes home to pick fluff out of her belly button and watch daytime TV on the sofa.
Furthermore, Slow Mum has a large bum, which blocks the entire gate. And Slow Mum can’t even imagine that anyone else may be in a hurry.
Oh no, Slow Mum wants the world, his wife and every nursery school teacher in the vicinity to greet Veronica Verucca with kisses and hugs, while her large bum brings everyone else’s drop-off shuddering to a halt.
“Oh, Veronica Verucca, have you got a kiss for Miss X?” she tinkles in a baby voice while the speedy-morning mums and the working mums with 20 minutes to get to DIFC pile up behind her, like an apocalyptic disaster on the Emirates Road.
Veronica Verucca clearly doesn’t want to kiss Miss X, but while the wheedling’s going on the rest of us are bouncing on our toes, eyes boggling with disbelief, desperate to push her fat bum through the gate.
“Excuse me, please, can we just squeeze through?” one of us squeaks, trying to disguise the frustration as we edge past the bum and make a break for the second gate.
But no. Veronica Verucca gets there first and Slow Mum heaves her lardiness in front of us once more, blocking the next gate and causing another pile-up. “Hee hee,” she giggles. “Veronica Verucca wants to go to Big Class today! Aww!” She rolls her eyes at us. “She’s so cute!”
Slow Mum, I’m sorry: Your daughter is not cute. It’s hot and we’re in a hurry. Tomorrow, we may not be so polite.
Maybe I’m odd, but I see driving as an extension of manners. I try to treat other drivers with the same courtesy I extend to the strangers I meet during the course of the day.
If you were entering a building with stranger next to you, for example, would you stamp on their foot and shove them out of your way, just so you could claw your way through the mall door ahead of them?
When you saw a queue at the Ralph Lauren check-out, would you shove past everyone to the front and dump your jeans right on the till while flicking the finger to the rest of the queue?
I bet every single mum I know would be horrified to think of such bad manners. And this is where it gets messy because, fellow school mums, on the approach to school, I see how you drive; I see the way you treat the other road users and I see how you park. I see the colour of your soul.
And then, at the gate, I see who you are.
Oh yes. You who barges in front of everyone, hooting and queue-jumping, double-parking and flicking the finger. You, who feels more important than every other mum who’s patiently waiting their turn.
I see you do that and then I see you get out, in your flippy little chiffon frock and your heels with your fake nails and your fake tan, with your handbag and your diamonds, thinking you’re the business, and then I see you standing at the school gate, going, “Oh hiii! So lovely to see you! How’ve you been? You look gorgeous by the way! Have you lost weight?”
And I think to myself, what a miserable phoney you are and what vile manners you really have. Honestly, I’m tempted to stamp on your foot and barge into school ahead of you, but I won’t. I won’t because I’m not you and, frankly, that’s not what I do. Karma, my dear, karma.