September is most definitely my favourite time of year. I love the holidays and I love the sunshine, but even more, I love a fresh start, a new term, and a quiet house!
My social media feeds are full of a mix of weeping mothers, missing their kids, having spent the holidays together, creating memories. And the other camp. The mothers who do love their angels, but 100% feel like it’s someone else’s turn to answer their questions and wear them out.
Can you guess where I sit?
Dexter turned 6 during the holidays, the holidays, which lasted about 1675 days. Dex asked around this number of questions per day too. Yes, yes I know he’s inquisitive, and I know I shouldn’t stifle him, blah, blah, blah, but my God he just doesn’t stop talking. And when someone is awake and with you for roughly 14 hours a day, it’s just basic survival tactics to make sure we all make it through the holidays unscathed.
This involves a lot of nodding, a lot of “mmmm hmm’s” and a tonne of “wow, well done, that’s amazing”. Oh and a lot of wine (obviously past 5 pm, I’m not an animal).
And the little one, well she needs eyes on her all the time. She’s a runner and can release herself from a vice-like grip in a nano second. Plus she’s a chatterbox too, which they both totally get from their dad.
And this summer was my first as a freelancer, working from home. Not my smartest move, I have to admit, but I was confident work would be quiet due to the holidays. But I wasn’t. And I lost a tiny bit of my mind in the process (fear not this was found again in Kos, during our summer holiday abroad). I spent a lot of time staring wistfully at my kids, wishing they would just PLAY FUCKING NICELY TOGETHER, which they only chose to do 45 seconds before we have to leave for any journey, like a level of torture for me to endure on a daily basis.
So when September called, I was more than happy to prepare the kids for a new term, and for the littlest, a new school (only 2 mornings a week, but still, YIPPEE!)
Dexter has developed an aversion to socks, resulting in an epic tantrum each morning, and Blake following potty training herself in Kos has turned into some attitude filled borderline three-ager, that worryingly reminds me so much of, erm, me. But the morning battle, lasting about 64 minutes each weekday, is a lot easier than a barrage of questions from an inquisitive wannabe marine biologist and a 2-year-old rock-climbing enthusiast.
Plus I get to drink my coffee hot.