I grabbed my baby and held her in my arms while she plunged her body askew and reached out for the keys I held in my left hand, the ones I needed to lock the door with as we exit the house, my feet blindly searching for the opening of the black sandals on the ground, left and right foot separated by a metre, the neighbour's dog at the fence dividing the house we live in and theirs, watching my aerobic position with interest, his head flopping to one side.
Our routine, at exactly ten minutes before 12.30pm every day, because it'll take us ten minutes to drive to school to pick up her sister has become robotic.
I put the baby in her car seat, she'll coo, telling me it's hot, I'll secure the plastic seatbelts that seem to have retain the heat from the sun, again, the coo, the sign, it's hot, yes, I know, it's hot, I'm sorry, let's sit and get these seatbelts on and we'll go. I sit in the driver's seat, key in the ignition, press all the windows down, let the air in, it's so hot, coo, coo, yes, I know, it's hot, now we'll go and we'll see if we can find your sister, will you help me find her? Do you know where she is? Is she at school? Coo, coo. Hot, hot.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Mothering Barely to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.