Kimberley: ‘Fortunately I forgot the seat and not the baby’
Kimberley lives with Kevin, is (bonus) mom of Norah (5) and baby Jackie. Every Tuesday she writes about motherhood and everything that comes with it. This week about all the balls she doesn’t keep up, but drops hard.
‘How do I get Noor out of school without a seat for Jackie?’ emails my friend who is free and chief kids today. An email, because texting is pointless – with my phone still on the dresser. He has e-mailed this before. Fuck, yes, that Maxi Cosi. It’s still in my car. Not very handy, especially if your child goes to school in another city.
“Poop, didn’t think of that at all.”
baby brain
Maybe it’s my ADHD, lack of sleep or all those proverbial balls that I suddenly have to keep up, but my memory is not cooperating for a while. It’s like my brain is still on maternity leave indefinitely. I forget everything. So I seem to do intermittent fasting. Not out of conviction or collegiality (it’s an office thing), but because I just forget to eat my breakfast yogurt.
“Fuck, yes, that Maxi Cosi. It’s still in my car.”
Military operation
After all, every morning it is another military operation (to stay in the Kamp van Koningsbrugge spheres for a while) to deliver everyone on time without spit or chocolate paste stains in their clothes and with a filled drum or powder tower.
It is a kind of domino for advanced players, one stone falls over (or a glass of milk over the table) goes the whole row. A last minute poop is the rule rather than the exception and a traceless pacifier is one missionimpossible after 4.5 hours of sleep. If we seem to arrive exactly on time, we will of course be driving behind a tractor. Once it has frozen, the scraper is suddenly no longer under the co-driver’s seat (very strange) and the shortcut is just closed off when I turn onto the road.
Sure: I could set the alarm even earlier, cut the apple wedges the night before… but since I’m a mother, the universe isn’t really on my side either. Not that I really believe in that, but still, it’s not that bad anyway. So there is no other option than to email back that I, as the seat owner, will pick up Norah and continue tapping between the cries of the baby, the toddler and George (yes, Peppa’s). It is what it is.
Ideal image
I just let go of the ideal image – always ten minutes early on the square, wearing make-up and bursting with energy. I am apparently the mother who, with child and all, has to sprint to the already closing school door. With the hair still in the tangle and the car on the flashing position.
A mother who suddenly interrupts her working day to pick up the toddler from school. Who forgets the child seats, but not the children who belong in them. That would be something.
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