4 weeks ago Funny

As a parent, there are few periods in time quite as stressful as your child’s GCSE week – to be completely frank with you, it’s been hell on Earth. There’ve been tears, there’ve been tantrums and there’ve been a number of cases of treachery. Don’t get me wrong, I love all my children, but right now Chloe is my least favourite by far.

 

It all started when I accidentally shredded her Geography coursework a couple of months back. Since then tensions have been running dangerously high between myself and my eldest. In an act of pure nobility on my part I offered to re-write the thing myself, an offer which she regrettably accepted. ‘The Effect of Tourism in Whitby Town Centre’ is not my speciality, a fact that become even more apparent when Chloe received an F for my poor effort – something which only served to fuel the flame of abhorrence that currently burns within my daughter.

 

As with most troublesome situations our family finds ourselves in, Frank, my pathetic other half, has done absolutely nothing to help bring this taxing period to a close. Chloe is a real Daddy’s girl, something I learnt to accept very early on in her childhood, but there’s something about Frank’s attitude in recent weeks that makes me think he’s almost enjoying the new heights of favouritism he’s currently experiencing. I know what you’re thinking; “Mindy you’re just being paranoid.” Well usually you might be right, but not this time. Last Friday evening, during our weekly family games night, we were midway through a round of charades when Chloe got up to take her turn. Her portrayal of a Twilight vampire was pretty poor, but I’d just about worked it out when out of the blue my pig of a husband yells “It’s Mum!” Well the room fell apart in fits of giggles and there I am, red faced, wondering what I did to deserve this family of trolls.

 

Anyway, enough back story, it’s the morning of Chloe’s Maths GCSE and I’m preparing her an epic packed lunch in an attempt to salvage what little relationship I have left with my daughter. When Chloe was growing up, we had these silly little rituals to try and make her recent Coeliac diagnosis a little less intimidating. On her way to primary school every morning, as she approached the school gate I’d shout “Don’t let the gluten getcha!” To which she’d turn around and make an adorable little growl. It’s been years since I tried it, but at this point I’ve got nothing to lose. I hand her the packed lunch; “don’t let the gluten getcha” I murmur. She looks at me for a second slightly taken aback, but eventually responds with that signature growl. I’m shocked, I feel like the weight of a thousand gluten free pork pies has been lifted from my weary shoulders. Maybe this is it. Maybe the storm is passing. I lock the door behind her and sink into the sofa in time for bargain hunt…

 

It’s one hour later and the red team have pocketed a whopping £4.80. I’m starting to feel a little peckish/bored so wander into the kitchen to craft one of my famous sarnies – I’m thinking grilled cheese – we are celebrating after all! I grab the bread from the bin, open it up and find a few slices missing. Weird. The Tesco delivery only arrived this morning and since then it’s only been me and Ch…wait…surely not…I dive back in to bread bin for Chloe’s special Gluten Free loaf to find the loaf intact. This can only mean one thing. I’ve packed my daughter a poisoned lunch, on the day of her GCSE exams. My blood pressure goes through the roof as I cast my mind back to my words as she left the house: “don’t let the gluten getcha.” Oh good lord, she’s going to think this was deliberate! Just as things were on the mend, I’ve potentially glutened my own flesh and blood. “It was an accident” I tell myself over and over again. Was it? I can’t think straight and I’m not 100% convinced that it was. I have to try and get to her before lunch time – the survival of this family is at stake. I grab my coat and run…

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED


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