Tuesday, 4 September 2012
IT'S HERE! JUST ONE MORE SLEEP!
I can't believe it's almost here.
7 and a bit weeks since they piled out of their classroom, every drawing, every piece of writing, every piece of paper they'd even scribbled on stashed in a bag.
7 and a bit weeks since they threw their book bags and PE kits at me for the last time.
7 and a bit weeks of good days, fun days and days when I wanted to roast them over a barbecue pit.
7 and a bit weeks of Mummy... Mummy... *pulls out hair and thinks of changing name* blood MUMMY!
But it's almost over. One more sleep (as with most parents, time is measured in sleeps in this house) and they'll be gone. They'll be tippy-tapping into the school playground and I'll be running like the wind back to a silent house. Well... for six hours at least.
So what do we do the day before the return to school? We rush around making sure everything is pressed, that we know where the school shoes we bought 6 and a bit weeks ago are. We head to the shop for the final bits, such as new water bottles because the dog chewed the new one that came with the new lunch box. We make sure we have enough lunch box fillings to fill said lunch box and we hope beyond hope that we'll not sleep through the alarm in the morning.
We know that when we awake at 7am in the morning and poke and prod the children into joining us in the bright sunshiney morning that there'll be tears. There'll be different renditions of "But I'm tirrrreeedd" all in that charming little whine, growing louder with each one. We know that someone will be distracted by the TV and as you walk out the door they'll have forgotten to put their shoes on, brush their teeth, comb their hair.
But I don't care! All of the above will be done with a smile on my face because... although I love my kids and would gladly kill for them... one more day of the Summer holidays and I might just kill THEM! I want the silence. I actually want to watch Maury instead of Spongebob. I want to write without someone coming in with a grazed knee or a complaint that "he did this" or "she did that".
So I'll hand them over with a serene smile and a wicked gleam that clearly says, "Good luck. They're yours now. For six hours I have no idea who these children are... never seen them before in my life." Then I'll go home and close the front door... pump up the volume and sing and dance all around the room... something I have most definitely not been allowed to do during the last 7 and a bit weeks... because according to THEM, I can do neither.