So. They’ve been back at school a few weeks now.
And I’ve had enough. Already. I have no staying power. No stamina. Or patience. Or interest.
They were only back two days, two days, when the first text message pinged through with the words, “head lice alert. The fuckers are in the school. Remember, we have your address. We know where to find you. Treat your child accordingly.” Or words to that effect.
I laughed at it. But I also did a quick check. Touch wood, and this is where I jinx myself, but we’ve never had the joy of eradicating head lice. I believe we are very lucky.
All of the pencils and pencil sharpeners have gone missing. All of them. Each child has accused me of not giving them any in the first place.
Yesterday saw the first of probably many times the wrong geansaí comes home from school. This jumper smelled like a summer meadow. I knew immediately it wasn’t his. It was a brand new model without a name on its brand new label. A size smaller than my boy’s. My poor child is wearing a jumper that is third hand. The sleeves are frayed and it is a little thin. It also has his older brother’s name on it. I suspect the mistake will be spotted sharpish.
The telling of all the tales hasn’t stopped. I am so sick of the junior years in school. Sick I tell you. Small kids aren’t very good at realising a bump in the school yard was not another child being mean or trying to kill them. It was an accident. End of. Also for the record, no-one owns a game. You can so join in. Just do it. Don’t bother asking. There are dozens of other kidlets running around. They’ll never notice one extra.
The homework. Oh, sweet baby Jesus. The homework. One boy has colouring in. Maybe a page of the letter T. It takes about 96 seconds. The other two have proper stuff to do. Comprehension and everything. A few sums. Reading and spellings. It still takes all of twenty minutes. But it takes up to an hour begging/threatening/forcing them to the table to do it.
We’ve had a sick day already. In fairness to the boy, he likes school and doesn’t pull fast ones like this so I believed him. He proceeded to eat rings round himself all morning which made me think he may have had growing pains instead of a dodgy tummy. He was grand 24 hours later. But it didn’t make up for the fact that I missed a coffee catch up and my usual morning run with the dog.
Bed time. This one speaks for itself. We are still not on our winter time. It takes an hour for all of the messing to cease. Sometimes Smallest Boy is lying in wait for me and I have to get into his bed until he nods off. Sometimes it works and I can return to my own scratcher for the rest of the night and sometimes it doesn’t. It is during these fails that I am woken by an irate little boy at the side of my bed demanding to know why I escaped a half hour later.
Morning time. See the bed time for reasons behind sleepy heads and cranky faces at 7.30am the next morning. All of the cry’s.
The lunches. It did occur to me that if I opened my lunch box every single day and saw ham sandwiches, I’d probably screw it up into a ball as well. But he won’t eat anything. 5 grapes, 2 slices of apple and a Belvita breakfast-loaded-with-sugar-bar is all he will take. It’s pathetic. I hate lunches.
Did I forget anything? School runs are in there too, of course. Strangely enough I haven’t fallen out of love with these yet. I know. It’s weird. I’m lucky in that I don’t have to do the middle one. And the older two boys have a nicely synchronised let out time – at the moment – so it’s quick enough.
It has occurred to me that three whole hours all to myself in the morning is keeping me very, very sweet. I’ve managed a run most days since they’ve gone back. Followed by a lovely, uninterrupted breakfast of fruit, yogurt and home-made granola. Outside. A shower without anyone screeching to come in. Scalding hot coffee an hour later.
Oh, wait. I’m supposed to be giving out about school.
Yeah, school sucks. I’m so glad I don’t go anymore.
On the definite bright side. Halloween mid-term is only 5 weeks away.