Then out of the blue she (Sarah) comes out with this fucking shocking revelation:

The school run is her favourite part of the day.

For realz. And she didn’t mean it in the way she should’ve meant it:

i.e, ‘the school run is my favourite part of the day because it means I am free of the little twatbags for 7.5 hours’.

No. On further questioning it emerged that she actually loves the process of the school run and indeed the (in my opinion HELLISH) hour that goes immediately before it.

I am rocked to my very core. The foundations of our 26 year friendship are starting to crack.

I have long been aware that her children are better behaved than mine but this took things to a whole new level! Sarah, whom I love like a sister, in spite of her having much better behaved children, is currently off Facebook so she’ll never get to see this post luckily. She’s taking time off social media, presumably to devote more attention to those delightful kids who never ever get on her tits. Must be nice.

Ah, the school run. Sounds like a pleasant gentle cardio workout doesn’t it? Well it’s not. It’s GRIM.

Every morning I will serve each child two courses of breakfast (owing to the horrifically early hour they insist on getting up at), but inevitably at about 8.20am I’ll realise I myself feel quite lightheaded. Silly Mammy. That’s cos you’ve been up for three hours and haven’t eaten yet! I’ll hurriedly make some cereal and a cup of tea but then there’ll be a full scale football-hooligan-style ruck occurring and I’ll have to leave the breakfast. When I return to it ten minutes later I’ll often realise I’ve put the cereal in the cup and the teabag in the bowl. Further proof that these gorgeous little fuckers are driving me properly mad.

Despite having been awake since 5.17am, at 8.43am the kids still won’t be ready and I will undoubtedly be screaming at them like Kat off Eastenders (but not in a cockney accent you understand).

At the precise moment we leave the house, someone will always be crying, someone will always have lost a shoe and someone will always have shit themselves. On a bad day I’ve been known to do all three.

As we approach the end of the street (which is a good ooh seven second walk from our door), Jonah will lose all ability in his previously healthy legs (the same legs which have been playing football in my kitchen since 6am), and want a carry. Sorry no. He doesn’t want a carry, he needs a carry. And if he doesn’t get one he will have to sit on the muddy grass at the side of the road and cry like he’s just found out we’re all going off to Disneyworld without him.

As we walk through the school gates Dylan will realise he’s forgotten his homework, meaning that the world is going to END. And even though I reminded him 17 times to put it in his bag, the lack of homework is unequivocally my fault. Of course it is. While this is all kicking off, Jonah will whine ‘Maaaammm’ and before I even turn around I know what I’ll see. He’s stood in dog shit. Again.

I wipe the dog shit off with a baby wipe and try to ignore the fact that I have definitely got some under my thumb nail and consequently feel like I might vom any second.

It’s ok, it’s all ok. Breathe. I can see the teachers. In under three minutes they’ll be in school and I can go back home for a little cry about how I am failing at motherhood then settle down to catch the end of Lorraine Kelly.

Although I have done nothing but shout at them like a demented Geordie version of Kat Slater since the crack of dawn, as I kiss them goodbye I am flooded with love for them. Seriously! I am! I always say a silent faintly hysterical little, ‘please don’t let anything bad happen today because I would actually die of a broken heart if anything happened to you today and I’ve shouted at you all morning’ in my head as I watch them go through the door.

My heart rate slows as I walk out of the yard breathing a silent ‘Thank fuck that’s over for another 24 hours.’

By the time I get home I feel almost human again. I can think whole sentences in my head and my facial twitch is slowly ebbing away. I’d quite like a little G&T to take the edge off the horror of the last few hours but since people keep telling me it’s wrong to drink before 11am, I resist the urge. I mainline a quick spoonful of Nutella just to calm my nerves (you’ve heard the saying haven’t you? A spoonful a day keeps the psychiatrists away) and I’m A-OK to face the day… until the dreaded pick-up at 3.30 that is…

Oh and in case you’re wondering, yes, my friend Sarah loves school pick-up too. Freak.