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‘Yup.’ I nod, trying not to get frustrated that yesterday I asked Molly three times to put her shoes away in her room.
I walk into the kitchen. Gavin follows me and sits at the table to finish his Coco Pops.
‘Coffee?’ I ask, filling the kettle.
‘Mmm-hmm,’ Gavin says, lifting his bowl to his lips to drink the chocolatey milk.
I flick on the kettle and take the cereal bar and packet of crisps out of Molly’s lunchbox and swap them for a couple of slices of five-grain bread and an apple. I don’t bother mentioning the school’s healthy-eating policy. Gavin read the note that we got at registration, just as I did.
‘No PE today, Molly. It’s Tuesday,’ I say as my little girl skips back into the kitchen with her shoes on the wrong feet, carrying her sports kit. ‘But you do have piano after school, remember?’
‘I hate peenano,’ Molly says.
‘I know.’ I nod. ‘But that’s because you’re just starting out. It’s tricky now. But when you’re older and you can play all your favourite songs, you’ll be so happy.’
‘I won’t.’ Molly stomps her foot. ‘I hate songs. I hate all the songs.’
‘Okay,’ I sigh, trying to ignore my daughter’s ridiculous argument.
I’m tempted to point out that for someone who hates all the music in the world she hums the theme tune from a toothpaste advert everynight when we’re brushing her teeth. But we’re already running late and I know the irony will be wasted on my four-year-old.
‘Daddy. Let’s go,’ Molly says, taking her lunchbox from my hand.
Gavin stands up and doesn’t notice Molly jerk her schoolbag from his hand. The zip is open and her pencil case and a plastic folder tumble to the floor.
‘Oops.’ Molly giggles and bends down to tidy up the mess.
‘Molly, really?’ I say, coming to help her. ‘You need to pay more attention.’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ Molly says, her bottom lip beginning to quiver.
‘It’s okay, princess,’ Gavin says, his eyes narrow on me. ‘We all make mistakes sometimes. Even Mammy.’
I groan inwardly and roll my eyes, scolded.
‘C’mon, Molly,’ I say, aware of precious seconds ticking by – we’re going to be late. ‘You put these things back in your bag and I’ll fix your shoes.’
‘My shoes aren’t broken.’ Molly points to her feet.
‘No,’ I sigh, losing patience. ‘But they are on the wrong feet, aren’t they?’
‘Are not.’ Molly scrunches her nose.
‘Molly they are.’
‘Are not.’ Molly flops onto her bum and tucks her feet under her. She folds her arms across her chest and stares up at me, defiantly.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ I say, bending down to toss Molly’s pencil case and folder back into her bag. ‘Give me your feet. You’ll break your neck on the yard if you don’t fix your shoes.’
‘No. No. NO!’ Molly huffs.
Defeated, I stand up and look at Gavin. My expression is asking him to speak to his daughter about this. But just as my husband points his finger and opens his mouth his phone rings. His fingers quickly retract as he shoves his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone.
‘It’s Heather,’ Gavin says, gesturing at the screen.
I smile, ridiculously brightly out of sheer frustration, because I don’t know what else to do at the news that his ex-fiancée is calling.
‘Hello,’ Gavin says, raising the phone to his ear before I have time to say anything. ‘No. Of course it’s not a bad time. What’s up?’
