Malone is loaded down with bags of tears

I love weekends. There’s no pressure lolling about in our pyjamas for half the day, no rushing to school barking military orders to get out of the door and up the hill.

Sometimes after dropping my five year old off at school, I just hate myself. Why can’t I get her dressed and to school for 9am without growling? I just get so frustrated. ‘She’s only five, she’s only five!’ I repeat on loop through my head. Occasionally I have to take myself into another room to breathe deeply, or swear or scream, then return to the battlefield with a calm patient voice. “Remove some key rings from your school bag as they weigh more than the books in the bag!”

The bag is breaking under the pressure. Foot stomping and crying ensues. It’s 7.45am. I’m tired,
I stayed up late googling Einstein quotes, avoiding kitten videos on Facebook and searching eBay for things I will never buy like a retro Adidas track suit.

“I stayed up late googling Einstein quotes and avoiding kitten videos on Facebook”

I’m tired, all I want is to have a nice chat, I don’t want the crying. The crying makes me so uptight. It pierces right into me, hurting more than any weapon. She doesn’t need to cry, I guess she just resorts to crying out of frustration – of not being allowed her own way or feeling not listened to. It must be horrible being five. Everyone likes their own way. So I give up, and sure her bag breaks up the hill. I can’t help as I’m carrying a heavy bin bag to the bins. I try though and I’m accused of causing further damage to bag! I want to scream. I’m doing my best. I’m struggling with a bin bag trying not to cover myself in bin slop. I need to get to an industry expo in London after drop off. I’d rather not be stained and stink. Smelling was fine when I had a baby but she’s five now… I tell her to carry her broken, heaving bag herself then but she seems to not need my input, she knows it all! Dealing with the consequences of her own decisions results in more tears.

I draw up some dormant patience and remembering she is just five, I lob the bin bag in the bin and kneel down, repairing her bag with cold, icy fingers that are desperately wanting to be put back into gloves. She is crying whiny noises at me the whole time. As if I’m a terrible person and evil. But I’m helping her. I did implore her to not attach nine heavy toys to the school bag. I advised her, she ignored me. I implored, she ignored me. I gave up the battle. She got her way and now it’s my fault I let her! I want to stamp my feet. It’s hard being the grown up.

Is it the weekend yet? Can we just watch TV in pyjamas?

Illustration: Jake McDonald www.shakeyillustrations.blogspot.com