I, Roadhog
What would Lewis Hamilton do, I sometimes think, on the 25-minute drive to school. Would he, entirely used to gripping the steering wheel and blocking out any distractions, plough on ahead and arrive at his destination without risk?
In which case, I want him to get down here at 8.15am and take the wheel as he brakes in front of the first obstacle on our school run – the roundabout of death, which he must face while fending off Rosie’s powerfully insistent questioning.
“Mummy? You know you said I couldn’t wear my necklace to school because Mrs Jones said it was against the rules, well I saw Jessica wearing one yesterday and so I’ve put mine back on. That’s alright isn’t it? Mummy? …..MUMMY?
All kids chatter, right? All kids ask crazy convoluted questions designed to help them figure out this confusing world. On the morning school run some have extra motivation for parental attention because they can feel the impending separation. All these things apply for Rosie too.
But Rosie has ADHD (and probably autism) so has huge difficulty handling the feeling of frustration. Of not getting what you want RIGHT NOW.
There’s also a layer of super-charged urgency to her need for an answer from me that has its roots in the neglect she experienced in the first three years of life. Not being answered, in her traumatised mind, means she is reminded on some unconscious level of no one answering her cries when she was tiny. And so, she shouts louder, as she probably tried then. And louder. AND LOUDER.
As a survival technique for a baby in a cot, it’s pretty logical. But its usefulness in a car? With a knackered, stressed driver who is now unable to think clearly enough to work out whether she should brake or accelerate? Questionable.
Back in the car at 8.15am we’re way past logic.
‘MUMMY, WHAT IS YOUR ANSWER?’
‘I need PEACE right now. I have to drive’
‘BUT JUST TELL ME QUICKLY’
‘Do you want us to crash the car?’
‘I DON’T CARE! JUST TELL ME’
‘Just let me get past this roundabout….oh SHIT’ (I accelerate for a second, then ram the brakes on when I realise I hadn’t spotted a car speeding around the roundabout).
‘MUMMY! MY BELT REALLY HURT ME THEN. Did you say shit? Did you know that’s a really bad word?’
‘MMMMM’
At some point, generally aided more by luck than judgement, we arrive on the other side of the roundabout. And for the rest of the 20 minutes to school I am practising deep breathing. On the return journey, Lewis jumps in and drives me home. Maybe.