It Happens
I was going to start this blog out as just being about me. However, in my life that’s difficult, because it isn’t just me. I was going to fill the pages with my observations about life without revealing anything about my family or friends because it’s not fair to include them in something so public and unregulated as a weblog. But my family and friends are my life, so I’ll try to fill you in to a respectable degree without compromising my privacy or theirs.
Cast list: (In order of appearance)
Me (Cliff Jones, your narrator, about which more later)
Wife (without whom, well, anything)
Son (4)
Daughter (2)
It’s almost as if I planned it, but today’s post is to do with all the the previous posts combined. Wife is at the funeral of the person who died futher down this page, so I’m doing the school runs today. I like doing the school runs, it makes me feel like I’m doing something worthwhile.
After picking Son up, I have to floor it to get to the other side of town to pick up. I am a young dad and I am always dressed scruffy on my days off when I do the school run and I always think I look suspicious rushing him out of school. Especially as the other parents (99 per cent female) are dressed well and have buggies and time to chat to the other mums they know from PTA meetings and coffee mornings.
As always I parked in the rudest place possible to make a snappy getaway, pushed to the front, smiled stupidy but said nothing to abyone before grabbing Son and running back to the car.
To shave off precious seconds, we cut one the corner to get to the car, and ran across a verge in front of someone’s house (stalker notes: lives in the country). When we got to the car I lifted son up into the car and I saw mud on one shoe. So much for the shortcut. He tucked the shoe under his other leg as I lifted him into the car. I don’t know why he does this. Italways gets crud all over the seat, but kids are wierd sometimes. And then it hit me - it wasn’t mud. His shoe, the seat and the backs of both trouser legs were covered in dog shit.
(shifts up to present tense to convey sense of urgency)
So I’m running late, with an exhausted shitty four year old in tow. I whip off his shoes, thanking Mr Velcro for changing the world in his small way, and put them in the back of the car. “Son, don’t touch anything. Put you hands in your lap and hang on.” It’s already time I was across town. Daughter will be waiting in an empty classroom when I get there. Maybe one kid might have stayed behind to laugh at her. I can’t give Son any of the snack I packed for him, because he might have dog turd on his hands and I don’t have any wet wipes. In fact the only good thing is, he thinks it’s mud. I maintain the illusion by driving at 60 miles an hour with all four windows open, even though it’s raining.
(shifts down to past tense so as not to further labour the grammar)
When I got to Daughter’s school, I had to leave Son in the car because it’s either that or put him back in crappy kickers. I parked in the rudest place again so I could see him the whole way to the school door. I also have to put the windows up and lock the doors, since he’ll be in the car alone. With the windows up, I thought the whole mud myth was going to be exploded. Surely the penny would drop. The penny of poo.
When I reach the school, there is Daughter with two teachers and the picture she drew for me. She looks happy to see me and the world is good again in an instant.
“Uh oh,” says one teacher, “looks like someone forgot her folder.”
It’s true, I forgot to got pack her book bag this morning. “My fault,” I say, “I forgot to pack her bag.”
“Typical man,” she says. I almost couldn’t believe my ears, and I kept my eyes fixed on daughter as she ran towards me. But the teacher went on “a mum would never do that. Leave the man in charge and something gets forgotten. Typical man.”
Political correctness is a good thing, in balance, but it doesn’t extend to groups that society doesn’t see as underpriviledged. It seems like selective fairness to me. Can you imagine if a male mechanic said something similar to a female driver? It would make the papers. If this has happened to you, you’ve every right to feel outraged, but please don’t write in.
The Stupid Fucking Things I am prone to saying welled up inside me. In my head, it went something like this:
“This is my fourth school run today. I’ve taken the day off work because my wife is burying a friend. You can be sexist if you want - it’s a free country and I’ll defend your right to say what you like, but try to keep your views away from my kid. And I think I’m holding the fort pretty well, thanks. There’s a four year old covered in shit in my car, which, after cleaning him up so I can give him something to eat, I will have to disinfect in the rain before I scrape the now drying excrement of his new pair of school shoes. And then when my wife gets home I will cook a meal for us and wonder if there is anything I can do to console her at her time of greaving. So lady, yes, I forgot the folder, and I am a man. I am a man without a folder, OK? Un homme sans cahier, if you will. Perhaps you could further enlighten me with your powers of observation by identifying a mystery substance I have in the back of my car? If you wait one second, I’ll be right back.”
But I say nothing, because like me in the post the other day, she knows very little about my day and she also probably says things without thinking them through. Maybe she’s writing her blog right now about the stupid thing she said to this dad who smelt a bit funny. Thinking of that kind of makes it seem funny. I also think I better give Son a bath.
Footnotes:
I always sound like a pompous arse when I complain about something. Some people become the victim, some become agressive - I become Cary Grant, full off sincere observations and witty retorts. I get tempted to prefix statements with “why -”, as in “Why, I could have you disbarred”, or “…so in fact what you’re saying…” then changing the meaning of their words a little to prove my tangient. Maybe it’s to belittle my opponent, or maybe it’s because I am a pompous arse. “… homme sans cahier” - twat.