Rebecca

There is a sea, a jumble sale of shoes littering the floor. There are cries and whimpers from my children as they jostle and bump into one another and fall over the shoes. Tiny fingers prize at Velcro and I hear myself mutter and eventually shout “pull the tongues out!” I manhandle and meander them all through the front door. The seagulls screech and cry, joining in with the cacophony of the children. One child is stumbling, shoes still hanging off at the heels. I fix that, and like a policewoman directing traffic I shoo and coddle them towards the car, chasing them with coats and book bags weighing my limbs down. Arms evade sleeve holes like octopus tentacles, and refuse to give up toys that are too big to fit through the holes. I need more hands, but I haven’t got any.

And then, before I am ready, the children are pulling at the car door handles. There are four doors and six hands are all wrestling at one ancient handle. No orderly British post office queues here, this is a full on hand and fist fight to be the first one in. My voice again, booming and loud, my dad’s voice from within, surprises me. “Move out of the way! Stop pushing! Don’t open the car door onto the….wall.” The door is open now, having been too fiercely and quickly re-introduced to the wall of my house, yet again.  The scrambling begins again, and its hard to tell one child from another as limbs and heads knock and shove to get through the small door into the car. All at once, like sheep being herded into a pen.  Muddy footprints leave their mark on my leather seats. Oh well, wipeable surfaces are  a mother’s’ best friend. My brother once said that my car suffered its many cosmetic and functional problems because it “had reached a certain age and had a lot of use”, and I feel a kinship with the car right now.

The smell of old leather and dust greets me as I climb in to the driver’s’ seat, sighing relief that everyone is contained for a moment. I twiddle at the radio, as I reverse out of my driveway. The children are still chuntering and chattering in the background.

We are an anomaly on this estate, my children and I. Young, loud, and chaotic, we are a riot of colour and noise amongst the carpet of tweed of over 70s that generally occupy this ordered chocolate box place. I wave enthusiastically as I drive past the Captain on his routine morning dog walk. Everything is fine. Nothing to see here. Just your usual Mary Poppins and her thousand well mannered and orderly children on the school run.