ZULULAND LETTER: Back to school celebrations continue until…
My husband, being a member of the education profession, starts drinking more and more as the holidays near an end, eventually found to be crying into a bowl of cornflakes with a half-drunk mug of beer by his side as term begins
THE start of school is always a time of mixed emotions in my household.
My husband, being a member of the education profession, starts drinking more and more as the holidays near an end, eventually found to be crying into a bowl of cornflakes with a half-drunk mug of beer by his side as term begins.
My children, torn away from their television and tablets, are also fairly reluctant to enter those hallowed halls.
Although having an adult calling them by their actual names and not ‘firstborn’ or ‘second born’ or worse, does appeal to them somewhat.
And then there’s me. The work-at-home mother who counts down the days to start of term like a kid with an advent calendar.
Except, the chocolates are replaced with ever-accelerating-sized glasses of wine.
My friends who ask me for first-day-of-school family pictures soon regret their heart-felt request when I send through a shot of my family.
Dad, with his tear-stained face, clutching a timetable that has significantly fewer free lessons than his first-year university philosophy course.
Firstborn wearing a smile that looks like a mix between a grimace and a first date trying to hold in a fart.
Second born trying to wrestle his breakfast from the dog and losing badly.
And then me, adorned in nothing but my granny panties and war-torn maternity bra, cigar dangling from my lips and half-drunk champagne bottle clutched gleefully to my chest.
That first morning is spent getting into work mode. A daily briefing with my feline colleague, followed by a recovery nap and rejuvenation snack consisting of coffee, melted cheese on toast and whatever anti-banting treat I can find.
After trawling through social media and wondering why some mothers look so sad when dropping their children off at school (possibly because they have to collect them again only four hours later… well that’s my issue anyway), I do begin to miss the little tykes.
After finding a parking spot and pretending to make important calls so as to avoid inane conversations with other parents, I collect the snot-covered pair and ask them excitedly about their days.
Me: ‘What did you do today?’
Darling children: ‘Nothing’.
Me: ‘Who was at school?’
Children: ‘Can’t remember.’
Me: ‘But it was literally 30 seconds ago. We’re still in the parking lot. If you turn your heads, you can still see them.’
I could also turn around and look, but the truth is I don’t know any of the other children’s names. Remembering them would take up vital memory space that I need to recall ATM pin codes and my husband’s name.
And, in any case, they all refer to me as ‘Johnny’s mom’ and don’t seem the least bit concerned that I refer to them as ‘Johnny’s smelly friend’. I don’t see our relationships evolving too much from there.
As term progresses, my euphoria starts to dissolve as my husband’s grows.
There’s a wonderful time where we meet somewhere in the middle, but then we part ways again as holidays return with all their vengeance.
But for now, Johnny’s mom is sipping champagne in her pjs, wondering how life got so good.
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