Son2 is off, after school, on a camping trip with his Year 8 cohort. They will set off to walk to a nearby campsite, pitch tents, eat BBQ, camp overnight and return to school sometime the next day. Sounds fun, you might think, and I do hope it is, because this morning has been a faffing nightmare getting him ready.
Son2 has just started some medication that is already making him feel much less anxious so when he wanted to go to the cinema last night with his brother and cousins who are visiting from New Zealand, it would have been unfair to make him stay and pack his bag. So off he went and we did it for him.
Tent, check, sleeping bag, check, bed roll, check. Two spare sets of clothing, cleverly grouped into outfits and packed in separate plastic bags so he doesn't have to root around in his rucksack, check. Everything on the kit list was ticked off and my husband and I thought we'd done a pretty marvellous job.
Son2 arrives home late, heads for the shower and tumbles into bed.
This morning, he says, "Did you pack my rucksack? I wanted to do it. What have you put in?" Son2 is notoriously fussy about his clothes and shoes. Husband and I exchange uneasy glances.
Out comes everything from the rucksack and Son2 is, of course, unhappy with our choices. Then he decides his shoes are too small and he most definitely does not want the trainers we have packed for him. I grab Son1's walking boots, which are most probably too large but Son2 tries them on and decides they'll be fine to take. So we pack them in a plastic bag and I leave husband to repack the rucksack that now contains completely different sets of colour-coordinated clothing.
Into the car goes his wheeled schoolbag for today, rucksack and daypack. He had already sorted out the daypack before he went to the cinema, containing the important stuff - Haribos, guava juice and a self-heating can of rocket coffee. Then I remember - he needs to pack his medication and I should have given it to the nurse days ago. Bugger! She's not going to be happy.
It is now 0820 and we live five miles from school, which starts at 0830.
Off we set, only for the hands-free phone to ring minutes later. It's husband. "Doesn't he need these walking boots?" he asks. Double bugger! We pull into the Tesco Express car park to await husband with the missing boots. My teeth are grinding and I'm feeling uncomfortably clammy. The boys are sitting with their headphones on in their own worlds.
Husband arrives and, boots onboard, we screech out of the car park and head for school, now unavoidably late as we fight through the Farnham town centre traffic. "Are you sure you can't stay for a club or prep so I can have more time to work?" I ask Son1, hopefully. "No," is his uncompromising reply. I sigh and turn up Norah Jones singing about how her heart is drenched in wine. I wish mine was too.
Eventually arriving, I drive across the campus to the sports hall to deliver the bags and tent, only to come face-to-face with the off-duty nurse who also has a son in Year 8. I mention the missing medication and wince as she tell me how they were at school until seven last night, securely packaging everyone else's who'd got it there at the allotted time. But, as she is a nice person, she graciously tells me it won't be a problem, but I still feel like the most disorganised mother on the planet.
Son2 trundles happily, through the drizzle, off to form, because of course, no camping trip is complete without rain. I fight back through the traffic to my home office to bring you this sorry tale of woe. Still, the sons are happy, and that's the main thing. Isn't it?
I'm having a spot of surgery in a week's time. I am strangely looking forward to the general anaesthetic.
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