As Allegra and I took a quick trip to the shops in Richmond late this afternoon and I lost a layer of skin on my left heel thanks to her over-zealous and kamikaze-syle scooting, I clutched my foot and yelped and the thought crossed my mind: “fecking-feckity-feck scooters, how I fecking hate you – let me count the ways….”
I hate the way that my daughter on a scooter only has two speed settings: (1) really goddam fast (meaning I have to bolt after her puffing and panting and slaloming my way between passers-by yelling at her to WAIT FOR MUMMY!!!!!!) or (2) painfully, painfully “Mummy what’s this?” *stops at every leaf on the pavement* slow
I hate the way that my daughter will insist on travelling by scooter when we are going somewhere together like the playground or church or the shops, which is not that far so as you’d have to say no and go with the buggy, but far enough that you know in the back of your mind that she will decide on the journey home that she’s far too tired to scoot and you’ll end up carrying her and the fecking scooter and your shopping and your handbag all the way home with one eye obscured by a clammy pre-schooler hand and the scooter bashing you on the shins as you try to find a way to hold it, along with your five shopping bags, in such a way as to avoid clouting every passer-by
I hate the way that without fail my daughter will fall off her scooter with varying degrees of seriousness EVERY time she uses the thing. Sometimes it’s just a slow tumble – “oops mummy, I’m ok” – and then, at the other end of the spectrum, we have the fly over the handle-bars death skid that results in scraped knees and gravel-embedded hands and much wailing and sobbing. The latter usually means you have to stop and put all the sh*t you were carrying down, scoop her up and soothe her and try not to get in the way of every passer-by while your other child screams loudly protesting the fact that they’re in the buggy and not on-the-move
I hate the way that when out and about with my child on the scooter, I am forced to yell – yes always YELL – the following statements on a loop: “slow down” – “wait for mummy” – “mind the kerb” – “mind that lady” – “look where you’re going” – “mind that man” – “oh god, are you alright?” – “no you can’t scoot inside the shop” – “can you scoot a little bit faster darling, we are LATE!” – “mind the wall” – “stop at the road… STOP!!!”
I hate the way that wherever I stand, wherever she is, when she’s on her fecking scooter, she will always, and I really do mean ALWAYS run over me in some way shape or form whilst on it. A scoot over my toes, repeated bashes to the side of my foot when we’re waiting to cross the road, today’s spectacular full heel scrape (that was a new one and particularly delightful) or even just an impromptu thwack to the shins when we’re in the supermarket and she’s not allowed to scoot so instead she’ll just pick the scooter up and sort of swing it about the place with gusto as I’m choosing between green or red grapes
Ah yes, the scooter, the plague of the 21st century parent and pedestrian alike, how I hate you, let me count the ways… five it turns out.