You're on the home straight at the tail end of a three hour daily commute.
The traffic, while moving, had you cursing under your breath and fighting against the urge to lift your finger in salute to the git who pulls in without indicating, catching you by surprise and spilling your drink leaving you with a wet patch embarrassingly akin to that last oblivion induced by gin when you didn't wake up and get to the loo quick enough. It happens. As do overly long sentences.
You're frazzled. Meh, if you will.
You arrive at nursery, battling past the punters double parked in the bus stop by the chippy. At the door, the key worker lets you in on first ring. You relax a little, this last hurdle to getting home to get supper on is easing... the high velocity stress of a badass Monday will soon be at an end. You know you're going to be in and out in five mins with a child under your arm, hopefully your own, and be back in the car on the final leg. That's how you plan it.
That's not how it rolls.
Grace has today mastered several arts.
1. Hanging a coat on a coat hanger. Taking it back off again.
2. Putting said coat on. Taking it back off again.
3. Buttoning up, wrong, correcting, admiring handy work in the mirror, undoing the buttons again and then prancing round the room showing off to her friends, their unwitting parents and a wildly bemused keyworker.
My overriding joy and pride in this display evident.
The first time.
On repeat, Grace runs through this flamboyant developmental milestone of a display until not only is she the last kid in class, but I am on my last deep breath before wanting to pop her in a stuff sack, throw her in the boot and make for home at high speed.
Instead I take a picture, one for the album. The day Grace did 'all of it'...
...all by herself.
The day it took me half an hour to extract my child from pre-school.
The day I necked a double gin before even hanging up my coat when we got home.
The day that Grace. Did. This.