The School Pick Up- Trying To Control The Chaos

The school pick up. The time of day when I go from a semi-functional adult to a stressed out, snack deprived wreck.

I’d like to preface this with the fact that I actually have it really quite lucky. My wife works at the school our kids go to and she handles most of the school runs. On a Wednesday and the occasional Thursday however, the job is mine as she works late.

I wake up at 5am, roll out of bed and drag a very reluctant dachshund out for a little walk around the block. I then make some coffee, take said coffee to the wife so she can wake up to some fresh caffeine, gulp down a cup myself and then go to work. When I finish work I rush home, chisel the now slightly less reluctant dachshund out of her crate and take her for a better walk than the morning one. Once this is done I’m ready to get the kids.

I’ve made it through the day, mostly, but the school pick up is another level of chaos. I take some deep breaths, tell myself I can do this, and walk to the school.

I arrive at the school gates at least five minutes early, like a good, organized parent, only to find every other parent has already arrived and are standing in large groups with smaller, louder, more unruly children running around and screaming as though the demons are ready to spill forth from their mouths.

I’m stuck in line behind the slowest human ever to walk the earth. I take a step, almost walk into the back of them and stop, allowing them to gain a bit of distance before taking another step and repeating the whole process. I start to wonder if they’re just messing with me...

Once through the gate, I go to stand outside the smallest human’s classroom. Being a naturally introverted character, as well as being fairly antisocial and having zero social battery by this time of the day, I stand alone and hope the kids come out soon before someone notices me and wanders over to talk about their kid’s latest bowel movement or something. I feel like I need one of those special jackets that nervous or antisocial dogs have to warn people not to approach...

Groups of parents walk past and I catch snippets of their conversations... how proud they are of their 7yr olds mastery of the latest Tik Tok dance or how Billy Bob told his teacher to f**k off but it’s OK because the teacher should know better than to talk to him when he’s “in one of his moods”

The entire history of human civilization passes and then finally, the door opens. Smallest human’s teacher catches my eye and tells the apple of my eye that I’m here to get her. Kids come flying out left, right and centre. They hurl their bags at their parents and run off screeching like tiny banshees but there’s no sign of my child. Seconds turn to minutes, minutes turn to more minutes and then finally, she appears, trotting nonchalantly towards me dragging all of her belongings along the floor in various states of disarray.

“Got to do the monkey bars” she says, dumping all her stuff at my feet and dashing off before my brain can even formulate the word “hello”.

By this time the larger child has arrived. He sees his sister weaving through the crowds on her mission to master the monkey bars and seizes the moment. He clatters off on his scooter to the nearest football and starts warming up for the cup final.

Heaving an exhausted sigh, I pick up all of the belongings on the floor and walk off to round up my flock. I’m now sporting a very stylish bright pink backpack and, with my masculinity intact, I prise the child kicking and screaming off the jungle gym.

We walk through the playground, dodging the occasional dazed child just wandering in circles, ducking under projectile bags and school jumpers and make our exit.

“So what did you guys do at school today?” I ask. I ask out of habit. I already know the answer. I live however, in the eternal hope that I’m wrong.

“Nothing”. The unanimous answer. I’m right again.

On our short walk home, I save each child’s life approximately 14 times by catching hold before they run directly under the wheels of a passing parent’s car. The smallest human cries because she doesn’t want what we’re having for dinner (I haven’t even told her what we’re having yet), and i diffuse at least 12 arguments.

We walk through the front door. Before I’ve even dropped the bright pink backpack there’s an immediate cacophony of ‘Can I have a snack?”

Have what you want kids. I’m off to sit in a dark room.