We get up. The children accept my offer of a banana as an early morning snack in place of their usual morning party ring (which I'm trying to phase out because how the hell did we get to a stage where the first thing they eat in the morning is a fucking party ring?) and get dressed without fighting me. It's going well. I'm winning at motherhood. They put their shoes on without a fuss (Daisy's are on the wrong feet but hey ho, you can't have everything).
We go to the car and it's here that things start to go wrong. I'm not going to lie: what I'm about to tell you isn't pretty. If you're of a delicate constitution I'd stop reading now.
Zachary decided he wanted to get in the car on Daisy's side and climb over to his seat. I let him. He's scrambling all over the back seat while I'm strapping Daisy in. I go round to his side. 'Come on, into your seat.' I say. Zachary obliges. As he's climbing in, his trainer falls off. I reach down into the murky depths of the footwell, which is filled with empty crisp packets, rotting apple cores and biscuit remnants, and retrieve the trainer.
I feel something warm and soft. 'What's that?' I wonder innocently. I look down at my hand, clutching the trainer. There is dog shit all over the trainer and all over my hand.
Oh. Sweet. Jesus.
I scrabble in my pocket for a tissue, wipe the worst of the dog shit off my hand and dump the trainer on the pavement. With my one clean hand and my elbow I manage to finish strapping Zachary in.
It's at this point I realise the dog shit is, of course, all over the back seat of my car. I pick up the offending trainer, and the shit covered tissue and run back inside.
After scrubbing my hands (whilst weeping on the inside), I do my best job at cleaning the shit off the trainer, chuck it outside, grab a new pair of shoes, run back to the car, shove them on Z, clean up the shit covered back seat as best I can and screech off to the childminders.
A pretty shitty start, hey?
Oh it's not over yet.
All the way to the childminder's, I can still smell shit. I frantically clean my hands with baby wipes on the drive there and throw some back at the children but the smell persists.
We arrive at the childminder's, I leap out and inspect Daisy's shoes. All clean. I inspect mine. All clean. I inspect the back seat. No shit left there. I go round to Zach and realise he has shit smeared up the leg of his trousers.
So, to sum up, if you think you had a rubbish morning, at least you didn't deliver your son to the childminder covered in dog poo.
FML
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