It’s Au­gust and I’m ready for the kids to go back to school

Bray People - - NEWS - Ny o h a M ’ O

SIX weeks in and I’ve fi­nally ad­mit­ted de­feat: I’m ready for them to go back to school! So ready in fact that I have pur­chased the new uni­forms, school bags, books and I’m ready to push them out the door with a ham sand­wich and “nut free” ce­real bar. ‘Good bye! Good luck my dar­lings! Be some­body else’s prob­lem for six hours!’

And I don’t care if it makes me sound like a bad mother. There is only so much mess, moan­ing and gen­eral teenage moodiness that any par­ent can take. Yes yes yes I agree the first few days of the school hol­i­days are a nov­elty. No school run, no do­ing the lunch boxes (Oh God I hate do­ing the lunch­boxes), no get­ting up at some un­godly hour to make sure they have their PE kits and home­work done.

But then re­al­ity kicks in and mine is two kids, lolling around the house in var­i­ous stages of un­dress, glued to elec­tronic gad­gets, only to speak when they want some­thing to eat or drink. Un­for­tu­nately they’ve out­grown the con­cept of sum­mer camps and no amount of plead­ing could make the younger of my off­spring at­tend one this year. In­stead she likes to get up about ten am, look for break­fast, spend an hour on her Nin­tendo, then an hour on her iPod then watch a bit of tv be­fore I ha­rangue her into putting some clothes on.

The Old­est doesn’t nor­mally ap­pear be­fore

12 ish and his com­mu­ni­ca­tion skills amount to grunt­ing at me as he turns on the ket­tle and re­treats to a bed­room that reeks of smelly train­ers and teenage boy.

When he hears the ket­tle click he comes back out again and po­si­tions him­self on the couch wait­ing for me to make him a cup of tea which I’m em­bar­rassed to say I do. ‘This is not a bloody ho­tel you know’ I say as my mother emerges from my mouth.

He grins at me and drinks his tea be­fore go­ing back to the world of teenage angst and snapchat.

Try­ing to get them to go out for some fresh air is tan­ta­mount to get­ting Don­ald Trump to ad­mit he’s a tosser. If I man­age to suc­ceed with the younger one it’s by virtue of black­mail and I end up buy­ing her ice cream and hot choco­late just to get her to go for a ten minute walk on the beach with me.

I’ve given up clean­ing up. What’s the point? They’re only go­ing to wreck the place ten min­utes af­ter I do it any­way. Best to just sol­dier on, liv­ing in squalor un­til that glo­ri­ous day–Septem­ber 1 ar­rives and I can ship them off to school.

And you know what’s the worst bit? I know it’s my fault. I am the one who cre­ated The Mon­ster, or in this case Two Mon­sters. A decade and a half of to­tal and ut­ter mol­ly­cod­dling has re­sulted in them ex­pect­ing to be waited on hand and foot.

But they’re cute you know, when they see I’m reach­ing the end of my tether, ready to have a melt­down, they’ll be all over me like a rash, hug­ging me and telling me I’m the best mother in the world. And like a big fool I swal­low it, hook line and sinker.

I DON’T CARE IF IT MAKES ME SOUND LIKE A BAD MOTHER BUT THERE’S ONLY SO MUCH MESS, MOAN­ING AND MOODINESS THAT A PAR­ENT CAN TAKE

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