A month ago I was stressing about Andy returning to work. He’s been on parental leave since January when I went back to work. He was due to return to the commute at the start of April and I was genuinely concerned I’d forgotten how to parent on my own.
Getting them out of the house in time for school, ferrying them to all their after school clubs, trying to cram as much work into those precious 6 hours of school as possible so that I wasn’t then trying to manage tea and bath time from behind the screen of my phone or laptop.
Xander was also due to start nursery two days a week from April. I was so sad about that. He was so little - the others didn’t go to nursery until they were nearly one, while he is only 8 months. Was I a terrible mother for shipping him off to be cared for by someone else so I could work?
Henry started Beavers this spring and was giddy about it. He spent all week asking when it was Beavers night, and was having so much fun tearing about with his pals. But that was nothing compared to the excitement when it was announced they’d be going for a night’s camping in May.
Andy put himself forward to go along and help (by which I assume he would just be expected to deal with homesickness and wee-soaked sleeping bags, not fending off wolves and confiscating vodka) but I was gutted because it was happening over my birthday.
I’d give anything now to be waving them off to a night under canvas with a dozen or more hyperactive 6 and 7 year olds high on marshmallows and endless verses of Ging Gang Goolie.
The last week has also brought me up short when I realise all the things I’ve wished for that are now, curiously, becoming something of a reality.
I often wonder if we should have gone Full Rural when we left London. I dream about living in the middle of nowhere surrounded by countryside, no other houses in sight, just us and fresh air. A slow pace of life, no deadlines or schedules or rat-race. Essentially, no other people. Apparently we didn’t need to move house to achieve that.
I’m also constantly bemoaning my wish for the world to stand still for 24 hours so I can catch up. Get up to date on laundry, get the house clean, finally clear out the loft, do all those tedious jobs that having three kids and a career never allow for. It seems I’ve been gifted more than 24 hours.
And when I’m feeling particularly romantic and whimsical I muse on the cruelty of children going to school from 4 (or 3 if you count pre-school). We bundle them off in their oversized uniforms like worker bees, ferrying them up the hill to school where they spend more time at a desk listening than they do running around playing.
If I allow myself to dwell on it I can get quite depressed at the thought that this is it for the rest of their lives.
Then yesterday I was sitting in the garden watching them busy scrubbing the paddling pool clean, trousers rolled up, sponges in hand, hosepipe turning the lawn into a bog, busily cleaning off a winter’s worth of muck and mildew because they had convinced themselves that the sun being out warranted getting a spot of hypothermia and I had got bored of repeatedly pointing out it was still only a maximum of 13 degrees.
But they were so happy. They were getting fresh air, vitamin D and learning about the perils of staring into the end of the hosepipe as you wait for the water to appear.
So yeah, it’s funny how things work out.
I LOOOOOVE these. You write brilliantly and get so many emotions into such a small amount of writing. Keep them coming please!