The School-Run Walk of Shame...

You can feel their eyes on you.

Asking questions. Why? How? Again? Those shoes?

You're flustered. Hot from running.

Child dragging behind you.

Obviously this is not the about the other walk of shame.

Not the 7am walk of shame, hungover to hell, clearly still wearing last night's clothes.

Maybe some party popper crap in your hair. Knowing that everyone can read you like a book.

Even the bus driver smiles as you mumble for a ticket. Yes everyone knows what you did last night. Personally I've never really felt shame in those moment. I've felt pride.

And had I had the time. And more sleep. And no hangover. Then I am pretty sure I would have walked about with a sign saying BOOM POW. And been high fiving everyone. (This was years ago obv.).

But then I'm male and Lad culture is stupid encourages that behaviour. Sadly.

So to experience the walk of shame. Now.

At my age, thirty-plurburerber (coughs). On the school run.

Was a crap surprise.

Mate: 'Alreet'

<Shows off 'Boom Pow' sign>

Mate: 'You been reading comics again?'

Yes. Obv. But that's not why I've got the sign... <Winks> <Raises eyebrows>

Mate: 'Your eye alright?'

Yes. Ask me why I'm holding the sign! And look <Shows clothes from last night>...

Mate: 'I don't care'

Don't be an arse. CARE!

Mate: 'Fine. Whateves. Why are you wearing last night's clothes, and holding a sign saying 'Boom Pow'?' <Sighs>

Sorry. A gentleman never tells

Mate: 'Then why make me ask?'

...

Mate: <Sighs> 'Hang on… You slept at mine last night!'

<Does shifty eyes>

Mate: 'We played computer games all night and then you went to bed, ALONE, with some wood and paints?'

I hate you You can be a right douchebag sometimes you know...

<Runs>

('What's in the bag?'

Douche's. Obv... It's labeled?)

I'd like to say it wasn't my fault.

That I had to experience the walk of shame. But that's a lie. It was me. Not on purpose. Not planned. Just... yeah whatever. My fault.

I had BabyBoy2 to drop off at nursery and Miss5 to get to school. The exact same time of day as normal. Yet for some reason. Me We left late.

We do a loop on our drop off run. First to BabyBoy2's nursery and then me and Miss5 double back on ourselves, and head off to her school.

So, joyously, we get the full force of a walk of shame.

The School-Run Walk of Shame.

My suspicions were raised.

About our lateness. When I saw a work colleague passing in front of us. He is sickeningly young. Mid-twenties. And as such doesn't arrive early at work. Or late. He arrives exactly when he needs to. On the dot.

Unlike people with children. Who like to arrive early so they can get ready for the day. Have at least two cups of tea coursing through their veins before adults start asking them questions.

Or just time themselves for sanity purposes.

Boss: 'So ready for another day of work?'

<Weeps> Hang on... <Downs cuppa>

<Eats biscuits>

<Checks emails, Facebook, random sites>

<Has a wee>

<Remembers where desk is>

<Makes another cuppa>

Boss: 'Ready now?'

Yes... <Clicks a few more websites>... Yep ready...

One question?

Boss: 'Yes?'

What is it... that we actually do here?

Is it eating cake? Coz then I'm well in...

Boss: 'I don't know why I talk to you in the mornings!' <Grumbles off>

<Whispers to college> What IS it we do?

<Is handed prepared script explaining what we do, with my name on it>

Thanks

It's a bad sign.

I normally pass Mid-Twenties much later on in our journey. Smeg.

I then pass a very old friend (in duration, not age). Despite being late. He's worth a quick chat.

But as he drops his daughter at the same school as I do and he’s heading the other way already...

Then late we must be.

I remind Miss5 she needs to scoot like the wind.

Scoot girl! SCOOT!

Apparently her legs now magically hurt. OK…

LIKE THE WIND!

We plough off and Miss5 does her best. I can't run because she isn't that fast on her scooter.

But we do a good pace. Until we wade into the stream of people going the other way.

I feel like salmon.

(Leap girl! Leap girl!

FishDaughter: ’You know there’s stairs right?’

… Really?... LEAP!)

Then The School-Run Walk of Shame starts in earnest.

I know a lot of the people passing me. Because they are Mums and Dads from Miss5's school.

Their children already dropped off. On time...

'Morning'

Morning

As we are going opposite ways. The conversations are light.

'Morning'

'Morning'

Morning, morning!

The Mums I know are kind.

I guess that they can see I am flustered. Late. And doing my best to corral Miss5 into school.

