In Melbourne, we are approaching the spring holidays.
This might sound lovely. It might conjure up images of flowers and sunshine. Or green grass and flowing, pretty dresses and ice cream. I urge you, don’t get sucked in. It’s not all wine and roses.
In my home, school holidays look more like a frazzled mum who’s been held hostage by militants created by none other than herself. While this poor captive woman tries to undertake small tasks, she is met with demands. Two weeks of copious requests for snacks, lunch, iPad usage, YouTube watching. The captors are merciless. They bicker amongst themselves. Feet connect with torsos, tears flow, screams pierce ear drums. Shouts come from the hostage, brave beyond her intelligence. She’s testing the bounds of her capabilities, her power as the adult and toying with the likelihood of mutiny. It’s definitely going to happen one day, in the not-too-distant future. They’ll work out they outnumber her. For sure.
Spare a thought in solidarity for this hapless mum. For me. I am readying myself to pitch my manuscript to another publisher, fiddling with edits to said manuscript, keeping up with freelance work, driving captors to play-dates or movie outings, all while holding to the thin, unravelling thread of sanity.
Drinking wine. And maybe Hubster will bring home flowers to get me through.