Swearing in the City

Some brilliant bureaucrat decided that today would be a really good day to dig up the street that my kids’s school is on. The first day back at school in what seems like forever. Two and a bit weeks of rain and continual fighting between the boys had me up this morning with the biggest smile on my face.

I gladly packed the kid’s lunch boxes, hunted down wayward reading books and did the spit on the tissue face rub that I swore I would never do. I know it s gross. Don’t judge.

Some days we walk to school, but today I wanted a quick deposit.

The round trip took me 30 minutes. That is 2 sets of traffic lights and 7 blocks. 30 minutes of listening to Rosso and Claire. 30 minutes of answering questions about increasingly ridiculous subjects. 30 minutes that I felt my shoulders increasingly rise towards my ears and set like concrete. At least ten minutes of this time was spent looking at the kids school while a bulldozer fart-assed around doing a 258 point turn. I watched other mum’s faces in their cars, expressionless, like me.  So close and yet seemingly so far away from the prize.

The car in front of me moved forward a metre and I followed suit. Almost into a suit.

The pedestrian businessman appeared out of nowhere. I remember the driving instructor talking a blind spot.

“So that is a blind spot….” I thought to myself, winding down the window to apologise.

I was greeting with the most dedicated and passionate dialogue of profanities I had heard in some time. I was called every name under the sun. And some words I had never heard of, but I knew they were bad. You could tell by the way they were delivered.

The kids were beside themselves.

“Mum! He said the f-word and the s-word!!!!”

I let him go for a few moments before I said.

“I guarantee you are going to have a better day from here on. I promise! I m so sorry.”

I wound the window up and kept inching towards the school gates.

I dodged more heavy moving equipment and kissed the Woogette’s goodbye, but they were kind of keen to keep talking about the mean man who yelled at Mum.

I told them not to worry about it. I drove home,  pulled up in a loading zone as there were no parks for miles, to grab a coffee,  all the while sticking my head out of the cafe to make sure I would not get booked. And I realised I was due for a freakin break from the crazy city life.

A life where you routinely get parking tickets, even out the front of your own home. A life where you can drop the entire contents of your hand bag in the supermarket and people will step over you to get to the checkout. A life in the city that is fast, furious and unforgiving.

Last week we were walking back from dinner at a local cheap and cheerful establishment. We were about to cross the busy highway. The light had turned green and, along with a large group of people, we started across the 4 lanes. I looked back to find an old man on crutches going at a snails pace. I instructed Mr Woog to take the kids across and went back to assist him across the road, all the while making sure we were not going to get KO’ed by cars. We made it.

A waiting car wound down it’s window and a lady stuck her head out and told me what a nice thing I had done.

But to me, it was not a nice thing. It was a normal thing that I would hope anyone would do. But it has become increasingly obvious to me that people just walk around these parts with their head’s stuck up their own sphincters.

So after lunch today, I am going to pick the kids up early from school and head to a part of the world where the pace is slower, and I can breathe out. And park where-ever I bloody well please and hang out with dear friends who have fled the craziness of the city for a simpler quieter life.

And I cannot fucking wait.

Thanks in advance BabyMac