I was still in bed at 8.30 this morning, when Jane came to collect the small boy for school.
"But it's inset day," I wailed from an upstairs window.
"No, Leigh. We've had this conversation before... [we have?] ...and it isn't inset day."
With only a small amount of oiwwing, the small boy was prepared to leave the great CBeebies-website portal (my computer) and get dressed. Meanwhile I made his lunch, found his PE kit (anyone who has seen my downstairs cupboard will be particularly impressed by this), and yelled "We're off," up the stairs.
Recently, himself has excelled in being a Good Husband, and I felt only slight guilt as I shut the door on the urgent cry of a newly-potty-training toddler: "Wee-wee coming. Wee-wee coming."
Miraculously, we made it to school, just as the bell went.
The small girl made it to the potty (and then carried the thing, sloshing, upstairs to show Daddy).
And I realised that panics are so much more relaxing when you don't know about them in advance.