Monthly Archives: August 2014
My child is starting preschool.
This isn’t just pissing about at home anymore; this is real life, structured, serious parenthood shit. There’ll be schedules and things to remember and actual learning. She’ll be chilling out and joining in and hanging her coat on a peg. What an adventure.
I can remember preschool. We called it ‘play group’. I had a Mickey Mouse flask, with orange juice in it, because I didn’t like milk. The wendy house was covered in snails and the toilet was cold. Licking your hands after playing with salt dough and the boy that was always snotty. There’s a home video somewhere, of us holding hands in a circle, dancing, singing something or other. I’d wear my favourite dress. I hope Moo loves this time as much as I did.
What does preschool mean for me? I’ll have some freedom. About 8 hours a week. I’m sure there are plenty of people wondering what they’ll possibly do with that time. I know exactly what I’ll be doing. Sitting on my arse. I’ll be eating goodies I usually hide, watching the programmes I’ve had recorded for months and crocheting to my hearts content.
But seriously, I’m hoping that the break will help me get better. I’m actually kinda relying on it. I’m not sure what else I can tweak to encourage an improvement in my mental health. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?
I’m a little sad that there’ll be a chunk of her life that I’ll know so little about. But I’m certain that the setting I’ve chosen will enrich her life. When she trots in, with her little backpack, and puts on her preschool slippers, I’ll be beaming with happiness. For her, and for me.
I imagine many of you chose your property carefully, whether it be rental or bought. Was it the character features? The wide, spacious, open plan living? The sumptuous carpets or solid hardwood floors? The sleek kitchen or modern, trendy bathroom? Do you like your furnishings, carefully selected and placed? The textures, the finish, the niknaks?
Now imagine it all, every single item, absolutely plastered in a variety of bodily fluids and regurgitated food. Patches of unidentified crust that just won’t shift. This is the reality of sharing a house with kids.
Nothing is sacred. Every item I own is fingered, examined, secreted away in the doll house, or perhaps a shoe. Drawers are emptied, books no longer have covers and jewellery is broken. My vase can now only face one direction, to conceal the dried brown glue holding it together. Every seat cushion, rug and bed has been urinated and/or crapped on.
Sure, I expected the drill holes from baby gates and the occasional pair of soiled trousers soaking in the basin. But the jam hand prints, the weetabix cement, the nodules of playdough on the carpet, the shredded kitchen roll, the smell of spoiled milk on fabric, the snot like slugs trails, spoons behind radiators, biro on the wooden floor, ink stamps on the furniture, flipping mattresses…you cannot comprehend how infuriating it will all be.
I’m afraid this isn’t going to end with a sentimental paragraph about how worth it it all is, that material things can be replaced but a child is precious. I’m just thankful that Ikea is cheap.