Ladybirds

We got off to a good start this morning; out of the flat before 7.45am, hair straightened and eyeshadow in all the right places. It's such a victory when it all comes together that you want to punch the air.

But then we hit the traffic, which was stuffed up because there'd been an accident, and an hour later we'd managed to crawl about a hundred yards up Alison Road. Now there's only one thing worse than being stuck in unfathomable traffic and that's being stuck in traffic with a baby or a toddler, neither of whom suffer car journeys very well, especially when the car isn't actually moving. I sat tapping the steering wheel to the radio and pretending not to notice a tantrum was brewing, my hands running white with the tension of it all; a white knuckle ride, I suppose you'd say.

"I want go on bus" she started, pointing at the vehicle in the lane to our right.

"Well you're in the car, so you can't"

"I'm stuck" she suddenly shouted, trying to get out of her seatbelt.

"You're not stuck, you've got your seatbelt on, just like Mummy"

"I'm stuuuuuck"

"No you're not" I replied, then realised I'd broken my own rule of not conversing with Ella in the car because, like the queen, Ella prefers you not to speak to her unless she has specifically requested it and persuing a conversation on the way home from nursery can result in significant amounts of shouting and kicking the back of the chair, hence the rule to keep quiet.

I got my mobile phone out to make a call to work as it was obvious I was going to be late.

"I wan't play with Mummy's phone"

"No, you can't, it's not a toy"

"Waaaaaaaaa"

"Oh for goodness sake" I said, turning up the radio. It was now impossible to make the call. The call would have to go hang.

"I want Bono, I want my Bono" she cried. I looked at her in the rear view mirror, real tears streaking down her cheeks and just behind her I caught sight of the woman in the car behind me, rubbing her head and having some other inane, frustrating conversation with a two year old, her face betraying the same pain I was feeling at being unable to see the cause of the hold-up or how long it might take to get moving.

The delay brought out the very worst in the Sydney drivers, none of whom were prepared to give an inch of their place in the queue; no waving people through, no taking turns, just lots of car horns and edging forwards pretending not to notice the other people sharing the journey with them. I gave in and turned on a U2 CD but no, she didn't want that one, she wanted HTDAAB, the album I played constantly when I was pregnant, our bottom line, the only thing that's ever succeeded in instantly shutting her up. The off switch.

"I want my Bono" she continued

"This is Bono" I said, "Listen"

"No, not Bono. I want Bono waaaaaaaaaa"

So I changed the album and calm was restored and I managed to call work without civil unrest breaking out on the backseat because Bono was babysitting.

And then she dirtied her nappy.

When we finally arrived at nursery we were an hour late and she'd taken off her socks and shoes; the shoes having made their way under the front car seats. Ella was crying about the dirty nappy and my eyes were watering at the aroma of it all and the resignation to the fact that it would be bad etiquette not to change it myself when we got into the building. I phoned Kath to tell her I would be even later than I'd originally said. "We're having a nappy situation" I explained, knowing full-well that a "nappy situation" is beyond the experience of my collegues, nor would they care what it meant, just that I was once more late for work, very late.

At playgroup I got the kids making ladybirds out of foam card - get me, Tony Hart - and it struck me how much easier it would be to stay home with children cutting card and sticking on googly eyes. It's not natural for them to be tearing through the backstreets of a city before eight in the morning and it's incredibly stressful for mothers. Perhaps it's time I gave up the career and fell backwards into the abyss of household drudge. Dust off the Marigolds, I fancy challenging Dame Edna for the title of Australia's premier housewife.