“Oh, FFS!” I said, stopping the car as I backed out of the driveway.
In case there’s any doubt, I extrapolated that acronym right the hell out.
“Dad, we’ll be late,” one of the kids immediately pipped up.
Don’t you love how kids spending an hour dragging their feet locating their bags, uniforms, brains is never the reason they’re late for school? At least that’s how it works in this household. It’s always because Dad let Master14 eat all the lunch stuff from the fridge or Dad took the little girls to school first.
Note: we have a rule here. Our first drop off is to the school of whoever is ready and in the car first. We rarely head straight to the high school.
“Why,” I said in a slow, low voice, because the kids are so used to me shouting at them these days this is the only way to get their attention, “is there an effing sock on our roof?”
Again, I’ve substituted one of the words there. You can probably guess which.
I really thought once our kids were all past the nappy stage the fog of dumb Tracey and I have been struggling through our entire relationship would disappear.
“Oh, that was me,” said Miss9, casual as a beach wedding.
“And?” I bellowed, because while I do have good intentions I also have the patience of a derelict hospital.
“You told me to pick my shoes and socks up because I took them off when we were playing soccer and I tried to throw them onto the balcony,” she said, sounding more than a little exasperated with me. “And I missed.”
That was a week ago, mind. And I seem to recall having to then ask her to pick her shoes and socks up from the balcony and put them where they’re supposed to go. I suppose I should be thankful she didn’t attempt to climb up onto the roof and retrieve it.
“So when were you going to tell me I needed to get it off there?” I asked her.
“I’m telling you now,” she replied simply.
The car remained still, like it was waiting for something more.
I know I was. Some sort of an apology. I felt I’d earned it for almost remaining calm. At least enough there was no need for child protection to involve themselves.
Finally, my Miss9 realised the situation demanded her to say something more.
“Can we go?” she asked me. “You’re making us late, Dad.”
Big Family Little Income
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