I left on a trip to New Zealand recently. I was comfortably ensconced in the taxi when I suddenly realised how smooth my goodbye was.
This was a remarkable contrast to my trip just a few months ago when the farewell was more of a McIntyrian comedy.
The plan was to leave work at 4, get home at 5 and, after some quality family time, get a taxi to the airport at 7. Admittedly optimistic, but achievable.
That was until ten past four when I realised I was already late executing the plan. That would have been fine, had I not forgotten my security pass to enable exiting my new building, which meant going back upstairs. I then arrived at the underground to see the train doors closing. Ten minutes until the next one.
So I know it’s slightly crazy, but I feel somewhat comforted by telling myself I am not late, until I am actually late. Unfortunately, my husband calls at 5pm – I am late.
I walk into the house about 5.40pm and head directly upstairs to finish packing. My son pops his head out of the bathroom, to say hi and tell me his head is a bit itchy… I find the lice comb and set him to work.
To then discover, I have left my husband’s birthday present at work. I send an SOS to a colleague to arrange for it to be couriered home – I am already in another country, on the other side of the world, on a significant zero birthday, so it seems deserving.
Bag done, I head downstairs to daughter exiting the shower exclaiming (loudly) “no one has brought me my Pajamas”. She bursts into tears at my unimpressedness and wails “it’s just been such a hard day”. No sympathy here as she trails up the stairs, still crying.
My son then confirms he thinks he has found two, lice that is, so I send him into the kitchen to my husband, as my daughter and I have a motivational chat about no more tears.
All calm, we sit at the table for a lovely family farewell dinner. My husband has surpassed himself with his debut of a NZ favourite – bacon and egg pie – for chaos to erupt as my daughter touches the hot dish and knocks over a full glass of water.
Water is applied at one end of the kitchen as I mop up the other, teeth gritted, saying it’s fine, no problem… we all settle down to enjoy the pie when my husband presents me with the lice comb to tackle my daughter’s hair. I now also have to do mine as it is itching in reaction and I don’t think it’s socially acceptable (yet?) to do this on an aeroplane…
I am half way through my daughter’s hair, and tears again not surprisingly, when my phone alerts me to the taxi now waiting out front. Hussein Bolt would have struggled to move more quickly…
I am so pleased we have all learned from that experience – obviously allowing at least another forty minutes makes all the difference…
Tough Mother 