Very very annoying morning. Husband, children, self and dogs all pounding around house, anxiously searching for shoes.

Finally piled everyone in car and clanked off to start day.

Angry yelling from back seat distracts self from soothing redecorating fantasies.

Son: Are not sick, just because can’t talk and face all green. Don’t fool me. Just trying to get out of going to school by vomiting into mum handbag.

Daughter: croaky sobs

Self: Luke, stop it. Is too sick, leave alone.

Son: Is not fair. Why have to go to school when stupid sister stay at grandmas and watch TV all day. Why?

Self: She sick. You not. Is perfectly fair.

Son: Am too sick. Have got headache. LOOK (points at head).

Self: (carefully examining head) Looks alright, apart from vegemite smears.

Son: Is not vegemite. Is sickness.

Self: Enough. Head is FINE. Go to school. Wipe off vegemite.

Son: Can’t wipe off sickness. Head might fall OFF.

Self: (pulling up outside son’s school with angry flourish) Out! Learn things! Wipe off vegemite!

Son: Stomps off muttering about unfairness of everything in general and cruelty of mothers in particular.

Daughter: more croaky sobs.

Self: Dispatch lovely daughter to day at grandmas, being cosseted and patted and cooked tempting treats all day.

Drive to work feeling very jealous of lovely daughter.

Work for a while, battling general discontentedness with self and life.

Phone call, is disapproving woman from son’s school.

Disapproving woman: Son was supposed to bring cheque for basketball today. Not here.

Self: Umm. Am sure remember writing cheque.

Disapproving woman: Humpfh. Is not here. Son not allowed to join basketball team without cheque ON DAY.

Self: (frantically rummaging through handbag) Oh, hang on. Found it.

Disapproving woman: Hmmmm. Must bring to school or son will have to watch as sons of proper organised loving mothers play basketball.

Self: (grovelling apologies). Will bring at lunchtime.

Disapproving woman: Yes. Well. See that you do.

Self: Yes, Okthanksbye.

Lunchtime. Driving much too fast to son’s school. Arrive to find all junior school boys in playground. Air thick with flying balls, bats and cheerfully squawking adolescent bodies.

Bodies actually in air, presume need to throw things so overwhelming boys will throw each other if nothing else available.

Cheerfulness everywhere. Chatty, yelling happy cheerfulness. Bouncy running and fun games. No sullen bad temperedness, no growling fuck offs to staff. Is mystifying and annoying. Where spotty grotty sulky oiks of own teen years?

Stare at swirly mass of boys in playground, heart sinking. How to find son?

Ahh, teacher. Will go ask for assistance.

Teacher: (peering into rugby scrum on playground) Roberts! Is you Roberts?

Face: (appears out of the scrum with a huge grin on it) Yes sir?

Teacher: Roberts! Is wonderful! Thought you were dead! Only reason for not being in geography this morning could be that are dead! Not dead then, Roberts?

Face: (still grinning): No sir, not yet sir.

Teacher: Next time not in geography better be dead Roberts, or soon will be. Perhaps had better come to office after school and write 100 times that better to be dead than not in geography.

Face: (huge grin continuing unabashed) Yes sir, will be there sir. Promise. (Face and grin disappear accompanied by giggling from rest of scrum).

Much cheered by Tom Brown Schooldays style discipline, approach teacher for help in finding son.

Self: Hello.

Teacher: Hah! What doing here? Are lady?

Self: (confused) Umm, sometimes. Need to find son. Give cheque for basketball.

Teacher: Hmmm. (frowns disapprovingly at self) Should have given before school.

Self: (wondering if am going to be given lines to write) Yes. Am very sorry. Forgot. Am bad disorganised mother. Where Luke?

Teacher: Roberts!

Face: Yes sir.

Teacher: Find Luke. Bring here. Quickly.

Face: Yes sir (disappears into melee).

Teacher: Is bad for son to have disorganised mother. Better to set example.

Self: Umm.

Teacher: Children need structure, is most important…blah blah…routine…blah blah…loving discipline….blah blah….will end up on drugs or similar…blah blah…homework every night vital…blah blah blah…

Self: (comforting redecorating fantasies)

Face and son appear from crowd.

Son: (delighted smile) Mum! (runs to self and gives huge hug).

Self: (stare warily around at melee. No boys sniggering or calling son mama’s boy or similar. Why? Why?)

Return hug and drag son away from terrifying geography teacher.

Self: (in furious whisper) What going on? Why all cheerful happy kids? Where spotty oiks telling teacher to fuck off?

Son: (shocked tones) Muuum!

Self: But where? Behind bike shed smoking cigarettes and plotting to glue geography teacher to chair? Hiding in library writing bad poetry and cutting selves? In loos flushing junior boys heads and showing smutty pictures to each other? Cut school to steal chocolate bars and dirty magazines from 7/11? Where? Where?

Son: (Soothing tones and patting arm) Mum, be calm. Nothing like that happens here. Is nice school. Would get in terrible trouble for such things.

Self: (Stare at son in bewilderment. Why all self-confident, kind, happy kids? Where self-loathing and paranoia of own generation? Where acting out, destruction of property and hatred of previous generation? Cosseted grandchildren of babyboomers showing disconcerting signs of maturity.)

Son: (concerned) Mum, are ok? Maybe should go home and have nice drink?

Self: Yes. Probably right. Not going to do anything awful while gone?

Son: (pats arm again) Only maths. Is ok. Have nice drink.

Self: Yes. Will go. Have drink (turn to leave).

Son: Am pleased to see you etc, but why here? Did bring basketball cheque?

Self: No. Oh, wait. Yes. Is here (rummage in handbag). Somewhere (more rummaging). Bugger. Left bloody thing at work.

Son: (patient sigh) Got chequebook? Write another?

Self: (snapping) No need to be like that. Yes, will write…bugger…can’t find pen.

Son: (another patient sigh) Roberts!

Face: Yes?

Son: Still got pen in pocket? Lend to mum?

Face: (perpetual grin intact) Yep.

Self: (snatch pen, write cheque, hand pen back) Yes, well, better hang on to pen, will need it for lines later on. Ha ha.

Face: Ummm…. (grin fades a little).

Restrain self from belting rest of grin from Face, bestow hug upon son (still no sneering from watching boys. Why? Why?).

Dignified walk out of playground ruined by falling over cricket stumps on ground.

Growl menacingly at boys politely trying to help self off ground and stomp off to have drink.

Kids today, don’t like ‘em at all!

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