Every morning, the school run is a chaotic, messy, loud, beautiful ritual. It’s a mix of tired-eyed beginnings, spilled cereal, and the mad rush to find that one missing shoe. But once we’re all packed into the car, something shifts. The world outside fades, and for those twenty minutes, it’s just me, the kids, and the magical madness of the road ahead.
Now, in my dream world, I’d be driving a Land Rover Defender 110—rugged, indestructible, ready for adventure. But let’s be real, my actual dream car for the school run is my Caddy. It’s practical, it’s got space for all the chaos, and most importantly, it’s safe, it feels like a little home on wheels.
Inside, it’s less of a car and more of a moving concert hall-slash-playground. Right now, the soundtrack of our lives is Pink Pony Club on repeat. Lizzy’s current anthem. The kind of song that drills into your brain so deeply that I hear it even when the car is off. The volume is always a battle—I turn it down slightly, only for small, determined hands to crank it all teh way back up.
Then there’s the ‘GO wiggly’ game. A tradition. The soft toys get their turn to “drive,” which basically means some stuffed animal takes the wheel for a few seconds while we gently (but dramatically) swerve. It’s important business. Daniel provides running commentary on who’s driving best today, while Lizzy, seatbelted in like a queen, makes sure everyone knows she has final say on playlist decisions.
But then we get to school. The music stops. The morning silliness fades as bags are slung over little shoulders, we check our lists and make sure we got everything and they prepare to step into their world without me. I walk Lizzy to her classroom and, as always, say, I love you. She doesn’t respond.
So I say it again, a little louder.
LIZZY, I love you.
She looks at me, not annoyed, not embarrassed, just completely certain, and says, I know.
And I think—that might actually be better than her saying it back. Because as her dad, that’s all I really want. For her to know.
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