On the way back from ballet lessons this evening, 4-year-old P realised I was still hot under the collar from forcibly prising L from R’s buggy whilst simultaneously holding open a heavy fire door, pushing said buggy through it, pushing P through it and dragging L through it. With 2 arms and a sore back. Without letting any of them roll / run towards traffic <smug>. Yeah, I know it was only a school car park, but you know, the number of drivers who whizz in and out at speed makes my eyes roll and my lip curl (I can’t help it, they just do it automatically). Maybe the speeding drivers think us middle-aged mummies are impressed at them making their tyres squeal (“Oh, he brakes so deftly! What a honey! I just love that noise!”)? Or that running over my ankle-biters won’t impact on their own kids who are safely locked inside their ‘Safety Category 5 (Tank)’ of a car (newsflash – they will be. You’ll be paying for their Trauma Counselling sessions for years. So just slow down, OK?!)
Sorry. I digress.
So, P suddenly starts singing Christmas carols in the backseat. After my yells joined P’s hurt whines to L to “Let me sing it myself! You stop singing! You’re spoiling it!” P warbled out a fine version of Away In A Manger. It had no tune I could recognise, but it was sweetness to my jaded ears. Except the bit about “The little odd Jesus lay down his sweet head”. P glared indignantly at my snigger. I’m not concerned about P being hit by a celestial thunderbolt – it would be deflected away to join those raining down on me as punishment for my fishwife language.