Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Three Fly Free, Return Home, Destroy Nest
Today I dropped off all three kids to various care and education joints around town. Ivy to school, Ted to pre-school and Georgie to daycare, for the first time. All three. Without me!
It went a bit like this. Drop off baby at day-care (oh my baby! wah wah wah). Drop-off big girl at Year 1 (oh, my big girl! wah wah wah.) Drop off big boy at pre-school (oh, my big boy! wah wah wah.)
I felt nervous and a bit nauseous all day. I had planned to work (so much writing to do) but I could not settle to anything useful. Exhausted from the lead-ups I think: all the shopping and bag-packing and lunch box-filling and uniform-finding and chart-making and haircutting and administration and Back To School Feasting. Plus, the school holidays have worn me down. Down to the ground.
Today, I was filled with sentimental thoughts about the kids growing up. I remembered Ted waking up early yesterday for 'pre-school practice', and kissing me so he could take it off his list for the morning. I remembered sitting for an hour reading Little Women to a quiet and captivated Ivy in her 'big-girl' haircut. And, anxious and sad, I thought about little George staggering about the house wearing beads around her neck and underpants on her head, begging me to read her favourite book Peepo to her for the twentieth time.
But tonight, I am not feeling so sentimental.
Tonight, I feel like I got hit by a truck. A truck full of frat-boys. A truck of frat-boys pissing out the window. I am remembering, with creeping dismay, the after-kindergarten crazies Ivy used to get last year. And the after-day-care crazies Teddy used to get. And I am surveying my bomb site of a lounge room with a heavy heart and an uncontrollable eye-twitch as I recall the hideous afternoon I have just spent with three post-institutionalised children.
I tried to zero in on the needs of each loony, one at a time. Ivy and I read Anne of Green Gables. Teddy and I went through cookbooks and marked off pages of sweet treats to cook. George hit me over the head with (hardcover) Peepo until I relented. As I focused on each one, the other two made some new unspeakable mess. It was like being trapped in an episode of Real Housewives. All the kids did was eat and fight and dance and scream and cry.
Correction. It was like the Real Housewives WITHOUT THE MAIDS. Because they are finally asleep, the clothes are ready for tomorrow, and the bags and lunches are packed, but the house is a hideous (and glittery) tornado of destruction.
Wednesdays are going to be interesting for a while.
Wah wah wah.