♪There's a hole....there's a hole♫

For the past couple of weeks, the ice has retreated slowly, revealing khaki-coloured grass. Hesitantly, the grass has greened, and timid shoots, first of crocuses, then the leading edges of prospective daffodils and tulips, have poked through the muddy edges of the yard. So guess what happened yesterday? And continues today? Yes, my friends, I live in Ottawa where April really is the cruelest month, only to be followed by the unmitigated malice of May.

Outside, a cardinal is pipping hungrily, perching on the snow on the railing which is dripping with baby icicles. But the weather is not really the problem. The weather is not the true reason that I've been waking up each morning hearing a voice screaming as if down a deep well, a voice that I recognise as my own internal shrieking echoing from a hole in my soul that gapes indefinitely.

This morning is a field trip morning. (Oh gawd, not another one...) I lie in my bed, forcing my muscles to relax and mentally repeating affirmations: I am brave and courageous. I am wise and patient. Younger daughter is brave, intelligent and articulate.... I remind myself that I have laid both my and my daughter's clothes out for the day, that I have made her lunch and stashed it in the fridge, that I have written the time and place of the field trip in her calendar, and carefully explained to her that it is for the morning only and that she will be spending the afternoon at school.

And all goes well. Younger daughter is up early and delightedly clothing herself in a new skirt, complete with tights and pretty Mary-Janes, as this is a concert field trip at the National Arts Centre. We arrive at school and things go a little awry. First I realize I have failed to explain that there will be an hour of school before the field trip. Younger daughter wails: "There's no field trip???" While I'm attempting once again to explain the intricacies of time and space, and how an hour is not forever, I notice that on the kilometre walk up the hill, the lower "modesty" layer of younger daughter's skirt has bunched up under her snow jacket. I quickly draw her into the teacher's washroom to smooth the skirt down, but she protests: "But I like my skirt!" "Yes, darling, but you'll need to check it every now and then..." "But it's a beautiful skirt..." A brief wave of frustration and panic overtake me, and I hear myself say: "Please don't be like this!" and unconsciously turn away from her. "Fine!" she spits. "Go away and leave me!"

I manage to accompany her to her classroom, then retreat to the darkened office of the school library while the national anthem blares over the loudspeakers. There in the dark, for once, I don't have to stand at attention and sing. Feelings of failure and recrimination wash over me like tepid goo. I help the librarian sort books for three quarters of an hour, then surrender myself for field trip duty.

And it's fine, considering the bus is delayed, and there's the usual gang of kids who think singing several choruses of "This is the Song that Everybody Hates" is hilariously witty, and a Grade Five mum sits herself between Guardian Angel's mum and me and doesn't address a word to either of us. It's a supply teacher today who doesn't know that the time to tell the Grade Sixes to let the Grade Fives off the bus first is just before the bus comes to a halt, not after a third of the class has escaped. She's also trying to assign parents to smaller groups while the National Arts ushers are frantically trying to herd us to our seats in the amphitheatre while the orchestra strikes up Beethoven's Fifth.

However, we're seated in a row of Grade Sixes who chatter a little bit during the concert, but about the concert. The girls in front of us think it's very funny to conduct during one of the pieces, but I figure that means they're listening to the music, and I only have to give one meaningful glance at the boys to my left, who immediately pipe down. Elsewhere, I'm told afterward, the ushers had to hush the Grade Fives four times. Their teachers and accompanying parent volunteers are all sitting companionably together in the centre, oblivious to this. Later, the entire Grade Five class fails to show up at the bus. One of our parents and the supply teacher go off in search of them while we wait on the bus, watching the agitated body language of the driver. When they finally appear, the parents saunter up last.

On the way back to school, younger daughter tells me that two girls in the NAC washrooms told her how pretty her skirt was.

Tomorrow, she spends the entire day at one of the schools we're looking at for her next year. Then there's a so-called "Marsville" project which involves spending a whole day at the Museum of Science and Technology. Then a history fair which means another full day at the Museum of Civilization. All through cruel April and into the maliciousness of May....