Please, I prayed with fingers crossed. Oh please. It was a dank day outside and inside that fuggy aquatic centre the air was thick with their screaming. The starting pistol discharged and their little bodies pushed off, trailing their every hope, their every dread. When the notice had come home the week prior seeking parents to marshall and corral, to mark places, I had volunteered, then reneged when work and chores overtook.
That morning I'd sent my daughter off with her goggles and extra-big lunch. Good luck, I'd said, kissing her small face. Sorry I can't be there, darling. Swim like a fish. And then the guilt that always hovers just above my shoulders set in and I found myself crossing the harbour bridge, cursing the traffic, on the phone to my friend. Tell me I haven't missed the 9-year-old girls' 25m freestyle? I made it just in time to see her come second in her heat. How long until the semis, I asked the teacher with the megaphone. Hard to say, he shrugged. Long enough to quickly walk the dog, I decided, releasing her from the car into a field signposted "Keep Out", where she promptly chased a pukeko and narrowly missed being thwacked by a Dame Valerie Adams lookalike. I returned to the fug and the screams. Which was when I crossed my fingers and prayed, please, oh please, don't make the finals, darling. I've got too much to do.
She did, so I stayed. Which was why I found myself at midnight reorganising the freezer because, like a sucker, I'd bought two loaves of Vogel's in order to save $2.70, in a dashed trip to the supermarket after the swimming sports. I should have known there was no room in the overflowing freezer for more bread, but had been distracted by a call to my editor about Easter's early deadlines. I'd been mildly panicking about factoring in another column when the school nurse had rung saying my son had suspected strep throat and would need to go to the doctor's. How freakin' inconsiderate, I'd wanted to say. Of course, I'd said, I'll be there shortly. Make doctor's appointment, I'd added to my to-do list. Standing in the checkout queue, an email alert had flashed on my phone. There's been a confirmed case of nits in Studio Six, it read. Arrggh! Add nit-check to list.
I'd reviewed said list while waiting for my son in front of his school. Pay painter. Arrange garden bag to be collected. Buy one birthday present, one engagement. RSVP engagement party. Make doctor's appointment (check when smear due). Make black skirt for school's kapa haka performance. Nit-check. Chase tax refund. Remove glow-in-the-dark stars from kids' bedroom ceilings before first open home (which I'd crossed off because I'd done it that morning while the toast toasted and replaced with: Clean off sticky crap left on kids' ceilings by glow-in-the-dark stars). Write extra column. Check where sun falls on backyard at noon for real estate agent. Are you really sick, I asked my son when he came strolling out. Because, frankly, I don't have time for this.
That night, while folding the washing and supposedly looking at where we can trim our weekly outgoings, I told my husband how I'd willed our daughter to do badly at swimming because I was too busy for her to do well, how I'd been too stressed to furnish sympathy upon our son. It's like life is getting in the way of living, I said. Hmmm, he said. Have you noticed that noise the dog's making? You should take her to the vet.
Following on