The Mums I know just say morning like it was a normal morning and we are stood in the playground waiting for a door to open.

Thanks Mums.

The Dads though.

Of which I am one and would be doing the same. Make no mistake. Aren't as nice.

They grin. They smile. They mock. They enjoy my discomfort...

'Oversleep?'

Sod off!

'Heavy night'

Go to hell!

'I've got that book you wanted?'

Shove it where the sun doesn't shine!

'... The north facing side of my garden? Huh?'

Schools are funny.

If you are on time. You end up waiting with the rest of the parents. At the school gates waiting for them to open. In a huge mass of people and children.

Then once the gates open a flood of people funnel into the school all moving in one direction. It's hard to go against it.

Some are rushing and nipping about. Others have all the time in the world, dawdling along.

There’s buggies everywhere. It's hard to move.

Then once the kids are dropped off the mass of people move the other way. And start streaming out of the school gates. You can the trails of people for about ten minutes after a school run. It's kinda of awesome.

And a battle field at times.

So when me and Miss5 arrive.

We hit the mass exit of people head on. And have to battle our way through.

Miss5 is fine and nipping about behind me. Adults that have children are like horses. They can weave their way around little people without putting their hooves down on things they shouldn't. It an parent magic power. Most of the time. Miss5 is fine.

Me though. I am getting bumped and knocked about. Having to wait. My progress is slow.

The Mums I know have gone past already. And now it’s the other people.

With looks of 'What a bad Dad?', 'Late? I wouldn't be late like that...', 'Typical man <Tuts>', 'That poor girl', 'Mrs. Amazing would never be late like this', 'Those trousers?', 'When will the BBC wake up and realise...'

It’s probably all in my head...

Then the stream of people stops.

Abruptly. CRAP! We really are late! Everyone else has had enough time to drop off their child(rens). Mill about a bit. Then leave.

And we've only just got on school grounds.

Smeg.

I tell Miss5 to scoot.

Miss5 has been very good and dismounted once we were on school grounds. As she is supposed to. But I want speed from her. I insist she scoots.

Despite knowing darn well she shouldn't...

Miss: 'OK. I suppose it doesn't matter if no ones here! I can scoot!'

Sigh.

I mentally add teaching her you can break the rules as long as you don't get caught lessons to showing Miss5 how to be late. Really going for the Dad win this morning.

We round the corner and it's terrible. Miss5's classroom door is shut.

I have to knock.

(C-3PO: ‘You sure this is the right place?’

R2-D2: <Beeps and whistles>

C-3PO: ‘Cool. Master Luke needs Vodka, 20 B&H,skins and three Curly Wurlys...’

R2-D2: <Beeps and whistles>

C-3PO: ‘Chewy? Screw him. He can get his own damn comb...')

They are nice.

They open the door and Miss5 bounds in. I apologise for being late. All the while wishing wish I had choosen to be dressed in full disguise this morning. Beard. Hat. Prosthetics. So Miss5's teacher doesn't know it's me.

'Oh no trouble at all, these things happen' she says. I hear 'Well that explains SO much...'

<Sigh>

<Runs out of school as still late for work>

<Stops moments just around the corner as is a bit tired>

<Strolls>

X

My Scooter Shame...

I was doing so well that day.

I had put extra effort into spending fun time with Boy8, and was cashing in on it.

Then I did something dumb... Again.

<Bangs head against screen> Why do I do these things! <Bang bang>

<Misses screen and headbutts cup of tea>

OH NO! <Stands and gets tea all over croutch>

Arghghh!!! HOT!!!

<Sits back on spillage> <Accepts wetness>

Why? <To world in general>

Why?

Brainzilla: 'Because you're a lemon'

Ta. Uh-huh... <Nods>.. well... at least... I go well with sugar...

Brainzilla: <Gives me a look. Somehow>

I was rocking the Dadding (real word).

At least by my own definitions I was. I was home from work a grand total of ten minutes. In that time I bounced BabyBoy1 around, listened to Miss5's endless stories, and told Boy8 the good news. Rather drive to his laser sword fighting club. We we're scooting.

Hooray was the Boy8 response.

Nice.

(Yeah, yeah, nice Luckdragon…

But can we make this story quick they open in fifteen minutes?)

Boy8's Cow and Goat racing club isn't far from our house.

I enjoy taking him. But I bloody hate having to get the car out, drive there, wait in traffic, tight road, no you go, no go on, park, wait in traffic, drive back, traffic, traffic, no you go, no go on, OH! Please! Just drive!, you go, park.

