My daughter is glued to her newly acquired tablet, kindly bestowed by granny, and she is eager to read each and every instalment posted online by One Direction fans who write awful fan fiction.
I initially rejoiced in the evidence that my child could actually read, but now I am forced to confiscate this technology in order to get anything done.
My son LOVES school — this does not mean school WORK, you understand. For him, school is the hours spent in the corridors chatting up girls, making jokes with pals and thinking up wisearse remarks in class to sound cool.
But I have to give his teachers full marks for their devious strategy. This year they have completely confused him by promoting him to a brainy class.
He no longer has his gang of hecklers and moron wannabes to hang with. Don’t get me wrong, they are very sweet boys, but like very other mother I imagine that deep … and I mean very deep, inside my boy there has to be a glimmer of intelligence lurking there undiscovered. It just needs a little bit of nurturing and coaxing to come to the fore.
Every year, I begin with every intention of making nutritious, healthy lunch boxes oozing with vitamins and crunchy, saladlooking items, but it lasts a week as my enthusiasm wanes and my children’s snotty remarks wear down my good intentions.
My son says lettuce makes his sarmies soggy, my daughter says the apples are too crunchy, and by the end of the week we are back to boring old peanut butter and cheese and ham.
I am positive nobody at my old school died of kwashiorkor from boring old sarmies.
Every year, I think I will be a better parent and then I decide after about a week that I really cannot be bothered.
My children could have been raised by wolves and instead they got me — and their dysfunctional father — lucky them.
So, as the backtoschool process gets going, and my frazzled nerves begin to recover, I remind myself that in the blink of an eye the house will be empty and I will yearn for these days. • firstname.lastname@example.org