Beer and Skittles

I have been feeling a little off.  Unsettled.  Anxious.  At odds with myself, a little unnecessary, out of kilter.

I haven't been able to work out why and it's been bothering me.  I mean,  I should be relishing the peace and freedom that a return to school routine brings.  Aside from having to put together a very last minute mad dash short film application earlier this week that really tested my brain after 6 weeks of summer holiday vagueness, I really have nothing much to do.  But somewhere inside me I felt a panic, like there is something missing, like I have forgotten something really important.

I met a woman on the beach earlier this week and she commented on how she really dreaded the return to school.  Hates routine.  Meanwhile I was thinking, is she insane?  Who wants their kids hanging around all day, eating you out of house and home, leaving their wet bathers and towels in festering piles on bedroom floors, demanding entertainment solutions or lifts here there and everywhere?

But then suddenly it dawned on me.  I miss them.  I am not coping with the abrupt change in tempo. It's too quiet.  The energy of 3 kids in da house is palpable and when it's gone, it all seems pretty dull and lifeless round here.   I had considered dropping them at the school gate last Sunday with a sleeping bag and a sandwich, so how could I be missing them so soon?

I suspect, that somewhere within, resonating deeper than this temporary displacement, the real truth behind my distemper is lurking.  That the end of their holidays means that I have no excuses anymore.  I am pretty good at procrastination.  In fact we had a little sailing dinghy as kids which my Father claims he gave the name "Faffer" as a tribute to my most refined attribute.

The truth is that with the kids out all day, I really do have to get back into my own groove, do all those things I have been putting off till the kids are back at school.  Get back to the gym.  Make plans.  Sort stuff out.  Work out what to do with the rest of my life.  Six hours a day just isn't long enough.  I've spent far too many of those hours this week fooling around on social networking sites and blog hopping.  Hoping that other stuff might just disappear.

It was more fun when the days stretched out ahead with nothing to do but fill the hours as we pleased.  Reminds me of something my Mother used to say a lot when I was a younger girl, in fact she probably still is, wherever she is now.  Life's not all beer and skittles Sim.  Oh, but wouldn't it be great if it were?

Days of our lives.

There are mornings when you cannot wait to drop your kids off at school, every minute that creeps towards drop off is like an eternity.  Looking up at the kitchen clock I calculate the difference between the earliest permissible drop off and the time it takes to drive to the school gate.  I still have 45 minutes to go.

It's usually these mornings that you find yourself yelling till you are hoarse, well at least I do,  and at the same time being vaguely aware of just how futile and pathetic the situation has become.  I sometimes wonder what a more Buddhist approach might be.  I try a deep breath and invoke all the love and light in the world,  I repeat the mantra "this too will pass" but bloody hell, it's just not passing quick enough.

Everyone woke up loud today.  Eldest is yelling at youngest for the milk cap.  I suddenly, and unexpectedly, thump my hands down on the breakfast table in front of them and scream, in a sort of crazy women impersonation, "WHERE IS THE MILK CAP, WHO'S GOT THE MILK CAP?".  This provokes a cacophonous round of hysterical laughter, there is, however, a nervous edge to the hysteria, they're not sure whether Mum really has slipped off the edge this time.  Safer to laugh.  My throat is sore.

There is nothing quiet about this morning.  The latest game is all about putting someone in a suitcase and wheeling them around the house across the wooden floorboards.  It's sure to end in tears.  The conscious parent would get up from their attempt at a quiet cup of tea to attend to possible disaster.  However,  I prefer the unconscious parenting approach, the one where you have the the cup of tea and try to zone out of the mayhem.  I wait for the tears.  I discover youngest not only zipped in the suitcase but also zipped in the backpack which is in the suitcase.  Maybe I should pay more attention to those helicopter parenting manuals.

Talking about helicopters, I am convinced I am carrying the helicopacter pylori bacteria, a side effect of consulting far too many of those online medical diagnostic tools.  It could also just be anxiety.  Interestingly, helicopter gains its name from the Ancient Greek "helix' meaning 'spiral' or  'coil', the very same sensation anxiety provokes in the stomach.  So consequently I am bargaining with my conscious about whether I can sneak a coffee in this morning.  My latest detox has left me with the pesky residue of  questioning each and every toxic substance I crave.  This adds to my anxiety. 

Another chain of events this morning leads to youngest needing emergency hairstyling with the nail scissors, which now has her sporting a fringe shorter than a 1920's flapper.  Fortunately she can pull it off.  Eldest comes running in from the car where he had been claiming the coveted front seat for the journey to school.  With his hand held out in front and the look of horror and disgust displayed across his face, he runs to the bathroom dry retching.  I can feel the anxiety rising, those helicopter chaps in my stomach are really tripping now with all that acid producing panic.  Is it a bee sting, a spider?  Half the container of pump soap is now cupped in his palm and he begins washing furiously.  Middle child has left an apple core in the car door handle, it's been there for a while.  Added to that, the car window had been left open a few days before during a torrential downpour.  The apple core and the rain combined to make a festering pool of putrid slush in the door handle cavity.  I had briefly wondered about the origin of the odour the previous day, I figured perhaps a pair of weary school shoes, battered and bruised after a full year of service.  Whilst all this drama evolves, the youngest has wound a comb into a huge tangled knot in the front of her hair.  Like a highly trained military soldier I have to make a quick tactical decision about which dilemma to attend to first.  In this instance I make the wrong move. Whilst syphoning the fetid pond from the car door she takes the kitchen shears and cuts the comb free of her tangled locks.

A number of unspeakable childhood crimes have been committed this past week and appropriate punishments attempted to be applied.  It's no different to any other.  Whilst summing up the week to the errant husband and Father I decided to finish on a high note.  One of those little moments you could easily skip over and lose in the messy disorder and chaos of family life .

Our eldest, quite uncharacteristically, decided to make me a cup of tea one evening.  Sometimes the wisdom and depth of a child's perception is beyond comprehension.  When he brings me my cup of chamomile tea he presents it upon a note and served in the cup made by my husband as a child.  The note reads; " to remind you of Dada".  In that moment I am not counting down the minutes but wishing the moment could last just a little bit longer.