The Roadrunner

I’ve had one of those days where I have gradually become irritated by the sound of my own nagging. Now the kids are all in bed, and I’m snuggling up to a large glass of soft, ripe Rosemount Pinot Noir (£7.99 Ocado), I’m feeling subdued and rather remorseful. Their view of me today has been:
7am- see crazed, wild-haired harpy descend on kitchen, chivvying everyone to hurry up and eat breakfast ‘faster’, go and brush teeth, get dressed ‘faster’, get schoolbags, go to the toilet, put shoes on ‘faster’, get in the car, put seatbelts on ‘faster’.
8.30 am – arrive at school for a calm, nurturing day, where no-one shouts ‘Shut up, I can’t hear myself think!’ or ‘You did that deliberately, didn’t you?’ Make lovely, arty things with tissue paper, sing jolly songs in little piping voices, write stories about fluffy animals, and generally express creativity in a multitude of ways.
3.30pm – meet up with crazed, wild-haired harpy, who constantly issues military-style commands to get in the car, put seatbelts on ‘faster’, get in the house, take shoes off, get out of school uniform ‘faster’, do homework, eat dinner ‘faster’, get in the bath, brush teeth, put pyjamas on ‘faster’.
Sitting here now with my glass of Pinot Noir, I’m not quite sure what all the rush was about.