Get Ready

“Rise and shine, Dreamer. School!”

“NOOOOOOO, MUM!!!!” Anger ricocheted around the bedroom, tinkling glass ornaments and nearly tottering soft toys off shelves.

“You must go to school!”

“I do NOT want to go!” Spat with vehemence. 

“Sweetie, no excuses. You aren’t sick. The dog didn’t eat the assignments. You cannot say that the car broke down because you live so close to school.”

Gagging, “I hate school.”

“No, you don’t! I will count to three and you had better be getting ready. One…. Two…Three…” With that the Mother whipped the bedclothes off her daughter. Threatening, “I will phone your Head Master if you do not make an effort!”

Shrugging, the daughter desperately burrowed under the bedding.

“No, you don’t!” cried the Mother whipping the sheets away. “Ridiculous!” Smiling, the Mother played her trump card. “Do you want me to contact your old teacher?” These last words dripped honey but held a bee’s sting encouraging the daughter to rush to the bathroom.

Downstairs, the daughter morosely ate. “These soggy cornflakes are like me, devoid of life and happiness.”

The Mother replied, “Your lunch is in your satchel. Don’t even think of bolting!”

The daughter sat sullenly with melancholy dripping out of every pore. To ensure that her daughter actually went to school, the mother drove her. Yet another nightmare!

The nearer they approached the school, the more deep breathing was necessary to avoid a panic attack. At the school entrance, the Mother parked until she was absolutely certain that the daughter had entered. Her daughter exited the car like a prisoner awaiting execution. Head down, hair covering her face, she still had enough smartness to dodge the ball she thought was aimed vindictively at her head. She side-stepped school bags and gym paraphernalia which she firmly believed had been purposely placed as tripping devices. Her satchel was her shield.

In the classroom, paper aeroplanes collided, spitballs slid down the black board, pupils noisily itched in their seats with boredom, boys whispered crude words while girls competed vainly for their attention. Bedlam.

Silent words throbbed, “I dream of not teaching!”