This morning was a little mad. It isn’t usually mad – usually I’m so anal that everything is running smoothly and there’s no mad rush out the door. But this morning seemed to be particularly disorganised and so it was with great relief that I jumped in the car, with Polynesian Princess and Little Warrior all buckled in. I’d remembered the school bag, the lunch, a snack for Little Warrior for my podiatrist appointment and even a snack for me.
I turn the key and all the lights start blinking at me. Not starting.
Turn it off. Try again. Blinking…
It takes approximately two seconds before PP starts asking “what’s happening Mum? Why aren’t we moving??”
“Uhh…because the car has died darlin”…
“Lets call Daddy!” she yells
I sigh. We can’t do that. He’s in Sydney. And no - incase you're wondering, we don’t have RACQ.
So we all pile out of the car and I suit up to walk PP to school. Excited at the change of routine, they both run down the street in the general direction of school. On the walk to school, I call my Dad to see if he has a car battery charger. Of course he does. Doesn’t every Dad? And in fact, WE own a battery charger too but one of The Architect’s work colleagues is currently borrowing it. Handy.
It’s been a long time since I called my Dad with a cry for help. When I lived overseas in my early (read: irresponsible) 20’s, there were numerous calls of this nature. Some of them were just to hear the sound of his voice. Others were of the “I’m skint” variety. But those days are long-gone. Or they were, until today.
I’m assuming this is every Dad’s lot in life. To come to the rescue of their children, even when they're fully grown. I know for sure that The Architect will be doing the same thing for PP and LW one day. Going over to help fix a leaking toilet, build a deck, put up some shelves or charge their car battery.
And so it turns out that within an hour, my Dad is at our house, hooking up the car battery charger for me. I don’t know what he had planned for his day (I think it may have involved a trip to the tip), but here he is, helping out his first-born. Again.
My Dad. My hero.