Kerry Webber: Now for real rush hour

COMMENT

So you think rush-hour traffic is horrendous. Have you ever thought about rush hour inside the house?

Take a typical morning.

Hubby rises, showers, perhaps indulges in a couple of poached eggs while he mulls over the sports section, makes a cuppa in his coffee-to-go mug and heads off to face the arduous cross-town traffic.

His car is the picture of modern vehicular comfort: fully air-conditioned, superb CD player and large collection of music.

Cocooned in splendiferous comfort, he powers away before dawn to avoid battling the traffic.

Meanwhile, back at home, an altogether different battle is well under way. Rush hour rises to a crescendo and we haven't even stepped out the door. I have an hour left and two children to sort out. A greater challenge than merging traffic any day.

The next hour looks likes a mad video on fast forward.

Make beds, shower, make-up, breakfast, make lunches, mentally figure out dinner ingredients, clean spillages, son's clean shirt now resembling spaghetti junction, more clean clothes, iron, vacuum, head spinning.

I'm in the fast lane. No time for tapping on the steering wheel or humming a tune. I've got the green light and I'm in the driver's seat. Keep cool. Go with the flow.

In households all over the country mothers look helplessly at the congestion on benches.

There's a fullscale traffic jam in the bathroom before we even reach the onramp.

Off they all go, the eldest to get ready, the youngest to create chaos in the living room.

I hear wails resounding from the bedroom. My daughter's skivvy appears to be strangling her, can I please loosen the neck? I speed to the rescue, negotiating a bottleneck of toys clogging the hallway.

Neck issue resolved, lunchboxes packed into bags, congestion dying down on the bench as the dishwasher groans into action. I take a swig of my thrice-reheated cuppa.

Yuk, just doesn't taste good. I ditch it and feed the feline family member, who is now glaring at me from the barstool, his cries becoming plaintive. When he's really agitated he nips my legs. I've heard of ankle biters in my time but this is ridiculous.

Next I swerve out the back door wielding a washing basket, piled high. I barely keep my balance. A deep scar in the mud bears witness to a previous acceleration where I was not so lucky.

Talk about slippery when wet.

Upstairs a fight erupts over some gold coins. My son loses interest and gyrates menacingly down the hall on his witch's broomstick, cackling in a crazed high-pitched tone.

He zig-zags menacingly, like an errant lane changer on his interestingly alternative mode of transport. "He just keeps annoying me," says my daughter, raising her eyes to the ceiling.

I glance at my watch, palpitate and screech into top gear. The bags are gathered up and we manage to squeeze out the front door.

The schoolbags momentarily wedge me against the door as my children forget to give way, but soon I'm outside on the drive loading up the buggy and steeling myself for the rush-hour finale.

One day my son wore his witch's hat, complete with hair, on the way to school. Traffic flow was moderate to smooth until his witch's hair became tangled round the buggy wheels. End of progress.

I was forced to run back home holding the entire contraption aloft as tendrils of witch's hair whipped the pavement. What must the neighbours think? That day I was forced to join the teeming traffic arriving at the school gate by car.

So next time rush hour seems like a chore, spare a thought for those of us who are weaving in and out of the halls, kitchens and bathrooms of New Zealand.

It may not appear as problematic as the toxic fumes and raised blood pressure associated with rush hour, but our rush hour is just as real - and believe me, there's plenty of opportunity for fuming.

Anyway, time's running out and we're still bumper to bumper ... Gotta go, step on the gas ...

* Kerry Webber is a reader from Howick


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