It's a fifteen minute round trip of fun. I can walk it in ten.

I like driving. BROOOOOMMMM and all that. But this is a short, annoying, painful journey.

So once the weather was better, the plan was to walk / cycle / scoot.

And the other day I finally remembered the weather was finally good. Enough.

The scoot was great fun.

I have my own scooter it’s got flame all over it. But scooting on your own as adult is always a bit weird. You get looks.

Scooting with your kids gets you smiles and cheeky comments.

A police woman called that journey 'that's one way to exercise'.

That kind of thing.

Boy8 is a fast scooter now.

I can just about keep up. It's definitely easier to scoot at eight. As at 30-Lots I constantly worry I am going fall off and explode into a fireball look a right muppet. I might even hurt myself. Ow. Or break something. OW!

Boy8 worries not.

Any kerb above 2cm is a potential terrible crash for me.

Boy8 does tricks over kerbs.

The drop off was uneventful.

Except one of Boy8 mates, that I know, appeared.

I jokingly pretended to slam his face into a table. Classic Dad humour.

As I had no idea what to say to actually say to him and wanted to be cool.

It's was laughs all round.

I left and tried to coolly unfold my scooter and scoot off.

It fell apart in my hands, and clattered to the floor. Bums.

I fight the urge to just run and hide. And Instead I put my scooter, now called Brutus, back together and scoot off.

Then because I'm now scooting on my own, sans le Garcon8, someone shouts at me as I pass...

ScooterAgeist: 'Aren't you too old to be scooting?'

Not yet! <Sticks up fingers> <Tries to look cool but is wobbling a lot>

I get home hot and sweaty.

Needing to wash. My leg hurts from balancing on one leg, and I'm very hungry.

Still Dad win!

Scooted Boy8 to his club which he loved! And didn't use the car.

#DadWin.

Well that’s me tale done... you can all go now...

Yes, you too, madam at the back... with the beard... <Squints> Oh hi Mum! <Waves>

<Claps> Shooo shooo <More clapping> Go home!

Brainzilla: 'Tell them what you did next'

I don't want to... <Picks at the wall>

Brainzilla: 'Tell THEM!' <Shakes fist>

NO!

Brainzilla: 'You leave me no choice...'

<Slaps self> HEY! Stop that! OW!  <Slaps self> Fine. I'll tell...

Later.

As my old man knee was hurting. I took my bike to pick up Boy8.

I felt nice to on my bike. Safer.

I had, like a genius, left his scooter at the club.

It’s hard to carry anything when you scoot or cycle. Let alone a scooter.

So I grabbed tut scooter and found Boy8.

He was happy, had a good time, was ready to go.

But his mate. The one from earlier. The one I know.

He was there too...

Mate: Is that your scooter?

Boy8: Yeah... <BatEgo sensors activated>

Mate: That’s a baby’s scooter <Rhymes it with YOU SUCK>

The little [INSERT OWN WORD]...

I watched Boy8 visibly shrink from that dig. It was horrible.

He was so happy and full of confidence one moment. The next deflated like a balloon at a hedgehog wrestling party (common our way).

I stay calm and answer on behalf of my stunned, and hurt son...

OH JUST PISS OFF! JUST PISS RIGHT OFF! YA TWONK!

What a mean thing to say! Fooooor shame

Ohh! That's one less Christmas I've gotta write next year! <Is fuming>

WAHHHHH!!! I’m telling!

I’m Batmam...

Face? Meet fist!

Just a small town girl… living in a LONELY world...

No it’s not (ZING! In your FACE!)

<I am ignored>

Mate: Where’s your trick wheel? That is a babies scooter...

(‘No. That’s not my scooter…’)

We say sweary BYE to his mate.

I pick up Boy8's crest which has fallen to the floor. There’s some mud on it, a bit of gum. But, quick polish, <Spits>, and it’s basically fine.

By the time we are outside, he has bounced back. Knowing he’s got a fun scoot home with his Dad ahead of him.

I point at my bike.

Boy8’s joy is diminished a bit. I know he was enjoying watch me shriek do battle cries at every kerb we had to cross. I no such troubles on my bicycle.

And now he will be trying to keep up with me.

<Grins>

I am just about to hop on me bike.

When Boy8’s swine mate runs over… TO BE MEAN AGAIN!

WTAF!

Mate: 'My scooter is way better than yours'

Again I have to watch all the fight and confidence sucked out of Boy8.

