Yapping bitches

I trudged to school for my afternoon pick-up through the bucketing rain today, wearing full eye make-up and lipstick as a result of an afternoon client meeting, teamed with and my trusty $10 hooded parka. Classy.

At school, I tied the dogs up by the gate and scurried across the yard to join the huddle of parents waiting under the shelter. No sooner had I started chatting to one of the few dads there, than the unmistakable yapping of small dogs cut through the dull thud of the rain. I started to go.

'Whose dogs are they?!' exclaimed one of the nearby mums.
'My god! I know!' boomed another, raising her voice in the hope of its reaching the culprit.
'They're right next to the SCHOOL GATES!' huffed yet another.
'Right!' said a fourth. 'I'm off to the microphone. That's IT!'

Meanwhile, I stood frozen, vacillating between running to move the dogs a few metres from the gate, as was my original instinct, and hiding so the pack wouldn't pounce and burn me at the stake.

When they mentioned the microphone, I jumped to it.
'That's my dogs they're talking about' I whispered to the dad. He laughed.

I bent in the rain to untie them and moved them down the road. As I turned to rejoin the schoolyard, I ducked my head again, though the rain was easing.

Back under the shelter, I made eye contact with the dad.
'If people really want you to do something, they shouldn't speak like that' I am surprised to find myself say. 'I was almost too embarassed to move the dogs then. If they'd asked reasonably instead of shouting about how awful the person with the dogs is, they would have got a quicker reaction.'

I realise I am speaking loudly.

I realise that once again, I am furious with petty playground politics and the way I always seem to take the role of the weird kid at school who can't do anything right.

I fetch my son, who has unbuttoned his shirt as I TOLD HIM NOT TO, revealing the bitten-off hole in his skivvy underneath. (He did it himself in the midst of a temper tantrum.) His parka is in his backpack and he stands shouting his news of the day into the rain.

'Stupid yappy bitches' I growl under my breath as we duck back across the yard and out of the gate.

At home, I ask F to peel off his wet clothes and put them straight into the washing machine. All except the skivvy, which goes straight into the bin.