There is a rumour going around that the school holidays are almost over. Here in Victoria, we have just over a week until the kids return to begin a new school year. I can’t friggin’ wait. A quick glance over Facebook this morning showed lots of posts from bloggers asking for readers’ opinions of how they’re coping. Astonishingly, there were quite number in the ‘I love it’ camp, citing ridiculous statements like, ‘They’re only young once,’ or ‘I could easily enjoy another month.’
I do not compute. Don’t misunderstand me, I love my children. Very much. Being a mum is the most awesome thing I’ve ever done in my life. It’s hard, demanding and sometimes, boring as batshit, but most often, it’s fun. Certainly, as they grow older their personalities develop and I can engage in banter with them. They make jokes, and I laugh.
But, holy freakin’ Christ on a scooter, these January holidays are revolting. They are long. My kids are bored. I’m bored. And if I read, or hear, another comment from some unknown person telling me to enjoy my children, or the prize cliche, ‘Blink and you’ll miss it’ in reference to their younger years, I will likely smash a bottle of prosecco over their head. An empty one of course. Because waste is never OK.
I totally get the blink and you’ll miss it philosophy. My daughter is almost eight; my twin boys are 10. In the lead-up last year to the boys’ birthday, I was thinking, ‘This time ten years ago, I was doing <insert pregnancy memory>.’ I can’t believe how quickly those years have flown. I look at their faces now, and it’s hard to reconcile with the squidgy, chubby baby cuteness of a decade earlier.
But, and I repeat—in caps lock for greater emphasis—BUT, I don’t desire to spend every January minute in their presence. I need my own time, like six peaceful hours of it, while they’re actively engaged in routine, learning and socialising—for free—with their buddies. And time where I am not badgered for a snack, or lunch, or an icy-pole every twenty minutes. Or time where I am not asked, ‘Mum, what day is it?’
So, without a hint of guilt, I shall attempt to invent a way to press fast forward on these last ten days. Or at least wish for it to hurry along, before I lose my sanity or drink the contents of the chilled section in Dan Murphy’s.