He seems to have no defence for this. It’s horrible. I hate it. He needs to learn some defence against the Dark Arts.

I am also not so passive this time...

You talkin’ to me?

Mate: ‘No’

You talkin’ to me?

Mate: ‘Er… What’s your Dad doing?’

You talkin’ to me?

Boy8: ‘Dunno… But that’s his De Niro impression...’

Mate: ‘How do you know? It doesn’t sound or look like De Nero in any way shape or form’

Boy8: ‘He gets all squinty, puts his head to the side and waves his hands about a lot’

Mate: ‘Oh. My Dad too!’

That would have been better to be honest.

Than what I actually did.

Because instead of showing Boy8 that you simply ignore gits people like this.

I engaged. I squared up to an eight year for a battle of sass and mean-ness.

I can honestly say, I felt I could get a win here…

Oh! And where’s your scooter?

Mate: ‘Its…;

<Interrupts> Well I don’t think you have one….

Or is it a babies one? Is why you haven’t got it? <Nods his answer for him>

Is it? I bet it’s a girls one, a pink one… <Smirky ‘you suck’ smile>

<Me and Boy8 scoot and cycle off with dignity>

<Mate left looking gutted>

I hate me for most of this.

And I apologise for the sexist girl and pink comment. That was, and is, wrong.

It shows how much I had lost track of what I was doing. That I felt the need to use stupid sexist stereotypes to out-sass this boy. I am very sorry for what I said.

But I wasn’t sorry immediately…

Immediately I felt good!

A win! The effect my comments had on Boy8 was fantastic. He was suddenly ten feet tall.

His Dad had just mushed into the ground, verbally, a rival.

His Dad had just duffed up a bully for him, verbally.

Of course Boy8 felt good.

We headed off.

And everything kept re-sinking in.

I realised that another parent may have heard me.

Crap.

And without context, what on earth was I doing? Being mean to an eight year old for fun? For kicks?

Crap.

<Hangs head>

Even with the context it’s not great behaviour..

A car passed us on the way out.

It was the mate’s Dad. I like him. His wife too. They are nice. I chat with them.

What if the mate tells on the mean adult (that’s me)? What if he’s in tears right now?

Crap! How do I ever face them again!

OMFB! WHAT HAVE I DONE!

I’m quite quiet on the way home.

I’m thinking. Me and Boy8 still have fun though. But less than we should have had.

We get home, Boy8 eats his bedtime cereal (don’t ask), gets ready for bed, argues about brushing his teeth again, as the first time was utter rubbish, he eventually grumps off to do it again, actually does a good job, he reads, I read. We chat about what happened. He goes to bed.

And I am left, alone, to ponder on what I did.

Take it away Eric... (Karekoe version for singalongness)

My mistake become obvious.

I defended my boy to much. Someone attacked him (verbally) and I leapt in all guns blazing and blaring, and then throwing them when I was out of bullets.

I used all my years, and knowledge, to attack back. And I've some years now.

At an eight year old.

Eww.

I confessed all to Mrs. Amazing later that night.

She laughed with me I think. She eased my worries and pointed out that if his parents were cross I could say what a smegger their child he had been. Fair point.

I felt a lot better.

I’m still furious with myself for the sexist comments.

I really am. I am sorry Miss5, that was a big slip up. I’m sorry Mrs. Amazing. Sorry Mum.

Sorry to all women everywhere. I used your sex as an insult. That was crap.

It won’t happen again.

I spoke to Boy8 about it all.

Before he went to sleep. I asked him what he should do next time. When someone is being mean like that. He said, and I quote…

Boy8: ‘Yeah you say…’ <Does me being mean voice>

Boy8: ‘Where’s your scooter then?’ <Is all pointy, like I was>

Boy8: ‘Do you even have one? I bet you don’t’ <Does me mean face>

Boy8: ‘A babies one? Is why you haven’t got it? Your baby's… got it…?!?... er...’

Boy8: ‘And it’s pink!.. .and… and…erm…’

Boy8: ‘What did you say next Dad?’

<Is appalled with self and Boy8 memory>

Smeg.

We spent a long time chatting. To undo all that crap I had put in his head.

I explained why and how we should ignore braggards, because they suck.

And more importantly, much more,  I explained why my sexist comments were so damn wrong. I didn’t fancy it up or deflect at all.

I made it clear that I, ME, had behaved badly and I was sorry to the universe.

I saw the mates parents the next day. They said nothing.

I choose not to bring it up, or will mention it ever, ever, ever.

EVER.

X