Mummy goes back to school

Next week, it's all change in our house. Again.

OH begins a new, dream role (more on that story later) and the Mini-RMs finally go back to school. Not that I'm looking forward to it or anything.

I've done this back to school stuff before, in varying degrees of ineptitude, so this year I was adamant I would take full advantage of the unique factor for 2018 - namely that I work from home and therefore have more spare time thanks to a minute commute and downtime when I want it - and make like a boy scout... be prepared.

Let's be honest, that preparedness is shot to shit. 

I started so well, but perhaps peaked a little too early. There was a short period where we got loads done. I was a powerhouse of organisation - in the run up to the Maldives I smashed work, blitzed life admin, micro-packed an extraordinary number of clothes in two suitcases (our friends took four, one of which was full of shoes) and left the house in a state that can only be described as hibernating.

We hit a personal best when we sorted school shoes and hydration tracker bottles in one, heady day, but now the to-do list has been consigned to a pile of must-do paperwork that lurks in the corner of the kitchen and throws me reproachful looks several times a day, feeling forgotten, unloved and un-cared for.

But I've not been resting on my laurels, even supposing the shrubs were a comfy place to kick my heels. I've been busy arming my children with life skills.

Life skill number one, and probably the most critical for survival in our house is the turning of the other cheek. Retaliation is an art form between the Mini-RMs - all she said and she did, grassing up, noise and early adolescent behaviour delivered in a little person scream. No matter how many times I propose the girls join forces to unite into one, unconquerable Celtic warrior, they insist on fighting over everything: Lego, peas, my lap... it's wearing me down.

And then, amidst the peace-keeping pep talks and short-lived cease-fires, it occurred to me that parenting is a lesson in irony. Here I am providing my girls with the tools they need to survive the nastiness that seems prevalent in playgrounds, classrooms, offices and boardrooms the world over, and I'm doing it wrong. What I should be doing is furnishing them with the moves that have earned the Irish a reputation for fighting. 

In case you're wondering: block, rather than tuck and cover when under assault, liberally pepper your lead-arm's attack with Irish expletives and fight in your bra (so no one can pull your top over your head thus disabling your arms).

Rucks aside, I've decided that I will be more organised and involved in school life, now I have the ability to be. Here are Mummy’s resolutions for the new term.

Be prepared - as I've already said, my best laid plans of mice and mums have already been shot to shit. The only way is up.

Be patient - this. Is. Not. Going. Very. Well. So. Far. 

Be (a)pproachable - not everyone gets my humour or my references or witty repartee and I was once told I’m aloof. I'm not, but I'll try and tone it down so I at least come across relatively normal. 

This morning's task is to dig out my list and start ticking item off. I've less than a week left and the girls can't go to school in shoes alone.

I intend to hold my head high when I hit the playground next week (even if I can't remember the code for the gate). Yummy Mummy for a day at least.

Oh, and look out for big news coming this way.