There’s that moment when you are on the highway singing along to Staying Alive on the radio when you suddenly notice that your petrol situation is dire and there is nothing you can do about it but pray.
You can sit there and act all high and mighty about it, but twenty bucks says it’s happened to you too.
Then I thought I could make it to the second child collection point.
And I didn’t.
I got pretty damn close though.
I staggered to a halt outside the school gates.
To save my sanity I thrust my children through the gates with express instructions to find their sibling and stay there.
Then I did what every married woman hates doing more than anything.
He did not laugh at my face, although I am certain he had to compose himself before launching his rescue attempt.
I could have walked the few kilometers to the petrol station, but I was not planning to exit my car and was shoeless.
Also, I was broke so that wasn’t going to be productive anyway.
After all was said and done only one child remained where I had asked while the other two launched their own search and rescue for their mother at the far other side of the school.
There are days when I just want to weep, but have to laugh instead at the absurdity of it all.
They should offer one an MBA in Advanced Maternal Management or How to be an effective PA for your Children.
My thesis would be Child Servitude, the role of the mother as slave.
I’ve just survived one birthday party, which I managed to screw up, am arranging the next one with help from evite.com and am juggling work, archery lessons moved to Friday, karate grading also on Friday and climbing championships on Saturday.
Someone should do a study on mothers and alcohol.
Based on my Facebook page it seems most of the mothers I know get through the day chasing not a carrot, but a bottle of chilled Chardonnay.
I sure could have used one last night, but had to settle for a cup of tea instead.
Now I sit here fighting my pride having sent a message to my office informing them that unless I win the lottery I am working from home due to my inability to fill the blasted car with petrol.