End of Term-itis

It should be the most marvellous time of the year with the long summer stretching promisingly ahead. Dreams of poolside reading and swing seats in the sunshine and dappled bbq evenings. And yet.


As a teacher and a mother of a school child, school administration seems to ratchet up: reports, letters, reply slips, trips, reminders, data collection, spreadsheets. Feel like there should’ve been a loophole in the new GDPR where I could just sign on one dotted line to give the nod for all permissions ever.

My dream filing system.


Sports day. PE kits. Lost trainers. Plimsolls that are too small. Egg and spoon anxiety.

Social events

School discos and outfit panics for the sub-10s. Work nights out and babysitting/taxi/finance panics for the plus 30s. And why do they all have to be on the same night?

I could go out or I could just…. IMAGE: @acheybreakyheartzine


Six weeks. Yeesh. That’s a lot, right? Six weeks? With both kids? At home? On my own? I wonder what the grandparents are up to…?

Dream: long country walks and family bonding

Reality: sitting in parks swatting at thunderbugs

Also realisation

Six weeks? To bask in long nights? To just get in the car and go somewhere for a few days? To spend all morning in our pyjamas and watch Paddington even though it’s sunny out? Six weeks to just sniff their hair and work on their sock tan lines? Six weeks. See you on the other side.

Sometimes it’s ace to be a parent

I am pretty sure I don’t say it enough, but I love my kids. Like, really really love them.

Sometimes I can feel them pulling away from me. William no longer thinks my kisses cure his hurts. Alex sighs like a teenager: ‘ooooh kaaaay mummy’. The only time they hold my hand is when we cross a road. And I keep holding them. Until they realise and slip from my grasp and run ahead.

And now I’m reduced to sneaking in to their rooms at night and watching their sweaty faces. And sniffing their sour scent and kissing their damp summer faces.

I really, really love my children: their sock marks, their grazed knees, their unreasonable bedtime requests, their secrets, their private jokes, their suncream sticky limbs.

And they say they love me too. And I know they do. But they won’t know how much I love them until they have children themselves. And then they’ll know. They’ll know how terrifyingly and fiercely they were loved by me.